Quotes About Smell

My daughter Lila loves the smell of gasoline - she always says, 'Mummy, keep the door open,' when I'm filling up the car. I've heard it is one of the most preferred scents in the world - maybe that's something to study for my next fragrance!

Nothing awakens a reminiscence like an odor

I always knew that grief was something I could smell. But I didn't know that it's not actually a noun but a verb. That it moves.

The best way to learn is live, in person, cooking, feeling, smelling and tasting, but TV is the second-best thing to that; it's a halfway facsimile.

Jacob: I've never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack'em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?

Sexuality was a fluid, infinitely malleable and indefinite condition. It permeated the streets of London like the smell of pies and sweetmeats.

Burning aviators, clots of fire. The reeking night jar in our bedroom in Muswell Hill. Children skipping round me in a school yard, shouting taunts. My ship Lilith. London's winter cold and dark. The smell of ground sliced open in Regent's Park, my father's pale prisoner's face, his white hands on a table in the visiting hall. There it is. That was my war.

The seamen had whitewashed the smoky ceilings of the ward, and that dear homely smell carried the vividness of thatch and lumpy walls and stew given from the goodness of a stranger's heart. But that was all there was of comfort, and the salt air had turned from cold to warm in the passing of a life, an afternoon.

He smelled meat burning and realized that it was him.

His breath smelled like bananas and moldy feet.

The pig had been killed because spirits, like people, cannot resist the smell of cooking pig.

She flung a mental lifeline to that physical self, and tried to recall the feeling of being in it: all the sensations that made up being alive. The exact touch of her friend Atal's soft-tipped trunk caressing her neck. The taste of bacon and eggs. The triumphant strain in her muscles as she pulled herself up a rock face. The delicate dancing of her fingers on a computer keyboard. The smell of roasting coffee. The warmth of her bed on a winter night.

Smugness was easy in a world without dust or carrion smell or craters that had been factories.

We were swimmers in a dusty yellow smell and sometimes overpower with the occasional stink of dung. If it was from a herbivore, the dung would have a grassy smell. If it was from a predator, it had a darker stink, sometimes so bad I could smell it in the helmet. Some of the piles of dung were as tall as Marley and moist though fortunately not steaming that would have meant we were way close to something dangerous.

Then he reached to an even higher shelf and brought down another plastic grocery bag, this one from Tesco, which is decidedly less upscale. "Now, a smell is going to hit you when I open this up, but don't worry," he said. "It's just the smoke they used to preserve the head." That's a phrase you don't hear too often, so it took a moment for it to sink in.

It was, I thought, what evil must smell like.

The coffee doesn't taste the way it smells. For that Adriana is thankful. If it did, humans would never do anything other than drink it. Smell is the sense of memory. Each coffee would recall countless memories, boundless memories. Coffee as the drug of remembering.

The shelves were bowed under the weight of textbooks. There were old framed prints on the walls, and a blackboard with the single word CHARACTER on it. University paperwork was piled on the window ledge, all but blacking out the bottom two panes. The smell in the room was that of intellect gone awry.

I'm a man. I have a 50/50 refrigerator. Half's what I'm going to eat. The rest's in there so it won't smell before I throw it away.

Dog's just want to sniff an ass and eat some food.

I see more confusion. I have to think. Can I? I feel I'd better; I realize I must; I decide I will: won't I taste smell feel better when I can think realize decide? Won't I? Shouldn't I? Mustn't I? Well, I feel I should therefore I think I am. I mean I think I can. I

The ship's head was directly behind these bunks, and one veteran recalled that the LSTs "stank of diesel oil, backed-up toilets, and vomit.

Don't come back in here," he told her, eyes narrowing. A warning. Or a threat? Eve turned away. "You smell like fucking candy . . ." She stilled. Now her heartbeat was the one racing too fast. "You make me . . ." His voice dropped, but she caught the ragged growl of "hungry.

In November, the smell of food is different. It is an orange smell. A squash and pumpkin smell. It tastes like cinnamon and can fill up a house in the morning, can pull everyone from bed in a fog. Food is better in November than any other time of the year.