For people could close their eyes to greatness, to horrors, to beauty, and their ears to melodies or deceiving words. But they could not escape scent. For scent was a brother of breath.

This book stinks.

Perfume is the epitome of sensory overload. Decadently sensual. Profusely sensuous. All in the name of the olfactory organ.

Jean-Baptiste Grenouille’s ponderous existence is closer to that of a non-human animal where every choice is dictated by scent. The world is read through the nose rather than the eye. The mind becomes a library of whiffs, and the hand a tool…for murder, in this case.

A bleak comedy. A satirical deconstruction of the human race. A lesson in amorality. Perfume: The Story of a Murderer is a pleasure.