Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Süskind

By Patrick Süskind

An acclaimed bestseller and overseas sensation, Patrick Suskind's vintage novel provokes a terrifying exam of what occurs whilst one man's indulgence in his maximum passion—his feel of smell—leads to murder.In the slums of eighteenth-century France, the baby Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with one elegant gift-an absolute experience of odor. As a boy, he lives to decipher the odors of Paris, and apprentices himself to a well-known perfumer who teaches him the traditional artwork of combining worthy oils and herbs. yet Grenouille's genius is such that he's now not happy to prevent there, and he turns into keen about shooting the smells of items corresponding to brass doorknobs and frest-cut wooden. Then sooner or later he catches a touch of a smell that may force him on an ever-more-terrifying quest to create the "ultimate perfume"—the smell of an attractive younger virgin. advised with astonishing narrative brillance, body spray is a hauntingly robust story of homicide and sensual depravity.Translated from the German through John E. Woods.

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I . . you . ” The gym teacher's face contorted into a pucker of disgust, and she suddenly hurled Carrie, stumbling, to her feet. ” Carrie stood swaying between the showers and the wall with its dime sanitary-napkin dispenser, slumped over, breasts pointing at the floor, her arms dangling limply. She looked like an ape. Her eyes were shiny and blank. “Now,” Miss Desjardin said with hissing, deadly emphasis, “you take one of those napkins out . . no, never mind the coin slot, it's broken anyway .

She shook her head. He noticed with distaste that a large bubble of green mucus had formed at one nostril. Morton looked over her head and at Miss Desjardin. “I'm sure she'll be all right,” she said. “Carrie only has to go over to Carlin Street. ” Morton gave the girl the yellow slip. “You can go now, Cassie,” he said magnanimously. ” she screamed suddenly. Morton recoiled, and Miss Desjardin jumped as if struck from behind. The heavy ceramic ashtray on Morton's desk (it was Rodin's Thinker with his head turned into a receptacle for cigarette butts) suddenly toppled to the rug, as if to take cover from the force of her scream.

Her face went just as red as the side of a fire truck and she curled her hands into fists and whooped at the sky. She was shaking all over. I thought she was having a stroke. Her face was all scrunched up, and it was a gargoyle's face. “I thought Carrie was going to faint—or die on the spot. She sucked in all her breath and that little face went a cottage-cheesy color. ’ “I jumped up and yelled back: ‘Don't you yell at her that way! ’ Something stupid like that. I don't remember. Carrie started to go back and then she stopped and then she started again, and just before she crossed over from our lawn to theirs she looked back at me and there was a look .

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