"And now I've got to explain the smell that was in there before I went in there. Does that ever happen to you? It's not your fault. You've held your breath, you just wanna get out, and now you open the door and you have to explain, 'Oh! Listen, there's an odor in there and I didn't do it. It's bad.'"
— Ellen DeGeneres (My Point...And I Do Have One)

""This morning, Tegus welcomed me again with an arm clasp and cheek touch. I wasn't startled this time, and I breathed in at his neck. How can I describe the scent of his skin? He smells something like cinnamon-- brown and dry and sweet and warm. Ancestors, is it wrong for me to imagine laying my head on his chest and closing my eyes and breathing in his smell?""
— Shannon Hale (Book of a Thousand Days)

"In those days you could identify a person's nationality by smell. Lying on her back with eyes closed, Desdemona could detect the telltale oniony aroma of a Hungarian woman on her right, and the raw-meat smell of an Armenian on her left. (And they, in turn, could peg Desdemona as a Hellene by her aroma of garlic and yogurt.)"
— Jeffrey Eugenides (Middlesex)

"Take time to smell the flowers"
— Ellie

"Each day has a color, a smell."
— Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (The Mistress of Spices: A Novel)

"Masculine exhalations are, as a rule, stronger, more vivid,more widely differentiated than those of women. In the odor of young men there is something elemental, as of fire, storm, and salt sea. It pulsates with buoyancy and desire. It suggests all the things strong and beautiful and joyous and gives me a sense of physical happiness."
— Helen Keller

"I emitted some civetlike female stink, a distinct perfume of sexual wanting, that he had followed to find me here in the dark."
— Janet Fitch (White Oleander)

"I recognized my home by the smell-a mixture of coriander, clover and Benia's cedary scent."
— Anita Diamant (The Red Tent)

"It was her first book, an indigo cover with a silver moonflower, an art nouveau flower, I traced my finger along the silver line like smoke, whiplash curves. ... I touched the pages her hands touched, I pressed them to my lips, the soft thick old paper, yellow now, fragile as skin. I stuck my nose between the bindings and smelled all the readings she had given, the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and the espresso machine, beaches and incense and whispered words in the night. I could hear her voice rising from the pages. The cover curled outward like sails."
— Janet Fitch (White Oleander)