• 气味如书
  • 发布时间:2016-04-24 21:45 | 作者:[db:作者] | 来源:[db:出处] | 浏览:1200 次
  •   I don’t know what a rose smells like, though when I hold my nose to a full-blown1) bloom and inhale deeply, I sense a vague sweetness.
      I don’t know what my husband’s shirt smells like. If he died, I wouldn’t think to sleep in it so I could feel that he was with me.
      I don’t know what a baby’s head smells like—not my babies, not anyone else’s babies. I couldn’t pick my babies out of a crowd with my eyes closed, and I don’t miss that baby smell when I hug my growing children.
      I don’t know the smell of feet, chalk, rain, new cars, or Chanel No. 5.
      I don’t know what old books smell like. I don’t know what new books smell like either.
      I learned smells from books, which made me think they were fictional. I believed that Wilbur2)’s barn smelled of hay, manure, the perspiration of tired horses, and the sweet breath of patient cows. But when real people said “I can smell the sea from here,” or “I can’t stand the smell of cilantro3),” I thought they were faking. I assumed that, like me, they knew from books that there were smells and things were supposed to have them. Unlike me, I decided, they were willing to pretend those smells existed beyond the page. As I try to write out this logic, it seems tortuous, but it wasn’t something I ever questioned; it was something I knew. I could not smell the things I read in books, so it was impossible that anyone else could, which meant they must be making it up.
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