737. The best smell is bread, the best savour salt, the best love that of children.

Ooh, their breath is warm And they smell like sleep, And they say they take me home. Like poppies heavy with seed They take me deeper and deeper.

Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.

The smell of autumnal woods, as well as of coffee roasting in the towns, is among the few things that the French arrange better than we.

Everything smelled of sheep. The dandelions were suddenly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool and the sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing that smelled the most like sheep, was the sun itself. When the sun went behind a cloud, the smell of sheep decreased, like standing on some old guy's hearing aid, and when the sun came back again, the smell of the sheep was loud, like a clap of thunder inside a cup of coffee.

The Flower that smells the sweetest is Shy and Lowly.

The scent of these arm-pits is aroma finer than prayer...

Most people enjoy the sight of their own handwriting as they enjoy the smell of their own farts.

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

The exquisite smell of the south, clean but funky, like a big woman.

When it rains, the moisture in the humid air blankets our town with the smell of damp coffee grounds wafting in from the Nescafé factory at the town’s eastern edge. I don’t like coffee but I like that smell. It’s comforting; it unites the town in a common sensory experience; it’s good industry, like the roaring rug mill that fills our ears, brings work and signals our town’s vitality. There is a place here — you can hear it, smell it — where people make lives, suffer pain, enjoy small pleasures, play baseball, die, make love, have kids, drink themselves drunk on spring nights and do their best to hold off the demons that seek to destroy us, our homes, our families, our town.

I like a bush. A nice big, hairy, stinky, smelly fucking bush. And I hate when they put cologne on it. They dummy it up with cologne like you don’t know where you are. I like that nice natural scent of salmon.

I call it sniffing someone out. If they smell real, I give them a signal to come close.

The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it.