A collection of passages 3

I lied to a man by saying I had read Albert Camus. Maybe not his books, but I had heard and read interviews, and perhaps an essay. So, it felt like I had. The first I heard of Camus was in Paris, 1997 – there was a rally commemorating the 1961 massacre of Algerians in Paris. Camus was born in Algeria and moved to Paris at 25 years of age.

As a child born in the Philippines I had always been aware of foreigners: neighbouring Asian countries, and, of course, the Spanish, and American relics of colonialism. The African, Latin American, and other European countries became familiar to me on the Miss Universe contests. To cut a long story short, and simple, that first trip to Europe revealed the racial tensions I had not felt or observed before – a foreigner in a foreign country filled with foreigners. Not much has changed twenty years on.

I digress.

What do foreign relations have to do with lying? So much! When I think about it. I admit I’ve lied before, and I will lie again, but without having done so I wouldn’t have read all of these, nor be able to ask for the truth. A lie lead me to one book, and another, to travel to foreign lands, other lives, minds, ways of being, relating, growing, and smelling.

In this third edition of ‘A collection of passages’ I found smell descriptions from Camus’ ‘The Outsider’ (I am taking a break from ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’), and Armistead Maupin’s ‘The Days of Anna Madrigal’ from his ‘Tales of the City’ series: both novels. The rest of these descriptions are from biographies and memoirs: Raimond Gaita’s father; Helen Garner’s harrowing account of Joe Cinque’s murder: Maryse Wolinski’s tribute to her husband, Georges Wolinski, cartoonist at Charlie Hebdo, who was killed by terrorists in the Hebdo office; David Foenkinos’ homage to German Jewish artist, Charlotte Salomon, who was killed, along with her husband and unborn child by Nazi’s; Lee Stringer’s written account as a homeless man in New York City from the early 1980s; Pablo Neruda’s – one of my favourite poets – vivid, dense, and pulsating stories; And, Esther Perel’s psychology book makes the cut because where would our sense of smell be without the erotic energy in our lives, relationships et al.

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The Outsider, Albert Camus. Translated by Sandra Smith. Penguin Classics, 2012.

“The sun, the smell of leather and dung clinging on to the wheels of the hearse, the smell of polish and incense, the exhaustion from not having slept all night – all these things stung my eyes and blurred my thoughts.”

Walking in the procession of his mother’s funeral, the Outsider’s emotions bubble to the surface. We see a mother and son relationship that is close, and distant, too.

The Days of Anna Madrigal, Armistead Maupin. Doubleday, 2014.

Known for her snooping, Andy (before Anna) feared his mother finding a chiffon dress in his cupboard that he’s worn a few times: “On two occasions Ana had come home from school to find the orange-blossomy sweetness of Mama’s perfume, Je Reviens, inhabiting his room like an overripe tropical garden. It troubled him more than it should have. It didn’t help, of course, that the name meant “I’m coming back.”


“How long have you had that thing?” Jake asked nonagenarian Anna Madrigal. She lifted ‘Richard Halliburton’s Book of Marvels’ “to her nose and inhaled the scent lingering in its cardboard bones: a hint of rosewater and Lysol that instantly genie-summoned the Blue Moon Lodge.” It was the one thing that could take her back to Winnemucca.

Romulus, My Father, Raimond Gaita. Text Publishing, 1998.

Romulus “longed for the generous and soft European foliage, but the eucalypts of Baringhup, scraggy except for the noble red gums on the river bank seemed symbols of deprivation and barrenness … Even the wonderful summer smell of eucalyptus attracted them (immigrants) only because it promised useful oil.”


As Romulus, and lifelong friend, Hora, talk late into the night, the kitchen fills “with cigarette smoke and the smell of slivovitz (damson plum brandy).”

Joe Cinque’s Consolation, Helen Garner. Picador, 2004.

“Whatever the reason, I sided with Joe Cinque. I searched for him in all the documents. But every place where he should have been was blank, without scent or colour: a point where nothing resonated.”


