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“He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous sap from the cut limbs. ... This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell? Sweet grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the sea as you walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia? Or the wind from the land as you come in toward Cuba in the dark? That was the odor of cactus flowers, mimosa and the sea-grape shrubs. Or would you rather smell frying bacon in the morning when you are hungry? Or coffee in the morning? Or a Jonathan apple as you bit into it? Or a cider mill in the grinding, or bread fresh from the oven?”
― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

“গায়ে বুনোমাটি�� গন্ধওয়াল�� বয়সে বে�� খানি�� ছো�� বা বড় ছেলেগুলো ভীষণ শান্��, অথ�� রাগী প্রকৃতির হয়, আদ্যোপান্ত সিগারেটে ডুবে থাকে সারাক্ষণ�� কপালের প্রতিট�� ভাঁজ�� ছেলেবেলা�� ফেলে আস�� কাঠে�� উনুন, ভাতে�� থালা, মায়ে�� সবজি কাটা�� বঁটি, স্টুডিওত�� তোলা পাসপোর্ট ছব�� �� বাবা�� হাওয়�� ভর�� সাইকেল রাখা থাকে��

নিজে�� কথাটুক�� গুছিয়ে বলতে পারেনা, মেয়েদে�� সাথে কথ�� বলতে গেলে�� তোতলায়, হা�� কাঁপ��, বারবার ঢো�� গেলে...

ওদের বুকে�� কাছে মাথা রাখল�� খু�� সস্তার একটা পারফিউমে�� স্মে�� পা��, ব্র্যান্ডে�� নয় কোনো, এভেলেবেল সবার কাছেই। স্রে�� তা�� চমৎকার কার্যকরী ক্ষমতা সম্পর্কে অনেকেই ওয়াকিবহা�� নয়..

ঝিমধরানো নেশা�� দিঘি গোটা শরীরটা। আমাদের শুধু ডুবে যাওয়ার রাস্তা জানা, উঠ�� আসার নয়...”
― Kripa Basu, দ্রাঘিমা �� প্রত্নবালিকা

“The Waifs' Home was an old building which had apparently formerly been used for another purpose. It was located in the country opposite a great big dairy farm where hundreds of cows, bulls, calves and a few horses were standing. Some were eating, and prancing around like they wanted to tell somebody, anybody, how good they felt. . . .When I got out of the wagon with the other boys the first thing I noticed was several large trees standing before the building. A very lovely odor was swinging across my nostrils.

"What flowers are those that smell so good?" I asked.

"Honeysuckles," was the answer.

I fell in love with them, and I'm ready to get a whiff of them any time.”
― Louis Armstrong Satchmo, Satchmo: My Life in New Orleans