Quotes About Smell

The warm breath, the smell of tansy and lavender, the words triggered a surge of something wild she couldn't name

His clothes smelt of the crisp green-apple smoke of burning birch from the hearth of Wen, the young widow with the freckles, who shaved the priests and those of the king's men who liked smooth chins.

You can't smell a hug. You can't hear a cuddle. But if you could, I reckon it would smell and sound of warm bread-and-butter pudding.

Love at first sight must be glorious. I wouldn't know, since at first there was no sight. Smell, yeah — the tangy, salty scent of horses. Plenty of other sensations too. But I'll get to that. The point I want to make up front is that by the time I laid eyes on Sinclair Youngblood Powers — in the flesh, that is — I was already in love with him. Nothing could change that. Not even the fact that he was dead." ~ Dice

Eventually I got some unicorn posters, and all was healed. Or maybe not all, because I still feel a prickle of almost religious ecstasy at the smell of horseshit.

Additional senses will appear: the feeling of lack, the taste of absence, the ability for particular precognition. Knowing what won't happen. Being able to smell what doesn't exist.

Smell is the only faculty that accesses the limbic instantly. All other stimuli take longer to register, hence, the importance of odors.

Werewolves smell like musk and mint.

She said, once, shortly before she died, that roses smelled like happiness. Whenever she smelled a rose, she thought of the day we met.

I put my cell phone in my back pocket (a habit that has destroyed two phones so far) and tried to blank my face. It wouldn't help with the werewolves, who would be able to smell my distress, but at least I wouldn't have complete strangers stop and ask me what was wrong.

Various pieces of huge dark furniture constricted the passage, and the place smelled of boiled fish. I was shown into the parlor, where the gloom of that overcast day was filtered through windows curtained in dingy lace.

The air was heavy with the smell of leather and dust, of old parchment and binding glue. It smelled of secrets.

I smelled burning hair and hoped I hadn't lost my eyebrows. I didn't want to spend the next month looking constantly surprised.

Los pies dicen mucho de una persona ?caviló?. Hay hombres que entran aquí, sonrientes, con los zapatos muy limpios y los calcetines empolvados. Pero cuando se descalzan, sus pies huelen a rayos. Esas son las personas que ocultan cosas. Tienen secretos apestosos e intentan ocultarlos, como intentan ocultar el hedor de sus pies.

Hay hombres que entran aquí, sonrientes, con los zapatos muy limpios y los calcetines empolvados. Pero cuando se descalzan, sus pies huelen a rayos. Esas son las personas que ocultan cosas. Tienen secretos apestosos e intentan ocultarlos, como intentan ocultar el hedor de sus pies.

How Miserable this God smelled! How ridiculously bad the scent that this God let spill from Him. It was not even genuine frankincense fuming out of those thuribles. A bad substitute, adulterated with linden and cinnamon dust and saltpeter. God stank. God was a poor little stinker. He had been swindled, this God had, or was Himself a swindler, no different from Grenouille-only a considerably worse one!

He possessed the power. He held it in his hand. A power stronger than the power of money or the power of terror or the power of death: the invincible power to command the love of mankind. There was only one thing that power could not do: it could not make him able to smell himself.

Love is in the air." "Is that what that smell is?" "Yep," said Paddy.

My nose tried to jump off my face, overwhelmed by the foulest odor it had ever encountered. The

the creature belched a cloud of stink, the smell like rotting meat.

I loved the deep smell of the horses and the track itself and the noises of the happy crowd taking its luck as it came.

These three things:the smell of Shepelevo, the smell of the Metro and the taste of creme brulee ice cream. The essence of my childhood in Russia.

My favorite thing about the Internet is that you get to go into the private world of real creeps without having to smell them.

What I'd noticed was that here, in the windshadow of the mountain, it often smelled like rain. It might be raining up on the ridge, I might see the veils and rags of rain hanging down out of the scudding clouds, I might see shrouds of rain hauled over the country the way a fishing boat might drag a net, but—no rain here. A spatter, maybe, then nothing. Willy told me when I first moved in that it was like living in a strip bar. So close, looks so good and you never get laid.