“I couldn’t understand how the summer afternoon could smell so grassy and good, so ordinary: how the world outside the court could continue its benevolent progress.”


Charlotte, David Foenkinos. Canongate, 2017.

Charlotte Salomon asks her grandparents what her mother was like: “The memory of her presence has faded through the years. It’s been reduced to vague sensations, imprecise emotions. It hurts to have forgotten her voice, her scent.”


“Armed men sometimes storm into the building. And stand there, inhaling the scent of decadence. Modern art must quite be simply eradicated. How dare anyone paint anything other than the blond peasants.”

Charlotte Salomon studied painting for two years at the Academy of Fine Arts in Berlin, but being Jewish, in her homeland (!), became too dangerous for her during the second world war and left.

Darling, I’m Going to Charlie, A Memoir, Maryse Wolinski. 37INK – Atria, 2016.

At 11:33 am on January 7, 2015, two extremists fired their guns in the Charlie Hebdo office and shot its illustrators and journalists dead.

“The smell of gunpowder fills the room.”


Julien and Nathalie from Comédie Bastille, opposite the Hebdo office, hosts the victims, and the so-called “involved” in the theatre. Julien “is listening to people who have a passionate need to speak, to tell their stories, to describe their shock, the shooting, the smell of gunpowder, and the black legs of the killers they saw from the places where they had hidden.”

Grand Central Winter – Stories from the Street, Lee Stringer. Seven Stories Press, 1998.

In the dorm of the Bowery Mission shelter, in 1985, Lee Stringer declines a bologna and cheese on white sandwich sold from a man’s locker: “Thoughts of jockstraps and old Nikes commingling with the food kept insinuating themselves.”


Entering the Street News distribution office (The Big Issue of its time) for the first time – he then becomes editor and contributor: “The place reeked of commerce. Money poured in in its most visible form. In thick, crinkled wads of green. Even the smell of coffee and bacon that greeted you as you opened the door was a matter of enterprise.”

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Memoirs, Pablo Neruda. Farrar, Straus and Grioux, 1974.

Visiting a friend in Valparaiso, Chile, Neruda was sleepless on a wicker armchair. His friends were sound asleep on newspapers and magazines on the floor. He heard silence, a dog’s bark, and ships whistling in the city’s port.

“Suddenly I felt a strange, irresistible force flooding through me. It was a mountain fragrance, a smell of the prairie, of vegetation that had grown up with me during my childhood and which I had forgotten in the noisy hubbub of the city life.” Neruda probed the chair to source the aromas. It had tiny drawers, and “in them I could feel dry, smooth plants, coarse, rounded sheaves, spear-like, soft or metallic leaves.”

His friend, Novoa, who Neruda likens to St. Christopher (patron saint of travellers) gathered wild plants. “He praised the secret ties, known only to him, between bodily health and the natural gifts of the earth.”

Neruda’s mind settled. Knowing what lay beneath him he could finally sleep, “protected by the fragrance of those guardian herbs.”


Pablo Neruda lived in Chile, Asia, and Europe. While in Madrid, during the Siege of Madrid (1936 – 1939), Pablo Neruda’s house was raided:

“My masks were gone … Masks collected in Siam, Bali, Sumatra, the Malay Archipelago, Bandung … Gilded, ashen, tomato-red, with silver eyebrows, blue, demonic eyebrows, lost in thought, my masks had been my sole keepsakes from the Orient I had gone to alone that first time, which had received me with it odor of tea, dung, opium, sweat, the intensest jasmine, frangipani, fruit rotting in the streets … Those masks, a reminder of the purest dances, of the dancing before the temple …”

Mating in Captivity – Sex, Lies, and Domestic Bliss, Esther Perel. Hodder, 2007.

“Female eroticism is diffuse, not localised in the genitals but distributed throughout the body, mind, and senses. It is tactile and auditory, linked to smell, skin, and contact; arousal is often more subjective than physical, and desire arises on a lattice of emotion.”

