Scents Quotes

“To-day I think
Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth."

- A poem called DIGGING.”
― Edward Thomas, Collected Poems: Edward Thomas

“The smell of loving is a difficult one to describe, but if you think of the times when someone has held you close and made you safe, you will remember how it smells just as well as I do.”
― Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There

“It was exciting to be off on a journey she had looked forward to for months. Oddly, the billowing diesel fumes of the airport did not smell like suffocating effluence, it assumed a peculiar pungent scent that morning, like the beginning of a new adventure, if an adventure could exude a fragrance.”
― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

“People have often told me that one of their strongest childhood memories is the scent of their grandmother's house. I never knew my grandmothers, but I could always count of the Bookmobile.”
― Adriana Trigiani, Big Stone Gap

“Scents were like rain, or birds. They left and came back.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

“Is that gallantry I smell, or just stupidity? The two scents are much alike, as I recall.”
― George R.R. Martin, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

“I still dream in pictures and color, always the world of my childhood. I see the purple Judas trees at Easter lighting up the roadsides and terraces of the town. Ochre cliffs made of cinnamon powder. Autumn clouds rolling along the ground of the hills, and the patchwork of wet oak leaves on the grass. The shape of a rose petal. And my parents' faces, which will never grow any older.
"But it is strange how scent brings it all back too. I only have to smell certain aromas, and I am back in a certain place with a certain feeling."
The comforting past smelled of heliotrope and cherry and sweet almond biscuits: close-up smells, flowers you had to put your nose to as the sight faded from your eyes. The scents of that childhood past had already begun to slip away: Maman's apron with blotches of game stew; linen pressed with faded lavender; the sheep in the barn. The present, or what had so very recently been the present, was orange blossom infused with hope.”
― Deborah Lawrenson, The Sea Garden

“I listened, while the scents found their hiding places in the cracks in the floorboards, and the words of the story, and the rest of my life.”
― Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

“And yet there were things that I loved greatly: Paris, certain smells, books, love and my present life.”
― Françoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse / A Certain Smile

“A small meadow of dill and lemon thyme, tarragon and lemon verbena, set amidst Attar of Roses and Prince of Orange pelargoniums. I create a pretty enough landscape that is culinary and medicinal, tucking in pots of marigolds and nasturtiums here and there.
The sun hangs low, a breeze sets in and my work is done, I run my hands through the tallest fronds and gently ruffle the leaves-- trails of aniseed and pepper, chocolate and lavender, rose and lemon dance on the breeze. There are hints of cinnamon and curry, camphor and orange, mint and something I can't quite put my finger on. My hands smell of Greek hillsides and Provençal fields, an Elizabethan knot garden and a Parisian apothecary, but they also smell of long lunches in the garden. As I head in to make supper it dawns on me that spring has finally slipped into summer.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“The description is a good one--- saffron's reddish-golden glow is very much my idea of sunshine in a bottle. Good saffron is sweet and spicy at the same time; Didier and Martine's smells faintly of dried peaches and cedarwood.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“While Lisa prepared lunch, I took it upon myself to smell each and every truffle we'd found that morning. Some were sweet and firm, and some smelled more of vinegar--- maybe they were under-ripe. Some were grassy, herblike. There were mineral elements--- quartz and slate. As I went through the pile, the associations mounted. Did I smell pine needles? Blueberries? The more I sniffed, the weirder it became. What did that sweet starchy smell remind me of? That's it--- the beginning of a good rice pudding.
Lisa was cleaning the truffles with what looked like a boot brush, and as she massaged gently, the chocolate-colored soil gave way to cratered geological black; the truffle looked like a tiny meteor.”
― Elizabeth Bard, Picnic in Provence: A Memoir with Recipes

“He drew near her, put gentle hands on her body, turned her to face the wall. She twisted her fingers in the gate to keep herself from falling down. As he came up behind her, swept the hair from her neck, touched his lips to her shoulder, she took in a cacophony of smells. Vanilla. Something green, like distant fields. Musk. Sandalwood.
The last thing she would remember as she coasted down into a druggy trance was the prick of his teeth as they pressed into her throat.”
― Helen Maryles Shankman, The Color of Light

