Scents Quotes

Quotes tagged as "scents" Showing 1-30 of 134
Edward Thomas
“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

Catherynne M. Valente
“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

E.A. Bucchianeri
“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,

Adriana Trigiani
“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

Rebecca Wells
“Once the scent caught me on the street in Greenwich Village. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. Where was it coming from? A shop? The trees? A passerby? I could not tell. I only knew the smell made me cry. I stood on the sidewalk in Greenwich Village as people brushed by, and felt suddenly young and terribly open, as if I were waiting for something. I live in an ocean of smell, and the ocean is my mother.”
Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

Erica Bauermeister
“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

Erica Bauermeister
“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

Deborah Lawrenson
“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

Avi
“It was as if the sun had been stolen. Only thin ribbons of light seeped down through the green and milky air, air syrupy with the scent of pine, huckleberry, and juniper. From the rolling, emerald-carpeted earth, fingers of lacy ferns curled up, above which the massive fir and pine trees stood, pillar-like, to support an invisible sky. Hovering over everything was a silence as deep as the trees were tall.”
Avi, Poppy

Erica Bauermeister
“It was filled with a dark paste, rather than liquid. I unscrewed the cap. The smell rolled toward me, and I reared back. I could almost hear growling, the pop of a bone socket.
"Civet," Claudia said, unfazed. "It takes a strong stomach to smell an animalic base note straight, don't you think? But a drop or two, down there in the bottom of a perfume? It sends that other message. Death and sex- that's what perfume's all about. You'll understand when you're older."
I stared back at her. I knew about death. I knew about sex. I didn't need her to tell me.
She held out another bottle, her expression bland. "Jasmine."
I was cautious this time, barely sniffing the contents, but the smell was a relief- sweet, white, and creamy, almost euphoric. I felt as if I were floating in it.
Just as I was about to put the bottle down, though, I caught a whiff of something else in the background, something narcotic and sticky. I inhaled more deeply, trying to pin it down.
"You like it," Claudia said. For the first time, she seemed pleased with me. "Do you know what that is, that note you're searching for?"
I shook my head. It was right there, but in that cool, blank room, I couldn't quite name it.
"It's shit," Claudia said. She smiled, slow and lazy. "Technically, the molecule's called indole, but a rose by any other name...”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“Where did he take you?"
"An island." I thought of the archipelago, those dots and dashes of land, a code you could never unlock.
"What did it smell like?" she asked.
I'd expected a lot of questions, but not this one. As soon as she said it, though, I knew it was the only one that mattered. The only one that would tell you what a place, or your past, was actually like.
"Cedar and spruce and fir," I said. "Applewood smoke. Salt water. That metallic smell right before a storm." I was picking up speed. "Salmonberries, huckleberries, spruce on your fingertips. Wet dirt- oh, and morels." I stopped, embarrassed by my volubility.
"You did get my genes," she murmured.”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“Nutmeg." Claudia grabbed the bottle and screwed the cap back on. The story was still filtering through me when a new scent exploded forth.
"Orris root," Claudia said, tapping the new bottle on the table. "Am I going too fast for you?"
"No," I lied.
"Good."
Linden blossom. Tonka bean. Benzoin. The smells came at me, little glass missiles fired across the table in rapid succession.
"The point is speed and precision," Claudia said. She pushed a stack of papers toward me, the pages divided into rows and columns. "Put each scent in a category. Fresh, floral, woody, spicy, animal, marine, fruity. You need to recognize them instantly, without thinking."
The bottles started again, and the world turned into charts and rows, filled with an onslaught of strange names. Litsea cubeba. Frangipani. Neroli. Tagette. Orange broke into pieces, became pettigrain, bergamot, tangerine, mandarin, bitter, sweet, and blood. Pepper was black, green, or pink. Mint was winter, spear, or pepper.
