He wallowed in disgust and loathing, and his hair stood on end at the delicious horror. - Patrick Süskind

He was in very truth his own God, and a more splendid God than the God that stank of incense and was quartered in churches.

The wind blew cold, and he was freezing, but he did not notice that he was freezing, for within him was a counter-frost, fear.

She was one of those languid women made of dark honey, smooth and sweet and terribly sticky, who take control of a room with a syrupy gesture, a toss of the hair, a single slow whiplash of the eyes—and all the while remain as still as the center of a hurricane, apparently unaware of the force of gravity by which they irresistibly attract to themselves the yearnings and the souls of both men and women.