“In the semi-darkness, Tom thought he saw faces-- or were they masks?-- that seemed to be covered in feathers or fur. And there was a summery scent of sun-ripened fruit; of night-blooming flowers; of new-baked bread; and frying mushrooms, and bilberry wine, and sandalwood, and cedar, and musk; and fresh-laundered sheets all wild from the wind. Now he could hear music, too; the sound of flutes and fiddles and distant voices raised in song; the soft, persistent rhythms of drums; the distant chirp of silver bells.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“Walking over the moonlit bridge, Tom found himself drawn deeper and deeper into the world of the market. Here, it was crowded, noisy; buzzing with scents both familiar and strange. The sharp aroma of some herbal stuff seemed to dominate this part of the bridge; the scented smoke was strongest around a little stall named Madcap, from which a pipe-smoking vendor was selling brightly colored pouches, marked at the price of Three days a twist. Next to him, a person of indeterminate gender was folding sheets of colored paper into origami birds, which they released into the air with a papery flutter of wings.
In spite of the crow woman's warning, Tom snapped a few more pictures. A dancer on the side of the bridge, her wings spread wide against the night. A diminutive woman with a whole haberdasher's shop balanced on her head: tiny drawers full of bobbins and lace, and packs of slender needles, and pincushions, and safety pins, and multicolored twists of silk. Next to her, cross-legged on the ground, an old woman in a drab overcoat was making garlands and buttonholes from baskets of strange-looking flowers that released an unfamiliar, intoxicating aroma. Her brown face lit up when she caught sight of Tom.
'Collector! What's it to be today? Another adventure? Your heart's desire? I know. True love!' And she picked up a white flower from one of her baskets and held it out to him with a smile. Its scent was complex, dark and sweet; the scent of a summer garden at night.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“And with that, he stepped out from the darkness of the tunnel mouth to find himself in a kind of cave; the air was warm with sandalwood, and nutmeg, and allspice, and cardamom, and the Moths were all around him.

For a moment, Tom was breathless with the beauty of the Midnight Folk. In the semi-darkness, their wings shone with a faint luminescence and their skin gleamed with unearthly tattoos, like something under black light. Their hair was braided with feathers and rags, and all of them seemed to be covered with a powdery dust that twinkled and shone against their skin, setting the shadows darkly aflame. And all around them lay a pattern of those vivid tracks, as if the luminescence could be transferred to their surroundings by touch; each set of prints a different shade in troubled, alien colors.
Instinctively, he looked for Charissa's colors in the crowd. But she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he was surrounded by the dangerous shine of the enemy. He saw them only in slices of light against the velvet darkness. The tip of a wing; the gleam of an eye; the mystic spiral of a tattoo that seemed to move across the skin.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“He had become aware of the eyes of the Daylight Folk on him. Hopeful, expectant, suspicious or dazed, they watched him from the parapet and from the crenellations of the Natural History Museum, their wings spread like banners against the sky. And now he could see the Midnight Folk, too, drawn by whatever mystery had been at work on these rooftops: Atlas, and Luna, and Diamondback, and Cinnabar. For a moment, Cinnabar stood aloof on the parapet. Then Brimstone held out his hand to her, and she went to join him.
My people, Tom thought to himself, and put up his hand to cover a smile. It was ridiculous, of course, and yet it felt so natural. As natural as being in love. As natural as flying.
Spider pulled at the silver thread again. Between his fingers, Tom now saw an intricate cat's cradle of light that seemed to extend in multiple directions. 'With this, you can go anywhere,' said Spider, lifting the cradle of light. 'You could stay here, in London Before. You could go back to the London you know. Or you could reclaim your Kingdom, and lead your people home. Your choice.' He passed the cat's cradle over Tom's head. As it touched him, the net of light settled over Tom's shoulders, becoming a kind of mantle: golden, soft as spider silk, light as woven thistledown. He made the same gesture over Charissa, and she too was draped in gossamer. And with the mantle came a scent of green woods and of summertime; of distant spices, unnamed blooms, and blackberries, and honeycomb.”
― Joanne Harris, The Moonlight Market

