Quotes About Smell

I think I've opened up my mind to all foods, except tinned tuna. I can't stand that. I will not go near it; the smell is unbearable.

The pother about the Visitation had no more relevance to the bishop's coming than the smell of hot women that was constantly in her nostrils had anything to do with the sun's journey overhead.

The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flyingUnbroken wings.And the lost heart stiffens and rejoicesIn the lost lilac and the lost sea voicesAnd the weak spirit quickens to rebelFor the bent goldenrod and the lost sea smell.

I love the smell of fresh ambition in the morning.

The wind combs the heather and gorse with a low ceaseless rustle. Its smell has a sweetness almost too cold to catch. The sky is a fine-grained gray, and from somewhere in its heights a bird sends down a pure wild whistling.

The whole place reeked of tharra.

The cleft in her back hooves smelled far more strongly of pronghorn—that tangy mix of herbivore and sage—than did her front hooves.

If you're inside the box and a cross is coming, sometimes you need, as we say in Spanish, to smell the intuition, to smell where the cross is going.

[To a priest who smoked:] What a shame for a man to dress like a saint and smell like a devil!

What smells so? Has somebody been burning a Rag, or is there a Dead Mule in the Back yard? No, the Man is Smoking a Five-Cent Cigar.

It would be an idyllic tropical paradise if not for the malaria, the insects, the constant diarrhea and resulting hemorrhoids, and the fact that the people are dirty and smell bad and eat each other and use human heads for decoration.

If I had a copper for every fly that swarms on you, beast, I'd buy the Spanish Empire! You smell worse than Vera Cruz in the springtime, and there is more filth clinging to your body than most animals shit in a year. Truly you must have sprung fully formed from a heap of manure, as flies and Popes do—may God have mercy on my soul for saying that!

the ambiguous conversation with the unseen serving-wench, the bags of hot-grease-scented food hurtling in through the window, condiments in packets, attempting to eat while lurching down a highway, volumes of messy litter that seemed to fill all the empty space in the mobe, a smell that outstayed its welcome.

SHE LET US INTO THE house, which had the subtle smell of old wood and old wool—as I used to imagine Victorian homes smelled in Victorian times, before I was recently alerted to the painful truth that actually, at least here in London, they stink of whale oil, patchouli (woven into shawls to keep worms from eating the fabric in transit), and backed-up sewers. I am now convinced everyone here goes to church for the incense.

She smelled good: not an easy thing to accomplish in 1714.

Why do I prefer boys? Because of their shape and their voices and their smell and the way they move. And boys can be so romantic. I can put them into my myth and fall in love with them.

At that instant, Eragon's back ruptured in an explosion of agony so intense he experienced it with all five senses: as a deafening waterfall of sound; a metallic taste that coated his tongue; an acrid eye-watering stench in his nostrils, redolent of vinegar; pulsing colors, and above all the feeling that Durza had just laid open his back.

The vile smell made him cringe

Was she always that friendly? I joke. She saw Robert. At least I got that out of her. Maybe she buried him in the backyard. Stop. Did you smell it in there? Yes. That wasn't a normal smell. That wasn't the sort of something's-gone-bad-in-the-garbage smell. That was the sort of Dahmer-next-door smell. Stop it. I'm serious, I say. It's probably just some dead animal. Oh, well, in that case, it's fine.

body space was so tight that Nature had to double up on functions, why didn't She have us smell with our fingertips or hear with our elbows—anything to save some special part of the body for the performance of this sublime act? (Perhaps the belly button, which seemed to have no very urgent function assigned to it.) Something wasn't right here. Either my mother was wrong about the loftiness of love-making, or Nature was playing a cruel joke.

They say that a cat, if it falls from a window and hits its nose, can lose its sense of smell and then, because cats live by their ability to smell, it can no longer recognize things. I'm a cat that hit its nose.

Tony got up from his desk and crouched down beside her. She was instantly aware of the smell of him, a mixture of shampoo and his own fain, animal scent.

Like most babies smell like butter His smell smelled like no other He was born scentless and senseless He was born a scentless apprentice

He was the smell of winter rain and the sound of his predator's heartbeat