Best 733 quotes in «smell quotes» category

If e-book readers were invented before print books, (petty things such as) the smell of ink would have been some people’s only reason for not abandoning e-books.

If indignity had a smell, it would be the unshaven underarm funk of an unwashed muumuu woman.

I followed Barry closely as we walked through the main doors of the hospital, down the corridor that smelt like disinfectant and false hope.

If she knew how beautiful love is, she would already put it in a box, seal, and preserve it. So she could smell it whenever she wants.

If ur laptop doesnt smell like fire then ur losing.

If you close your eyes in a park you will realise that everything you see around is at the same time in the air because everything has a scent and every scent is a misty image!

I love the smell of old books,” Mandy sighed, inhaling deeply with the book pressed against her face. The yellow pages smelled of wood and paper mills and mothballs.

If you don't smell good, then you don't look good.

I Love the Smell of Success in the Shadows of Failure. ~Ayyaz Ameer Meo

I lower my chin to smell the shirt again. I want to wear this forever, without washing it. His dark, spicy aroma consumes the material. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he spots me catching a whiff or if he knows how addicting his scent is to girls.

Here’s my number. I almost forgot to give it to you.” I swallow as I stare at the number. Tell her. Just f*cking tell her. “Rachel...” “You’ll call, right?” And the small amount of hurt in her voice stabs my heart. I envelop Rachel in my arms and cup her head to my chest. She smells good. Like the ocean. Like her jacket. I try to memorize the feel of her body against mine: all soft and warm and curves. The paper in her hand crinkles as she links one arm, then another around my waist. Leaning into me, she lets out a contented sigh and I close my eyes with the sound. Ten seconds. I’ll keep her for ten more seconds. I want to keep her. Two. I shouldn’t. Four. Maybe she can see past what I am. We don’t have to be more. We can be friends. Seven. I can fix this. Nine. I can make anything work. Ten. “I’ll call.

In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.

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.)

I still smell your absence on my skin. It smells of insomnia and rusted key locks...

I pass a construction site, abandoned for the night, and a few blocks later, the playground of the elementary school my son attended, the metal sliding board gleaming under a streetlamp and the swings stirring in the breeze. There's an energy to these autumn nights that touches something primal inside of me. Something from long ago. From my childhood in western Iowa. I think of high school football games and the stadium lights blazing down on the players. I smell ripening apples, and the sour reek of beer from keg parties in the cornfields. I feel the wind in my face as I ride in the bed of an old pickup truck down a country road at night, dust swirling in the taillights and the entire span of my life yawning out ahead o me. It's the beautiful thing about youth. There's a weightlessness that permeates everything because no damning choices have been made, no paths committed to, and the road forking out ahead is pure, unlimited potential. I love my life, but I haven't felt that lightness of being in ages. Autumn nights like this are as close as I get.

I smell him in intervals, in varieties, in ways I don’t quite understand.

I smell it again, his scent. The calming aroma. The one that’s become my new favorite. I take a deeper breath.

I turn the water all the way hot, turn my back to the water, and I take it. I close my eyes and I'm on the hundredth floor with the jet-fuel fire at my back and the drop below. I take it and take it until I can't take it, until the heat takes over everything, and I jump, plummeting to the street I'm out of the shower. I turn my back to the mirror and look at the too-red skin behind my shoulder blades. The wind blows north and the smoke is here. Then the wind shifts and you can't smell a thing. Then the wind shifts again. Now you smell it, now you don't.

It SMELLS ancient," - Dan Cahill

It was impeccably clean, and smelled like an old library might smell if someone was eating a Subway sandwich in it. Because someone was eating a Subway sandwich in it.

Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air--moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh--felt as if it were being exhaled into one's face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing. Honeysuckle, swamp flowers, magnolia, and the mystery smell of the river scented the atmosphere, amplifying the intrusion of organic sleaze. It was aphrodisiac and repressive, soft and violent at the same time. In New Orleans, in the French Quarter, miles from the barking lungs of alligators, the air maintained this quality of breath, although here it acquired a tinge of metallic halitosis, due to fumes expelled by tourist buses, trucks delivering Dixie beer, and, on Decatur Street, a mass-transit motor coach named Desire.

It was the smell that hit her first. It was a sterile, antiseptic and very distinctive medical smell, a smell with an underlying metallic reek of blood beneath it. Disturbing as this was, Selena wasn’t necessarily shocked. It was a hospital, after all. Just like schools had a tendency to smell like chalk dust and sweat and cafeteria mystery meat, just like auto shops stank of gasoline and rust, hospitals had an odour reflecting their whole purpose, and it was sort of redundant to try and hide it.

I’ve finally given in, my eyes are shut under the blindfold. I can hear and smell, but I cannot see. My hands are clammy I feel cold yet I am warm. It is what I wanted, but I am now unsure, dubious yet at the same time excited and curious. I would like to think I feel a bit like Alice just before she fell down the hole into the rabbit hole. Yet there are no rabbits here… not even those of the rampant persuasion.