A collection of passages 2

January sent me to isolation. In February anxiety boiled over, leading me to an aggressive and charged March. It helped me socialise again. The beginning of April was reflective, and I began to desire a change in my life: relationships, work, location, state of mind, and ways to play. As May nears, I feel these changes consolidate themselves in my ability to be patient, prepared, present, sure, but ready. How exciting to think that the middle of the year is yet to come.

In the first collection of passages, I mentioned collecting magazines to the point of obsession. It’s hard not to collect. If not something physical, something to keep in the mind. Philosopher, fragrance blogger and curator, Liam Sardea, and I had a conversation recently about conscious experiences as either physical or “something beyond” the physical. It made me wonder of our abilities as alchemists. Or, magical thinking. Survival aspects of our nature. This enquiry brings me to the first passage in this current collection where Ruby Wax, in A Mindfulness Guide for the FRAZZLED, (Penguin Life, 2016), goes into a 6-day mindfulness retreat. On day three she smells a rose “…making sure no one is looking and decide to do my walking up and down near it so that, when the wind is right, I can get smacked in the face by that smell. Every time I pass it, I get a hit. The next day the rose is dead and there’s no smell. I think there’s a lesson in there… I’m not sure what. No, I know: the lesson is that all things die, so don’t depend on them.” She returns to the spot just to “check and smell it.” It lives on in that place beyond.

Here are smell descriptions I’ve collected from some of the books I’ve read this year:

“Whenever you stroll through a eucalyptus grove you are engulfed in a unique smell, acrid and spicy and a little bit soapy too. What you are actually sensing is an airborne chemical that is created and released by the trees, a “volatile organic compound,” or “VOC” for short.” (An antiseptic that keeps the trees healthy if it is wounded to prevent infections).


“I left Atlanta knowing more than I had when I arrived. To this day, I need only close my eyes to summon the smell of a crushed sweet gum leaf, as pungent as if I were holding it in my hand.”- Lab Girl by Hope Jahren (Fleet, 2016).

“His mother used to smell of shampoo and their old house. She used to smell like her bed and her sheets, she used to smell of different cigarettes. She used to smell of beans on toast and bath time. But all he can smell now is Maureen’s air freshener, stronger than the smell of his mum and where they used to live.” – My Name is Leon, Kit de Waal (Penguin Viking, 2016).

“It was foully hot: the rancid sewer air could prompt a smile between two strangers in the street as they passed each other: can you believe we live here? It was like bile, and it was the scent of Mulberry Street that afternoon.” A description by the personal assistant to an international singer after being fired in New York City on her way back to London. – Swing Time, Zadie Smith (Hamish Hamilton, 2016).

“Many people situate themselves by sight; they marvel at scenic vistas, take photos, draw pictures, recall images. In this job I find my brain recording time and place in scent. I remember places by smell.”


Céline and Hervé Ellena, children of famed perfumer, Jean-Claude Ellena, questioned their father for scents of Madeleine cookies, clothing, snow, including what the smell of clouds were. He created them. Céline says, “When I was a child, he didn’t tell me about princesses; he told me about scents. We didn’t have Cinderella. We listen to his stories in perfume.” – The Perfect Scent, Chandlerr Burr (Picador, 2007).

“The grass, as she walked in, was just beginning to be wet from the moist night and the moon that earlier had shone so nicely on her elm and her cypress and her pines was curtained and faint in the mist – that mist that the Gulf breathed over Houston almost every night, as if to help the city sleep.”


Flap cuts his hand on his wife, Emma’s (Aurora’s daughter) teeth as he aims for her face. Patsy, Emma’s best friend, knocks on the front door. “She held the door open and Patsy swept in, smelling nice and looking wonderful, cheerful and happy. Their bedroom was also their living room, and the minute Patsy stepped into it she said, “I can smell blood.”


Turning down one of Aurora’s many suitors, Trevor – a veritable sea man, and ladies man, who blended the smells of salt, leather and spices – “…had always smelled better than any man she had known.” In the restaurant she got off her chair and sat on his lap, and “gave him a lavish hug and a nice kiss on the cheek and smelled around a little for good measure enough to last her for approximately six months.” – Terms of Endearment, Larry McMurtry (Simon & Schuster, 1975).