“Though she'd worked underground for half her life, she was a person who needed to see the sky, even briefly, every day. She wanted to feel the wind in her face and breathe in all the scents it carried.”
― Cinda Williams Chima, Flamecaster

“There was the long-buried smell of home--- not the smell of the cottage in Armagh, with the hearth that she had yet to sweep and the stain of poitín in the air. Instead there was the briny tang of the sea, the sweet rot of fish guts. Her mother's scent, sun-baked sand and the gritty insides of shells.”
― Emilia Hart, The Sirens

“There is something fragrant to touch at every turn; scented geranium leaves to rub or pots of thyme to tear at. Such temptations would be spotted at any time of year but today, in this scorching sunshine, everything is heightened; the intensity of rose oil from the pelargonium leaves, lemon from the thyme and even the peppermint and pepper and notes of potted basil sing loud and true in the bright sunlight. Butterflies-- pale-blue hoppers, cabbage whites and even red admirals- head from bloom to bloom, one even coming to see what is on my plate.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“There is a smell, rich and sickly sweet, so pungent I feel as if I am being choked. A smell that is both new and curiously familiar. Notes of the most intense jasmine with a back note of vanilla and overripe mango.
The sea is too warm, and I cut short my night swim. As I pass through the garden, lanterns now glowing, the perfume has faded a little, it is less hypnotic, softer and more floral than before. Trumpets of deep-crimson hibiscus have closed for the night, chains of bougainvillea and a plant I do not know are the only ones in flower. It is this last from which the scent is emanating. Each blossom has thick white petals, crisp, like icing on a wedding cake. Almost too perfect to be real, the petals darken in the centre to a pale-yellow with a deep-saffron eye. Strangely, the scent is stronger from a distance than close up.
My mystery flower is frangipani, or if we are talking in botanical terminology, Plumeria, the name given to honor the seventeenth-century French monk and botanist Charles Plumier. I note that the almond filling known as frangipane was once perfumed with the extract, though we are a long, long way from Bakewell.
There are few perfumes I would call hypnotic-- tuberose, Casablanca lily, jasmine perhaps-- but frangipani is up there with them. I go back to my room, head throbbing, drunk on flowers.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“Their petals are as delicate as antique lace but I grow them for their leaves, which are scented-- lemon, camphor and rose.
There is Edna Popperwell's Ashby, whose leaves smell not of the advertised rose but (to this nose at least) of frankincense. Attar of Roses has furry leaves which remind me of Turkish delight, Orsett smells of balsam whilst Prince of Orange and Queen of the Lemons speak for themselves, the latter of sherbet lemons rather than the fruit. At the top of the garden is a wayward, rambling Copthorne, whose clusters of marshmallow-pink flowers are entangled amongst the bars of the old iron gate. Others are here not for their scent but for the delicate flowers. The diminutive Shannon sends her frilly parsley leaves and straggle of wandering stems over the table. She has no scent at all, but flowers that resemble salmon-pink stars, which twinkle against the watery-grey zinc of the garden table.
The leaves are nothing to look at but show their magic once you rub them between finger and thumb. I use them for a spritz of inspiration as I write, but I occasionally take them into the kitchen too. If you layer their leaves amongst caster sugar in a jam jar they will infuse the crystals with the essence of lemon, orange or rose. Pick the right leaves and you have delicate, scented sugar with which to crown a summer sponge cake or to infuse in a jug of cream for raspberries.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“The roses were originally picked as much for their perfume as much for their color and form. (Unlike my first roses, which were bought purely because I was enchanted by their romantic names.) Of the basic musk, myrrh, tea, fruit and old-rose fragrances I am drawn to the latter two. Fruity is a broad bush on a night like tonight. Lady Emma Hamilton, reliable though now retired by the growers, is at her most giving: apricots and white peaches spring to mind. Gertrude Jekyll is one of the most intense of the old-rose scented varieties. She calls me over every time I set foot on the terrace.
Unlike the more generous jasmine, even the most scented rose requires us to bend a little, pushing the tip of our nose into the cluster of petals. Not so Gertrude tonight, mingling as she does with the white jasmine, hovering cloud-like over the hot stones of the terrace. I have a plan to bring the Queen of Denmark into the garden too, another old-rose scent, and I long for a decent musk rose such as Buff Beauty, exuding its faint note of cloves on a warm evening.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“A second-hand bookshop draws me in a as a moth to a candle. Each shop is a small shrine to the power of beauty and words. Tightly packed shelves of old hardback novels; heavy tomes on art and design; teetering piles of poetry. There are copies of the Children's Encyclopedia used as a doorstop and wooden crates of paperbacks going for a song. Some are rare, with a price to match, others a fraction of their original cost. A book for everyone, I guess.
Yes, it's the thought of words put together with such care, the pages whose surface has been worn by years of handling; the tired bindings and torn-edged covers where a book has been in less kind hands than it should. (A chance to give a damaged book a kinder home.) But even more, it is the smell that makes me want to enter every second-hand bookshop I pass. A smell that is dusty, a cross between an old leather saddle and a country church.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“The first time I smelled the soft, powdery rocks of Somalian frankincense James brought back from traveling; the whiff of a broken dahlia stem or inhaled green osmanthus-flower tea was like stepping through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia. Likewise crocuses, charcoal and umeshu, the citrine-hued Japanese plum wine.”
― Nigel Slater, A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts

