Stinky Perfume. Part I.

I picked up this book on a whim.  Always on a lookout for interesting books, I've found this one from a friend's blog under "favorite books."  The title was intriguing "Perfume, The Story of a Murderer."  For one thing I obviously trust this friend's taste in books; secondly, the synopsis of the story is about a person who possess extraordinary olfactory ability although he himself does not have any scent, odor or smell.  After finishing Picoult's 500 plus-page "House Rules," followed by a quick read of "Rebekah" by Orson Scott Card, I was in a reading lull.  Granted, I have not finished the "Brand New World"by Huxley; and still have Larsson's "The Girl..." trilogy waiting on my bed side table - thanks to Tana's generosity - the minute I spotted this book at B&N, there was no other book that seemed to be more interesting, more readable.

I was offended, gagged, creeped out and I wasn't even through the first three chapters of the book.  Suskind's ability to describe the smell, combined with the description of the object or matter which caused the scent is simply astounding, amazing and rare.  He placed the pictures of 18th century Paris, where indoor plumbing, running water and the idea of sanitation were nonexistant, in my head with vivid, ugly, gloomy scenery and absolutely disgusting scents that I was feeling physically ill to the point of gagging.  It is true that I am a bit delicate and sensitive when it comes to smells, but I've never been disgusted, physically disgusted, by something I read.

Why was I offended? Babies.  No, babies do not offend me; quite contrary, I love babies.  My feelings were hurt very badly when I read about Grenouille's babyhood, how his life begins.  A baby cannot be loved; an infant who would make an old man shiver just by breathing deeply; a tiny bundle that puts a woman in fear.  I have never ever seen a baby that I cannot love or adore.  Every tiny wrinkled face, the soft fuzz on the small head, the sweet little fingers and toes...even without the sugary, lovable scent of a babe, how could it not be loved??  Perhaps that is Suskind's way of justifying or as an explanation to what and how he is as an adult? I don't know because I have not finished the book yet and, by the title of the book, it's quite clear that he is not going to turn out like Gandhi.

All I can say, right now, is that if the story weren't so fascinating, I would've put the book on the bottom drawer of a desk or kick it under my bed and eventually forget about it.

~to be continued~