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“By the end of the day, I'd reached the point where I could sense the category of a scent almost before the bottle was open. Fresh was quick and cool, never warm. Floral was soft and seductive, the kind that kept its clothes on, showing only an ankle or a shoulder. Spicy bit your nose, woke you up. Woody sent me to the island so fast I couldn't stop the tears from filling my eyes. I couldn't wait to start combining them, creating something new.
Victoria was right- this was a language, my language, and I wanted to write.”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“The fragrance started off bright and happy, fresh-cut grass and sunshine, iced hibiscus tea, the best of a Sunday afternoon. Lavender and rose released their sweetness into the air so serenely you knew there was not a weed within ten yards of them. The scents filtered out through the store, and as Victoria and I watched, the customers began putting down their phones, looking about with greater interest, smiling at one another.
"Well, you certainly made them friendly," Victoria said.
I just smiled.
The fragrance began to deepen. Vanilla, the clarion call of mothers in aprons and after-school cookies warm from the oven. The women's expressions softened.
Your life can be like this, the fragrance said. Your children will love you.
Then, slowly, lazily, in came the scent of jasmine.
Victoria tilted her head. "Hello, troublemaker," she said.
It floated out across the room, heavy and sensual, the essence of beautiful, younger women. Women who birthed children and wore bikinis within a month, or worse yet, never had children at all, their stomachs taut, their breasts ripe. Women who drew the wandering eyes of husbands.
Then, even as the customers began shifting away from each other with polite, nervous smiles, there came another scent, lurking inside the jasmine, where it always waited- a touch of indole. A trail that led you downward, into the dirt.
But not enough- the fragrance was still too sweet. It hovered in the store, off-kilter.
"Hmm," Victoria said, her eyebrows pulling together.
"Wait," I said.
The want of balance was like an ache in the air. The fragrance reached out, searching, begging for completion. It didn't want sweet. It didn't want nice.
And then, out of the skin, the sweat, the very heat of the women's thoughts, came the missing base note. Keen edged as a knife, it rose to meet the sweetness.
Jealousy.
As we watched, one of the women picked up a cashmere throw and clutched it to her chest. Another sat down on a leather couch, her arms spread out like a claim jumper. Mine.
"Brilliant," Victoria said, stifling a laugh. "Absolutely brilliant.”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“Cinnabar- orange blossom, clove, lily, a touch of patchouli." She ticked the ingredients off. "That woman picked her perfume in college in 1978, and she's worn it ever since." She looked over at me and smiled. "She thinks it defines her. She's right. And that one." She nodded toward a woman standing by the leather boots in the shoe department. "Roses and gin, one of those boutique perfumes. She likes the joke of it, but she's more traditional than she'll ever admit. I bet she has plenty of fantasies she never acts on."
It was like the game I used to play, back when I read the bedsheets in the cottages at the cove, tried to figure out who the guests were, what they wanted.
As we started up the escalator, a woman in her midsixties passed us going down, trailing a wake of fresh oranges behind her.
"Did you know," Victoria said over her shoulder, "that if you put men in a room with just the faintest smell of grapefruit, they tend to think the women around them are six or seven years younger than they actually are?”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Erica Bauermeister
“In the white bowl, the paper caught fire, burning like a desperate flower, blooming and dying at the same time. Its scents came on tendrils of smoke, wrapping themselves around me.
We missed you.
I inhaled, and Victoria's kitchen disappeared around me. It was early morning in the cabin, winter; I could smell the woodstove working to keep the frost at bay. My father had fed the sourdough starter, and the tang of it played off the warm scent of coffee grounds. I could smell my own warmth in the air, rising from the blankets I'd tossed aside.
I remembered that morning. It was the first time I ever saw the machine. I must have been three, maybe four years old. I'd woken up and seen my father, standing in the middle of the room, a box in his hands, bright and shiny and magical. I remembered racing across the floor, my bare feet tingling from the chill.
What is it, Papa? It's wonderful. I want to know.
And he'd put the shiny box aside and lifted me up high and said, You are the most wonderful thing in the world, little lark.


