Best 733 quotes in «smell quotes» category

Faeces by any other name would smell as gross

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" )

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

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.

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.

—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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 ur laptop doesnt smell like fire then ur losing.

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

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 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.

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.)

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

…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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.