language soon would prove inadequate for designating all the olfactory notions that he had accumulated within himself. quality.

After one year of an existence more animal than human
.After one year of an existence more animal than human. and spooned wine into his mouth hoping to bring words to his tongue-all night long and all in vain. as if the vendors still swarmed among the crowd. deep in dreams. human beings first emit an odor when they reach puberty. Naturally he knew every single perfumery and apothecary in the city. All these grotesque incongruities between the richness of the world perceivable by smell and the poverty of language were enough for the lad Grenouille to doubt if language made any sense at all; and he grew accustomed to using such words only when his contact with others made it absolutely necessary. color. praying long. Its right fist. great: delicacy. and that would not be good; no. and a befuddling peace took possession of his soul. It was something completely new. its aroma. Most likely his Italian blood. fluent pattern of speech.

He could sense the cooling effect of the evaporating alcohol. like everything from Pelissier. People reading books. and he knew that it was not the exertion of running that had set it pounding. And once. pulpy.??There!?? Baldini said at last. for God??s sake. Actually he required only a moment to convince himself optically-then to abandon himself all the more ruthlessly to olfactory perception. and shook it vigorously.And here he stood in Baldini??s shop. After all. to Pelissier or another one of these upstart merchants-perhaps he would get a few thousand livres for it. however. bending forward a bit to get a better look at the toad at his door. answered mechanically. ??I know all the odors in the world. The tick could let itself drop.

and so he would follow through on his decision. and with her his last customer.????Because he??s healthy.??Don??t you want to test it??? Grenouille gurgled on. The procedure was this: to dip the handkerchief in perfume. ??Incredible. the crates of nails and screws. If the rage one year was Hungary water and Baldini had accordingly stocked up on lavender. in the form of a protracted bout with a cancer that grabbed Madame by the throat.. slid down off the logs. Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. calling it a mere clump of stars. or anise seeds at the market. can??t possibly do it. and I do not wish to be disturbed under any circumstances. then. The very fact that she thought she had spotted him was certain proof that there was nothing devilish to be found.

and it may well be that God has given you a passably fine nose. so -savagely. lurking look that he had fixed on him at their first meeting. because I??m telling you: you are a little swindler. Baldini was no longer a great perfumer. But the object called wood had never been of sufficient interest for him to trouble himself to speak its name. steam. But he had not been a perfumer his life long. The days of his hibernation were over. this scruffy brat who was worth more than his weight in gold. attempting to find his stern tone again. best nose in Paris! Come here to the table and show me what you can do. an inner fortress built of the most magnificent odors. To the world she looked as old as her years-and at the same time two. at well-spaced intervals. On the other hand. deaf. After a few weeks Grenouille had mastered not only the names of all the odors in Baldini??s laboratory.

Not how to mix perfumes. flooding the whole world with a distillate of his own making. under whose beneficent reign Baldini had been lucky enough to have lived for many years. because I??m telling you: you are a little swindler. lowered his fat nose into it. And for that it was necessary that he- assisted only by an unskilled helper-would be solely and exclusively responsible for the production of scents. ladies and gentlemen of the highest rank used their influence. tall and spindly and fragile. so balanced.And now to work. and had waited.The perfume was disgustingly good. But for a selected number of well-placed. formula.IT WAS LIKE living in Utopia. because details meant difficulties and difficulties meant ruffling his composure. to prove your assertion. True.

but also cremes and powders. the glass plate for drying. If he died. and fled back into the city. the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlors stank of stale dust. He was no longer locked in at bedtime. but he lived. ??Is there something else I can do for you? Well? Speak up!??Grenouille stood there cowering and gazing at Baldini with a look of apparent timidity. only to fill up again. woods. then. It was only purer. She was not happy that the conversation had all at once turned into a theological cross-examination. She served up three meals a day and not the tiniest snack more. He was not out to cheat the old man after all. imbues us totally. would bring them all to full bloom. and could be revived only with the most pungent smelling salts of clove oil.

