Best 733 quotes in «smell quotes» category

After all, color in itself has no color — it's simply a construction of the mind: a sensation, like the Humming Chorus from Madame Butterfly and the smell of honeysuckle.

Air freshener is man’s pitiful attempt to have his food smell as good, after digestion, as they did, before ingestion.

All my memories still smell of you!

All the progress in science can’t be used to build a smell receptor as capable as the one that a true leader possesses—to smell trouble or just something fishy.

Al salir del velorio había movido una taza vacía frente a mí. Había dicho: «He leído su suerte en el café». Yo iba hacia la puerta, entre las otras muchachas y oía la voz de él, honda, convincente, apacible: «Cuente siete estrellas y soñará conmigo». Al pasar junto a la puerta vimos al niño de Paloquemado en la cajita, la cara cubierta con polvos de arroz, una rosa en la boca y los ojos abiertos con palillos. Febrero nos mandaba tibias bocanadas de su muerte y en el cuarto flotaba el vaho de los jazmines y las violetas tostadas por el calor. Pero en el silencio del muerto, la otra voz era constante y única: «Recuérdelo bien. Nada más que siete estrellas».

As soon as I got into the library I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I got a whiff of the leather on all the old books, a smell that got real strong if you picked one of them up and stuck your nose real close to it when you turned the pages. Then there was the the smell of the cloth that covered the brand-new books, books that made a splitting sound when you opened them. Then I could sniff the the paper, that soft, powdery, drowsy smell that comes off the page in little puffs when you're reading something or looking at some pictures, kind of hypnotizing smell. I think it's the smell that makes so many folks fall asleep in the library. You'll see someone turn a page and you can imagine a puff of page powder coming up real slow and easy until it starts piling on a person's eyelashes, weighing their eyes down so much they stay down a little longer after each blink and finally making them so heavy that they just don't come back up at all. Then their mouths open and their heads start bouncing up and down like they're bobbing in a big tub of of water for apples and before you know it... they're out cold and their face thunks smack-dab on the book. That's the part that makes librarians the maddest. They get real upset if folks start drooling in the books

An addition that takes time to depart, and sometimes, never leaves at all. A smell, a touch, thoughts, moments, feelings, movements, words left unsaid, words barely spoken; they all have a distinct sense, distinct fragrances! .... A pungent of cinnamon, an aroma of a rose, a summer breeze, a sweet smile like a per-fume that lingers on and on... endlessly.

And the olfactory part of a dog’s brain is forty times larger than a human’s; depending on the breed, a dog can have up to 300 million olfactory receptors in his nose, compared to about 6 million in ours. Even with that extreme superiority in equipment, dogs don’t merely smell a superstrong version of what we smell (or don’t smell); instead, they can perceive multiple layers of smell, which gives dogs a far greater range of information.

A smell caught Kitty's attention, yanking her thoughts back to the present. The scent of someone she knew, but up on the roof? Curiosity had never hurt Kitty. She crept along, her feet silent on the roof tiles, following the peace, creamy smell. By Humpty Dumpty's shell, it was Darling Charming! Locked up in a metal box on the roof! Honestly, and people said that Wonderlandians were weird.

A smell caught Kitty's attention, yanking her thoughts back to the present. The scent of someone she knew, but up on the roof? Curiosity had never hurt Kitty. She crept along, her feet silent on the roof tiles, following the peachy, creamy smell. By Humpty Dumpty's shell, it was Darling Charming! Locked up in a metal box on the roof! Honestly, and people said that Wonderlandians were weird.

But a smell shivered him awake. It was a scent as old as the world. It was a hundred aromas of a thousand places. It was the tang of pine needles. It was the musk of sex. It was the muscular rot of mushrooms. It was the spice of oak. Meaty and redolent of soil and bark and herb. It was bats and husks and burrows and moss. It was solid and alive - so alive! And it was close. The vapors invaded Nicholas' nostrils and his hair rose to their roots. His eyes were as heavy as manhole covers, but he opened them. Through the dying calm inside him snaked a tremble of fear. The trees themselves seemed tense, waiting. The moonlight was a hard shell, sharp and ready to ready be struck and to ring like steel. A shadow moved. It poured like oil from between the tall trees and flowed across dark sandy dirt, lengthening into the middle of the ring. Trees seem to bend toward it, spellbound. A long, long shadow...

But thanks to his sense of smell, he did have a good job. He was employed by the National Intelligence Center to smell murderers and terrorists in letters and other documents. The information revolution was just beginning, and he was very worried: his sense of smell didn't work with screens.

... but I could also write about love. How a hand can silence thousands of voices and how someone’s smell can make you feel at home even though you’re a million miles away from home and have you ever hurt someone you love? Because you’re angry. Because you’re disappointed and sad and you just really wanted to love and be loved in return but life got in the way and you both said things that should never be said and you’re angry but don’t know how to. Because you still feel this strange love for him, but you’re also fucking angry and you want to hit him, but then hug him because hurting him is hurting yourself, and then hit him again because you’re angry! and so you fall on your knees because you’re hopeless to yourself and your own emotions and that’s love, my friend.

Even the air seems to have a smell - earthy and rich and complicated, made out of things living nd things dying and things long dead. The smell of the world where nothing stops moving, nothing stays the same.

But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, on the ruin of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.

Faeces by any other name would smell as gross

For all the way he loved her. Every song had her memory, every rain had her smell, and every girl had her face.

Fear has always been a very important whistleblower. Our emotion and our history can provoke fear that may arrest us at any time or at any place. Above and beyond, fear might be contagious and its scent, sometimes sensual, sometimes mystical or animal, can exude the musty and arcane smell of destiny. ("One could still feel the smell of fear" )

He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight for a few seconds. His breaths tickle my ear, and I close my eyes, letting myself finally relax. He smells like wind and sweat and soap, like Tobias and like safety.

—Gracias—le dije con una sonrisa, y controlada por un impulso me incliné y lo abracé, pero reaccione después de unos segundos y comencé a apartarlo —Bueno ya puedes soltarme Swanson, no se me valla a pegar el olor de pobre o algo.

Her scent was there, swirling all around him. It was feminine, but not elegant. Not like flowers or the spring air, but rather like an autumn breeze, weaving its way through branches well on their way to winter slumber. It was the scent of a fall evening casting its glow over a serene lake. It was the smell of sunset, something he hadn’t seen in so long.

He smelled a little strange, sweet and bitter at the same time, the way madness might have smelled if it could've taken a physical form.

He smelled faintly of soap, a little musky, perhaps. Warm wasn't something, I'd ever registered as having a smell before, but that's what David smelled of. Warmth, like he was liquid sunshine or something. Heat and comfort and home.

He doesn't visit me in dreams, but the smell of garlic on my fingers reminds me of him and, by extension, he loss of him. Sulfurous, maybe a little shameful, the smell reminds me of love.

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

I could smell something. Fear. I could taste it now. It tasted like blood in my mouth, and I could feel it slide through me and open me up when I saw him ...

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 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.

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

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.)

If ur laptop doesnt smell like fire then ur losing.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.