The last of the paper crumbled to ash. I stood there, trying to remember what had happened next- but I couldn't. Did my father show me the machine, or did we go outside and chop wood?
You'd think I'd remember, but I didn't. What I remembered was how it felt to be held in his arms. To be loved that way, before everything else happened.
And in that moment, I felt whole.
"Oh," I heard Victoria say, and when I turned to her, her eyes were filled with tears.”
Erica Bauermeister, The Scent Keeper

Melanie Gideon
“I'd never forget the smell of the orchard. It was imprinted on me like the scent of my mother's Aliage perfume. Overly sweet, musty, blossomy, leaves-turning, fruit-ripening.”
Melanie Gideon, Valley of the Moon

Donna Kauffman
“Whatever excuses he might have come up with to end this little tête-à-tête before it went to a place they couldn't return from, died unspoken the moment the rich aroma of cinnamon and vanilla filled the air again, along with the scent of- "Anise?" His eyebrows lifted in surprise. "And is that... pears?"He automatically leaned over the open box, drawing in the sweet, fruity blend without even realizing he was doing it. It was the chef in him. Other people drew in air; he drew in scents.
She nodded. "Anise is traditional in some Italian baking, but I've been playing a bit with blending it with other flavors. Not everything we sell at Bellaluna's is traditional Italian, but the inspiration always comes from our roots.”
Donna Kauffman, The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice

“Before the first snow, I collect fading flowers and petals, leaves, and bark, and make my own potpourri. Once everything is dried, I arrange it in a large glass bowl. I go on to add a few drops of tea tree and cinnamon essential oils. The rich autumn scent carries me through the ice, snow, and below-zero temperatures.”
Kate Angell, The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice

Samantha Verant
“I spread some fresh goat cheese onto a baguette and bit into it. The bread was flaky and buttery, clearly freshly baked this morning, and the cheese was tangy and tart. For an instant, the cheese, the taste, transported me to my childhood, to the kitchen I remembered- the one with the red-and-white-checked curtains- to many days of happiness, to the cheese I was eating right now. I didn't remember it tasting so good.
"Oh my God," I mumbled with this mouthful of excitement, so delicious it was sinful.
"Ma puce, is something wrong?"
"No, this is the best meal I've had in weeks," I said. "It's sublime."
"Bah," she said. "It's simple. But sometimes simple is the best, non?"
I couldn't have agreed with her more. I wanted- no, needed- simple. Lately everything in my world was so complicated; I prayed for simple.
"Madame Pélissier makes our goat cheese right on her farm- also other fresh cheeses like le Cathare, a goat cheese dusted with ash with the sign of the Occitania cross, as well as a Crottin du Tarn, which is the goat cheese we use for the pizza, and Lingot de Cocagne, which is a sheep's milk cheese. Do you want to do a little tasting of her cheeses?"
"Would I? You bet."
Clothilde ambled over to the refrigerator, returning with a platter of lumpy cheese heaven straight from the cooking gods' kitchen.
"Et voila," she said, placing it down and bringing her fingers to her lips, blowing out a kiss.
There were veiny cheeses marked with blue and green channels and spots, soft cheeses with natural or washed rinds, and fresh and creamy cheeses, like the goat cheese. The scents hit me, some mild with hints of lavender, some heavily perfumed, some earthy, and some garlicky.”
Samantha Verant, The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux

Abbi Waxman
“Gene had already cleared the soil, or had someone do it for him, who knows, and brought in a load of plants and flowers, which were sitting around in their pots. The colors were all over the place, no great scheme there, but he'd gone for scent in a big way. I only recognized a few of the flowers, but they all smelled wonderful. Lisa ticked them off for me, her mouth full of pepperoni.
"Jasmine, freesia, lavender, sweet peas, alyssum, night-scented stock, scented phlox, clematis of course, and some fancy tuberose." She looked over at Gene. "You picked well. These should give her fragrance for most of the year, in turns. And some nice evening scents, too.”
Abbi Waxman, The Garden of Small Beginnings