. ??You??re supposed to smell like caramel. she took the fruit from a basket. from where he went right on with his unconscionable pamphleteering. But on the whole they seemed to him rather coarse and ponderous. the dead girl was discovered. In time. so close to it that the thin reddish baby hair tickled his nostrils. when he had wandered the streets with a boxful of wares dangling at his belly. they seemed to create an eerie suction. one so refined and powerful that you could have weighed it out in silver; about his apprentice years in Genoa.. now there.?? with the inner jubilation of a child that has sulked its way to some- permission granted and thumbs its nose at the limitations. The scent was so exceptionally delicate and fine that he could not hold on to it; it continually eluded his perception.HE WORKED WITHOUT pause for two hours-with increasingly hectic movements. Chenier??s eyes grew glassy from the moneys paid and his back ached from all the deep bows he had to make..

Thus he managed to lull Baldini into the illusion that ultimately this was all perfectly normal. She was not happy that the conversation had all at once turned into a theological cross-examination. how much cream had been left in it and so on. toilet water from the fresh bark of elderberry and from yew sprigs. to the faint tinkle of a bell driven to the newly founded cemetery of Clamart. but swirled it about gently like a brandy glass.?? he said. clicking his fingernails impatiently. where at night the city gates were locked. leaning against a wall or crouching in a dark corner. She diapered the little ones three times a day. endless stories. as I said. cheerful. It sucked air in and snorted it back out in short puffs. he followed it up by roaring. there were also sundry spices. The streets stank of manure.

??You not only have the best nose.?? And she tapped the bald spot on the head of the monk. and the flat-bottomed punts of the fishermen. Above his display window was stretched a sumptuous green-lacquered baldachin. like someone with a nosebleed. Years later. flooding the whole world with a distillate of his own making.. Perhaps the closest analogy to his talent is the musical wunderkind. like noise. all at once it was dark. Also the fact that he no longer merely stood there staring stupidly. hissed out in reptile fashion. for they always meant that some rule would have to be broken. And here he had gone and fallen ill.?? but one and only one way.Naturally. there.

He had the prescience of something extraordinary-this scent was the key for ordering all odors. or the metamorphosis of grapes into wine by the Greeks. he doesn??t smell. which connected the right bank with the He de la Cite. He ordered his wife to heat chicken broth and wine. but as a demand; nor was it really spoken. Normally human odor was nothing special. spoons and rods-all the utensils that allow the perfumer to control the complicated process of mixing-Grenouille did not so much as touch a single one of them. He saw himself as a young man walking through the evening gardens of Naples; he saw himself lying in the arms of a woman with dark curly hair and saw the silhouette of a bouquet of roses on the windowsill as the night wind passed by; he heard the random song of birds and the distant music from a harbor tavern; he heard whisperings at his ear. A truly Promethean act! And yet. encapsulated. however. willful little prehuman creatures. right away if possible. And once again. His stock ranged from essences absolues-floral oils. by the way..

Grenouille no longer reached for flacons and powders. and all had been stillbirths or semi-stillbirths. to smell only according to the innermost structures of its magic formula.??I don??t know.?? said Baldini. his nose were spilling over with wood. then he would have to stink. Pressed Oriental pastilles of myrrh.. lover??s ink scented with attar of roses. or musk has. stray children. a vision as old as the world itself and yet always new and normal. twenty years too late-did death arrive. about leverage and Newton. He would soon have to start chasing after customers as he had in his twenties at the start of his career. fine. You can explain it however you like.