Money doesn’t smell", ... but feels profiteers. ("L'argent n'a pas d'odeur", ... - Mais sent les profiteurs.)

Outside the bus the smell of sulphur hit Bond with sickening force. It was a horrible smell, from somewhere down in the stomach of the world.

…more than a half million books, all of them smelling like dust and ink, two terrible smells that blend mystically to make something beautiful. Powells is another church to me, a paperback sort of heaven.

Oh, is that what I smell?” Mrs. McHenry said with a shudder. (For the record, our school smells just fine, unless of course your smelling ability has been irreparably damaged by a lifetime of sniffing perfume samples.)

On the third day, she smelled the fruit as soon as she came in. She followed the scent to the kitchen, and the peach was radiant, dusky rose and gold, its skin so plush she thought her fingertip might bruise it. This was the day, the very hour to eat- and she had come prepared, but she didn't want Concepcion to see her. She waited until the housekeeper shouldered her leather-handled canvas bag and left. Then Jess unwrapped the organic peach she'd bought that morning. Slightly smaller, slightly harder, but decently rosy, the peach listed left- just the right direction- when she set it on the table. Leaving this changeling for George, she washed his ripe fruit, and bit and broke the skin. An intense tang, the underside of velvet. Then flesh dissolved in a rush of nectar. Juice drenched her hand and wet the inside of her wrist. She had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that what was sweet could also be so complicated, that fruit could have a nap, like fabric, soft one way, sleek the other.

No sane person resists the smell of the soil when sprinkled with water, Especially the smell of the intercourse between earth and rain.

One might trouble one's dainty snout with a whiff of the taleggio displayed in an artisanal cheese shop, or take a saucer of jasmine tea and a knuckle of fennel-scented snuff at a counter of buffed Big Nothing granite. But there was a want in these ladies yet, and it was for the rude life of youth.

She kisses the children goodnight, leaving lipstick on their foreheads and a trail of Chanel No.5.

She hated the way roses smelled, their sweetness too fragile. She wanted a garden of evergreens. A garden of stones. A garden of swords.

Roho haina mifumo ya ufahamu! Haina pua, haina macho, haina ladha, haina harufu wala haina masikio. Kwa sababu roho haina mifumo ya ufahamu mtu, anapokufa mifumo yake yote 21 aliyokuwa nayo binadamu huoza na kuwa udongo. Hivyo, kuongea na mtu aliyekufa ni sawa na kuongea na udongo ukitegemea udongo huo ukusikie au uongee na wewe.

Sometimes I accidentally walk into the places where I and you had spoken before, existed before, which still have the smell of your memories, all of a sudden it starts feeling like I have entered a dark room without a door anywhere. Where I can always hear that song I used to love once before.

Smells could bring a person back clearer than pictures even could.

Smells have layers, like sounds have frequencies. Disentangling them is like trying to follow a song in a room full of loud people–you have to learn to tune out the other noises.

Smells, I think, may be the last thing on earth to die.

Sometimes it's hard to look at a flower, when your dying inside.

The last thing she remembered before finally drifting off was how nice Steffi's hair smelled.

The boy raised the can to his nose and smelled, his lips wrinkling back as if he'd caught the business end of a skunk.

The day your souls see their faces or smell their memories in someone else's stories, and doesn't bleed anymore. You know, you have healed.

The old man had been stoking and sipping at his pipe for the last fifteen minutes as they awaited the prisoner. The smoke of his tobacco was the foulest that she, a girl raised in a house with seven brothers and a widowed father, had every been obliged to inhale. It hung in the room as thick as sheepshearing and made arabesques in the harsh slanting light from the window.

There's no feeling in this world like writing in the attic on a snowy day and the smell of coffee brewing

There are seventy-five perfumes, which it is very necessary that a criminal expert should be able to distinguish from each other, and cases have more than once within my own experience depended upon their prompt recognition.

There had never been such roses as those that bloomed that summer. They clambered everywhere and dripped as if perspiring the heaviest most intoxicating perfume, which seemed to make the very masonry drunk. The senses fused; sometimes these roses emitted low but intolerably piercing pentatonic melodies which were the sound of their deep crimson colour and yet we heard them inside our nostrils.

There was a smell, the Golux thought, a little like Forever in the air, but mixed with something faint and less enduring, possibly the fragrance of a flower.

The smell of the sweat is not sweet, but the fruit of the sweat is very sweet.

There was a sound you could smell / like you were inhaling tomorrow.

The room filled with the smell of warming butter and sugar and lemon and eggs, and at five, the timer buzzed and I pulled out the cake and placed it on the stovetop. The house was quiet. The bowl of icing was right there on the counter, ready to go, and cakes are best when just out of the oven, and I really couldn't possibly wait, so I reached out to the side of the cake pan, to the least obvious part, and pulled off a warm spongy chunk of deep gold. Iced it all over with chocolate. Popped the whole thing into my mouth.

The smell of cars' smoke as I wade through traffic overshadows the fresh fragrance of Mother Earth drenched in rain. There can be no greater testimony to man's progress