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

“When I think back those tides were like women with different scents and different demands. Low tide was fruity and cool. It took a while to get to her edge. Low tide held back. The onus was on you to go on over to her. High tide smelled of heat that built up. It was Chanel No. 5 to her drugstore opposite. She went after you in no uncertain terms.”
― Georgia Scott, American Girl: Memories That Made Me

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

“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

“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

“Nostalgia is where the past blurs into the present. That’s where all the best scents are to be found.”
― Jarod Kintz, There are Two Typos of People in This World: Those Who Can Edit and Those Who Can't

“The following day, the scent Garrance has created is soon dispersed through the restaurant via an electric diffuser---the aromas of citrus, coconut, and ginger hitting me in waves. Ravenous, I set to making a roasted red pepper and garlic hummus, incorporating the urfa biber to see if it really makes a difference. I dip my finger into the dark purplish-brown flakes to taste, and I'm blown away by the earthiness of the flavors. I smack my lips, tasting undertones of raisins, chocolate, and maybe a little coffee.
Even though I've made a crudité platter with some pan-seared padron peppers sprinkled with sea salt and homemade garlic-infused naan, I can't help shoving spoonfuls of the hummus into my eager mouth.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“The smell of bruised apples reaches me of a sudden. And in that moment I am back in Miss Eliza's kitchen, rich with cooking odors: the nutty smell of roasting coffee berries, the syrupy scent of fruit upon the stove, the pierce of a fresh-cut lemon, the sweet warmth of a split vanilla pod, the earthy heat of a crushed clove.”
― Annabel Abbs, Miss Eliza's English Kitchen

“Wait until the truffles hit the dining room---absolute sex," said Scott.
When the truffles arrived the paintings leaned off the walls toward them. They were the grand trumpets of winter, heralding excess against the poverty of the landscape. The black ones came first and the cooks packed them up in plastic quart containers with Arborio rice to keep them dry. They promised to make us risotto with the infused rice once the truffles were gone.
The white ones came later, looking like galactic fungus. They immediately went into the safe in Chef's office.
"In a safe? Really?"
"The trouble we take is in direct proportion to the trouble they take. They are impossible," Simone said under her breath while Chef went over the specials.
"They can't be that impossible if they are on restaurant menus all over town." I caught her eye. "I'm kidding."
"You can't cultivate them. The farmers used to take female pigs out into the countryside, lead them to the oaks, and pray. They don't use pigs anymore, they use well-behaved dogs. But they still walk and hope."
"What happened to the female pigs?"
Simone smiled. "The scent smells like testosterone to them. It drives them wild. They destroyed the land and the truffles because they would get so frenzied."
I waited at the service bar for drinks and Sasha came up beside me with a small wooden box. He opened it and there sat the blanched, malignant-looking tuber and a small razor designed specifically for it. The scent infiltrated every corner of the room, heady as opium smoke, drowsing us. Nicky picked up the truffle in his bare hand and delivered it to bar 11. He shaved it from high above the guest's plate.
Freshly tilled earth, fields of manure, the forest floor after a rain. I smelled berries, upheaval, mold, sheets sweated through a thousand times. Absolute sex.”
― Stephanie Danler, Sweetbitter

“On past Jackson Square, the car rolled over the rough cobblestones until they reached the farmers market. The melee of sounds now combined with an assault of smells on the senses: the enticing aroma of fresh baguettes and croissants, followed instantly by the terrible reek of the fish market, then the bloody odor of the butcher’s market, and finally, at the end, the soothing, enticing chocolaty scent of ground chicory. And a hint of pralines, all sugary, with a waft of pecans.”
― Diane C. McPhail, The Seamstress of New Orleans

“One might forget their favorite book, cherished memories, or even beloved films, but the fragrance of their favorite person is something that remains unforgettable.”
― Asif Hossain, Veronica

“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

“Most of us have an incredibly refined sense of smell. Scents are highly personal, so when scenting our homes it's really important to consider everyone living there, as preferences and tolerance levels can vary hugely.”
― Oliver Heath, Design A Healthy Home: 100 ways to transform your space for physical and mental wellbeing

“Birdie was up before dawn. She’d left her window open all night, and the orchard had filled her room with the smells of swelling green peaches, shaggy pecan bark, and magnolia leaves. Birdie wasn’t sure why, but it was all mixed up with the memory of jacarandas, dry sand, cactus, cayenne, cinnamon.”
― Jodi Lynn Anderson, The Secrets of Peaches

“Bruno eased one of the cheeses to the surface and inhaled. Instantly he was transported to the tiny pastures of the Castelli Romani, the hilly countryside around Rome. There was a touch of silage in the scent of the cheese, from winter feed, but there was fresh grass, too, and sunlight, and the faintest tang of thyme where it grew wild in the meadows and had been eaten by the sheep along with the grass. He didn't really need any more food, but the ricotta was so perfect that he knew he would find a place for it somewhere in his meal, perhaps served as a dessert with a dusting of cinnamon and a dab of sweet honey.”
― Anthony Capella, The Food of Love