“Scent speaks in every language. It is made of flesh and personal impressions. It is tied up with the need to feel alive, a need everyone senses from an early age. The need to live is also a need for perfumes and scents. Inescapably. They are the depositories of our deepest secrets, whether we like it or not.

--- Master Perfumer Dominique Ropion, creator of such iconic fragrances as Givenchy Amarige, Mugler Alien, Calvin Klein Euphoria, Lancôme La Vie Est Belle, and Frédéric Malle Portrait of a Lady and Carnal Flower”
― Francesca Serritella, Full Bloom

“She passed a fruit smoothie stand as one of its workers chopped up a whole pineapple using a hand ax with mesmerizing speed and skill, releasing atomized juice with each whack; it was glorious to catch wind of the tropical sweetness. She sniffed her wrist again, noticing new fruity facets of the perfume. Though that was just one of the riot of aromas that surrounded her: fragrant steam billowing from the sizzling cooktop of a Cuban sandwich vendor, carrying the mouthwatering scent of pulled pork; the peaty, mossy smell from a vendor selling potted plants and bonsai trees; the earthy patchouli of the CBD head shop; the buttery, slightly sour notes from racks of leather jackets and purses; all laced with the piquant odor of sticky summer bodies moving slowly past one another.”
― Francesca Serritella, Full Bloom

“The scent from the open box was starting to come alive now. It is a scent I have come to know well; the dusty scent of cacao beans hoarded in cedarwood caskets; the spicy scent of cacao liqueur whisked to a froth in an abalone cup; the hot scent of chilies, and cumin, and mace; the sweet and rich vanilla scent of innocence and childhood. Chocolate is like wine, I think. Like wine, it unleashes the tongue. Like wine, it has its rituals. Like wine, it opens the mind to different possibilities.”
― Joanne Harris, Vianne

“Even in its ragged state, the garden is astonishingly beautiful. The untended, untouched look of it--- and the ivy-covered walls that protect it on three sides--- only add to the air pf enchantment, of mystery, that rises from it like a shimmer of heat. It looks like something from a fairy tale, like it could have been torn from one of the picture books my mother read to me when I was a child.
Here and there wishing the tangle of green, I spot flashes of purple. Is this the lavender that I caught a hint of earlier when I stepped out of my truck? I breathe in. Yes. The scent is as gentle, as soothing, as a warm bath. There are other scents, too... alluring notes that drift toward me in soft waves. Viburnum. Honeysuckle. Sage. Phlox. Roses, so many roses...”
― Meg Donohue, The Memory Gardener

“But I know that I’ve always had a connection to plants, an ability to care for them in a way that makes them thrive quickly, vibrantly, fragrantly. And among the flowers that I grow… I’m able to sense when there is a fragrance that will return a person to a forgotten moment in time, a long-buried memory. Scents have always been heightened for me… the scents of the flowers that I grow most of all.”
― Meg Donohue, The Memory Gardener