October 5th: While driving home May Sarton wanted to write a poem about silence being the language lover’s know. When she arrived home she shivered in isolation, “and must face again and try to tame the loneliness. The house is no friend when I walk in. A smell of stale tobacco, unopened windows, my life waiting for me somewhere else, asking to be created again.”

And on

October 6th: “Yesterday I weeded out violets from the iris bed. The iris was being choked by thick bunches of roots, so much like fruit under the earth. I found one single very fragrant violet and some small autumn crocuses. Now, after an hour’s work as the light failed and I drank in the damp smell of the earth, it looks orderly again.” – Journal of a Solitude, May Sarton (W.W. Norton & Co. 1973).

As Nicola gets her ozone sauna treatment for cancer, Helen, and her scepticism, remains quiet. “I held my peace. Morning sunshine fell into the room through the high window. The ozone smelled delicious, very subtle and refreshing, like watermelon, or an ocean breeze. I sat on a chair in the corner and pulled the lid off my coffee.” – The Spare Room, Helen Garner (Text, 2008).

Sarah Hall was a recommendation. This short story book packed a punch as her writing, and her characters’ sensuality gets under the skin. Her abundant smell descriptions for a small book excited me because of her generosity with them, without skipping on the other senses.

Butcher’s Perfume: As Kathleen’s holiday ends she discovers in her friend’s farm shed the slow butchering of a horse. “A dead horse was lying on the ground between the metal cattle chocks. The ground was slick yellow-brown, like concrete covered in piss and diarrhoea. I stepped closer, in under the gable, and a stink rose.”

The Beautiful Indifference: An ailing writer meets her lover in a hotel room. Hall offers many clues about her life in this story, stringing us to read the lines deeper. “The smell of his wet hair was one of her strongest memories now. Like the feeling of deep humiliation for injuring the junior-school pet rabbit. Like the unsealing gash on her mother’s cheek where the hospital orderlies had caught her with a metal instrument while wheeling her to the morgue. Bracken burning on the moors.”

Bees: A woman breaks up with her partner and moves from the “slow machinery in the black fields, livestock cropping the tufts, your once vernacular scenery” north to the “ornate, sooty, modern” London. In the city, she discovers a legion of dead and dying bees. Perhaps a metaphor for all that has ever existed in her. “You memorise noises, chimes, electrical thrums, the euphonic character of the place. And smells: the stale pavement, body odours, doorstep musk, green ponds.”


Remembering their sex life through the “smell of silage and diesel in the farmyard, the feel of him butting behind you, increasingly minimal in his inquiry, complaining if you weren’t wet enough, pulling out and moving it into a tighter place. A bonny pair: that’s what they called you. Best match of the town.” It makes me think of the grieving process, and all that plays, buzzes, in your mind.

The Nightlong River: Magda, Dolly Carter’s best friend, is dying. Dolly and her friends hunt mink cats one night to sew Magda a cape, to keep her tiny body warm. “And the night welcomed me, gave me senses. I was struck by the ability of the river to ferry odours on its back. It seemed to enhance everything it touched: the mineral stones of its bed, the wet shag of the dogs when they went swimming, the bark of sour thorn trees whose roots sipped at the shallows. Sometimes I imagined I could, like the dogs, detect the waft of mink through the ferns. I knew that binary scent of blood’s soft iron and glands secretion.” How rich is that?! – The Beautiful Indifference, Sarah Hall (Faber & Faber, 2011).

Currently, I am reading Why We Love and Lust, Dr Theresa L. Crenshaw (HarperCollins, 1997). She writes of chemical contact communication, through smell, caused by pheromones, and how that affects us. Nothing new there, but it is one example of how our hormonal system (eg. endocrine) influence behaviour through the sexual stages, and relationships.

One more read –

“I confess that I still have a shirt that belonged to this man I have written about, hidden among sundry ragged shirts from my past. He mailed it to me when I first moved away to graduate school. It held his smell for years.” – An essay by Steven M. Phelps on aeon.co. about the brain and touch