. for it was impossible to make a living nursing just one babe. strangely enough. demonstrate to me that you are a bungler.CHENIER: It??s a terribly common scent. or cinnamon.. a blend of rotting melon and the fetid odor of burnt animal horn. humanist. give me just five minutes!????Do you suppose I??d let you slop around here in my laboratory? With essences that are worth a fortune? You?????Yes. in his youth. salty. would be used only by the wearer. smelling salts. who stood there on the riverbank at the place de Greve steadily breathing in and out the scraps of sea breeze that he could catch in his nose. Chenier.????Where??? asked Grenouille. was something he had added on later.

but had read the philosophers as well. hardworking organ that has been trained to smell for many decades. but so unsuspecting that he took the boy??s behavior not for insolence but for shyness. Her custodianship was ended. just as a musically gifted child burns to see an orchestra up close or to climb into the church choir where the organ keyboard lies hidden. did some spying.?? said the wet nurse. dysentery. hardly still recognizable for what it was. For his soul he required nothing. And every botched attempt was dreadfully expensive... people might begin to talk.. But then-she was almost eighty by now-all at once the man who held her annuity had to emigrate. for he suspected that it was not he who followed the scent. would have to run experiments for several days.

a candle stuck atop it. worse. I have the recipe in my nose. the wounds to close. or the metamorphosis of grapes into wine by the Greeks. in the doorway. grasping the back of his armchair with both hands.. And so..??Storax??? he asked. a shimmering flood of pure gold.Only a few days before. Unthinkable! that his great-grandfather. crystal flacons and cruses with stoppers of cut amber. each house so tightly pressed to the next. And every botched attempt was dreadfully expensive. Inside the room.

but for cheap coolies. This confusion of senses did not last long at all. and I don??t need an apprentice. raging at his fate. the tables full of doth and dishes and shoe soles and all the hundreds of other things sold there during the day.And so he went on purring and crooning in his sweetest tones.. Such a nose??-and here he tapped his with his finger-??is not something one has. and the pipette when preparing his mixtures. or oils or slips of a knife-but it would cost a fortune to take it with him to Messina! Even by ship! And therefore it would be sold. To grow old living modestly in Messina had not been his goal in life. If. and Grenouille??s mother. he had not sat down at his desk to ponder and wait for inspiration.????Formula. blood-red mirage of the city had been a warning: act now. He had soon so thoroughly smelled out the quarter between Saint-Eustache and the Hotel de Ville that he could find his way around in it by pitch-dark night. Pressed Oriental pastilles of myrrh.

maitre??? Grenouille asked. Grenouille did not trust his nose and had to call on his eyes for assistance if he was to believe what he smelled. And you could expect nothing but conjuring from a man like Pelissier. It was the same with other things. and moral admonitions tied to it. ordinary monk were assigned the task of deciding about such matters touching the very foundations of theology. and. And if they don??t smell like that. Vanished the sentimental idyll of father and son and fragrant mother-as if someone had ripped away the cozy veil of thought that his fantasy had cast about the child and himself. and turned around. a narrow alley hardly a span wide and darker still-if that was possible. He was old and exhausted. and molded greasy sticks of carmine for the lips. and spooned wine into his mouth hoping to bring words to his tongue-all night long and all in vain. Baldini was worried. poohpeedooh!??After a while he pulled his finger back. He quickly bolted the door. God.

Baldini. so painfully drummed into them. and Terrier had the very odd feeling that he himself. which would have been the only way to dodge the other formalities. That impudent woman dared to claim you don??t smell the way human children are supposed to smell. where the odors were thinner. indeed very rough work for Madame Gaillard. when his own participation against the Austrians had had a decisive influence on the outcome; about the Camisards. for he was alive. see where I mean. but in vain. pushed upward.He stoppered the flacon. God. And after a while. no cry. slowly moving current. syrups.

the art of perfumery was slipping bit by bit from the hands of the masters of the craft and becoming accessible to mountebanks. he would then rave and rant and throw a howling fit there in the stifling. but had read the philosophers as well. and lay there. and storax balm. young man. this rodomontade in commerce. chicken pox. Besides which. teas. fanned himself. You had to be able to distinguish sheep suet from calves?? suet. tree. Its nose awoke first. and rosemary to cover the demand-here came Pelissier with his Air de Muse.??It??s not a good perfume. everyday language soon would prove inadequate for designating all the olfactory notions that he had accumulated within himself. quality.