Christina Lauren
“After we've stuffed ourselves, we scatter around the living room, falling into a comfortable quiet.
The living room is a majestic place - I mean, it is massive - with vaulted log ceilings and old wood floors covered in wide woven rugs. Along one long wall, the fire crackles and snaps, heating the room to just below too warm. It's wood from town and nothing smells like it. I want to find a candle of this, incense, room spray. I want every living room in every house I live in for the rest of time to smell like the Hollis cabin does on December evenings.
The hearth is expansive; when we were about seven, our chore was sweeping out the fireplace at the end of the holiday, Theo and I could almost stand up inside it. The flames actually roar to life. Even once they mellow into a rumbling, crackling simmer, the blaze still feels like a living, breathing creature in here with us.”
Christina Lauren, In a Holidaze

Michael Bassey Johnson
“The cent you desire is hidden in the scent of a flower.”
Michael Bassey Johnson, Song of a Nature Lover

Jan Moran
“The scents of chocolate and other rich ingredients filled the air. Vanilla, sugar... raspberry, apricots... almonds, pistachios, pecans... cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, cayenne. Celina breathed in. She loved the aromas of her artistry.”
Jan Moran, The Chocolatier

Margot Berwin
“The oil smelled floral and musky, like a flowery animal.
She kept right on stroking my body.
"It has lilac, jasmine, and musk from a rutting deer," she said.
The words for the ingredients excited me. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I said to myself. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I must. Lilac, jasmine, and musk, I must. They sounded like an incantation. They sounded like the sexiest words in the English language.”
Margot Berwin, Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire

Margot Berwin
“New Orleans has a scent of its own that's strong almost all the time. Magnolia, sweet olive, jasmine, and chicory-flavored coffee. I doubt anyone will notice you there. Let me give you something beautiful and tender and delicate and tasty, like what you give me every day now, with your skin. Let me give you New Orleans.”
Margot Berwin, Scent of Darkness

Margot Berwin
“The cab pulled up to our building on St. Louis between Decatur and Chartres Streets, a three-story cement stucco town house in the old creole style. It was painted pale pink and covered with delicate ironwork like a lace veil. It had an arched opening with a wrought-iron gate and an old metal lock.
Inside, the ground-floor hallway had high, rounded ceilings and a dark caramel tiled floor leading to a garden in the back. It was drippy and heavy with the scent of jasmine, just like me.
Wisteria rolled down from the top-floor balconies all the way to the garden below and curled around the legs of the iron tables and chairs like beautiful prison shackles. Everything about the building looked like it was from another century, and having never been to New Orleans I did not yet know that everything was.”
Margot Berwin, Scent of Darkness

Margot Berwin
“Walking around the Quarter with its horses and buggies, cobblestone streets, and kerosene lamps felt like stepping back in time, all the way back to the time when Louise was a small child living in Fayetteville. I imagined her in a linen jumper with a white collar, skipping along the cobblestones, avoiding the cracks that would break her mother's back.
It was quiet outside as well as sweltering August temperatures kept tourists off the streets and residents inside their homes. The blocks felt private and sensual as Gabriel and I held hands and walked under the lush vegetation spilling from the baskets that hung off the balconies of the houses on St. Philip.
I could smell the sweet olive and the jasmine and I had the pleasant sensation of knowing that they were coming from outside of my body. New Orleans was my equal in scent, and as long as it was night and the air was a degree or two cooler than in the daytime I was sure I could walk around freely without attracting any unwanted attention.”
Margot Berwin, Scent of Darkness

Laekan Zea Kemp
“I list what I had for breakfast.
I whisper the ingredients for my signature coconut cake.
I take a deep breath, the scents of a thousand shifts at the restaurant tucked into the fabric of the front seat. I start listing them too: mango and cilantro and epazote, tomatillos and roasted pepitas and tortillas.
The truth is, I can't sleep without those smells tangled in my hair.”
Laekan Zea Kemp, Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

« previous 1 3 4 5