“When I slip back into the kitchen, the smell of soy sauce, vinegar, savory pork, and buttery dough hits my nostrils.
"Holy yum," I say as I gawk at the tray of croissants cooling on the metal rack against the wall. The phantom flavor of salty, vinegary, fatty pork with the buttery, flaky croissant has my mouth watering.”
― Sarah Echavarre Smith, The Boy With the Bookstore

“I bring my wrist to my nose---and I'm lost in a melody of fragrances---sweet and musky. Almonds? Vanilla? Florals? A switch clicks in my brain, a feeling of exhilaration rolling through my body in waves. I'm at a loss for words. Garrance really captured something special; she knows what she's doing.
"Do you like it?"
I smell my wrist again, my eyes wide. "Like it? I love it. What's in it?"
"A little frangipani, some ylang-ylang, a bit of almond oil, and a light sandalwood musk.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“I get to prepping, slicing up fresh tarragon, the grassy floral fragrance enveloping me. I take two pieces of foil and set filets of cod on each one, followed by the salicornes. Drizzle a bit of lemon. A few razor-thin slices of garlic and lemon. A bit of salt and pepper. Paprika. Some herbes de Provence, my special blend. And, finally, the tarragon.
While the fish is baking, I make the rice, deciding to add a dash of cardamom and cumin. Soon, the kitchen smells like heaven, and I feel like I'm floating on my feet. It could be the aromas emanating from the oven, or it could be my wrists, the base notes from the perfume she gave me.
Finally, once the meal is ready, I plate it, adding edible violet flowers as a last-minute garnish. Before bringing Garrance her dish, I taste it. And, oh my, now I'm swept away into a fantasy of the sea---the same one I'd had before when she'd first given me the salicornes, but stronger, more intense. I'm running along the rugged beaches, and then I'm falling on the sand. I can hear the waves crashes, the calls of seagulls, the---”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“The first project I'd like to do is create a custom scent for the restaurant---special seasonal recipes to seduce people into entering the establishment, ensuring hunger and lust: vanilla, almond, and coconut; citrus and sandalwood; pepper, ginger, and chili. You'll pipe it onto the terrace and place it in the bathrooms, creating a magical atmosphere. A scent that transports you.”
― Samantha Verant, The Spice Master at Bistro Exotique

“Before Chiara's eyes, a cottage sprang from the ground, with a pale blue door and windows with painted doves.
"Oh, my!" Chia exclaimed.
Inside, the cottage was sparsely furnished, with four wooden chairs covered in blue cotton cushions, a table with hearts carved along the edges, an oven that smelled like chocolate and cherries, and a harpsichord in the corner by the window. But it was everything Chiara could have dreamt of. A home of her own.
"This spot is one of my favorites," Agata narrated. "Absolutely lovely. Look there, you've a view of the Silver Brook, and in the mornings the moon crickets sing most beautifully."
Chiara inhaled. All the smells she had loved most from home---the wild grass, the pine cones from the trees, the fresh loaves Papa baked before dawn, the musty parchment from Ily's music paper. They flooded her nostrils all at once, as if she'd brought them with her.”
― Elizabeth Lim, When You Wish Upon a Star

“The linden tree. It stood unchanged since the first time Papa Horatio had seen it, all those years ago— unchanged, Alaine thought, for perhaps centuries. Always green, always blooming, even in the middle of winter. Now, at the cresting of summer, it almost blended into the deep green of the forest, except for the perfect circle of velvet green surrounding it. That, and the scent. Ebbing like a tide on the gentle breeze that stirred the linden’s leaves, the perfume mingled the ordinary golden florals of linden blooms with strange notes of vanilla and cedar and incense.”
― Rowenna Miller, The Fairy Bargains of Prospect Hill

“Spices"
The scents of spices are sad
whether at home or in foreign lands ...
At home, they passes through the nose
to give a ray of hope,
a breathing space
that make us forget – albeit for a short while –
all about the chains of religions, gossip,
the absurdity of politics,
and the cruelty of the ruling classes …
At home, spices help us cope with
the heavy weight of the backbreaking
customs and traditions …
You see everyone excited to have a meal
that help them forget about
the hardships, the crises,
and the unsuitability of life at home …
In alienating foreign lands,
The scent of spices awakens everything that was lost,
including the lost lands and homes…
There is something unbearably sad about the image of a woman
Standing in a kitchen filled with scents of spices reminding her
of all that happened,
all that was possible,
all that should never have happened,
and of all the irreplaceable losses …
So many are the societies that have been
completely destroyed,
and of which nothing remains but scents of spices
that add flavor to foods
and marinate the wounds …
Could spices be like old songs?
We love them at home because
they touch wounds we wish we could heal from,
the same old songs break our hearts in foreign lands,
because by then we have finally learned
that exile doesn’t heal wounds,
but rather pushes the knife deeper into them …
And like the alienating foreign lands,
the scents of spices declare
that there is much more
to the story of the wound;
a story that kills if untold,
and doesn’t heal when narrated …

[Original poem published in Arabic on December 11, 2023 at ahewar.org]”
― Louis Yako

“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