Quotes About Smells

'London' is a gallery of sensation of impressions. It is a history of London in a thematic rather than a chronological sense with chapters of the history of smells, the history of silence, and the history of light. I have described the book as a labyrinth, and in that sense in complements my description of London itself.

Inside, cooking smells maneuvered through the house: cow liver, sweet potatoes, stewed onions, cabbage - scents that were as assertive as colors.

Nothing brings memories to the surface like smells and flames.

The dogs bark at night. The garden smells of honeysuckle in the summer, of wet leaves in the winter. One hears the whistle of the small train from and to Paris. It is a train which looks ancient, as if it were still carrying the personages of Proust's novels to dine in the country.

Just as rose smells; similarly, every object, fragrances such as its origin since that defines real and fake identity.

The odor was of lunchtime or dinnertime, when, coming from every doorway, the smells of the various dishes mingle in the stairwell but are ruined by a stink of mold and cobwebs.

And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable

In examining witnesses, I learned to ask general questions so as to elicit details with powerful sensory associations: the colors, the sounds, the smells that lodge an image in the mind and put the listener in the burning house.

Today she wears her habitual expression of strained anxiety; she smells of violets.

The north smells different from the city: clearer, thinner. You can see farther. A sawmill, a hill of sawdust, the teepee shape of a sawdust burner; the smokestacks of the copper smelters, the rocks around them bare of trees, burnt-looking, the heaps of blackened slag: I've forgotten about these things all winter, but here they are again, and when I see them I remember them, I know them, I greet them as if they are home.

Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.

She remembered the feel of wind on summer nights - how it billows through the house and wafts the curtains and smells of tar and roses

The smells of smoke and vinegar made him hungry; all he'd had for lunch was a peanut-butter-and-raisin sandwich.

The boy still smells like Strifbjorn.

you know the sisters were a bunch of Puseyites, all bells and smells

Psychology means parsley. It looks pretty, smells nice, and, if you put in into a stew, it's tasty. But go chew parsley raw! Not interested, huh?

I was at the barracks about a week. Chiefly I remember the horsy smells, the quavering bugle-calls (all our buglers were amateurs—I first learned the Spanish bugle-calls by listening to them outside the Fascist lines), the tramp-tramp of hobnailed boots in the barrack yard, the long morning parades in the wintry sunshine, the wild games of football, fifty a side, in the gravelled riding-school.

Maigret had always had a weakness for kitchens, with their appetizing smells and piles of good things to eat, plump vegetables, juicy meat, poultry waiting to be plucked.

Opening day is always so cool to be a part of and to people watch. The Pacific Classic, which I've had the privilege of riding in a couple of times, is great. Every day at Del Mar is fantastic. I love the smells, working out on the beach, running the stairs. It's just a healthy environment. I love it.

Death will never be pretty - its sights and smells too close and crude. And it will never come under our control: it gallops where we tiptoe, rips up our routines, burns our very breath with its heat and sting.

She watched the smoke from the cigarette ooze slowly up to the ceiling, form into a nebulous cloud above her head like some miniature L.A. and then glanced at me. "Open the window, the room smells." As I struggled with the lock, I noticed the cracks in the pane looked like so many veins in her wrist, pulsing, throbbing, making rivers of passion and death.

the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke, and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of the civilized nightlife.

A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes, into the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke, and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of the civilized nightlife.

Q: What's invisible and smells of worms? A: Bird farts.