If the neurophysiologists will allow me this indulgence, I say that we already have ample reason to expect that smell should be the sense most closely linked to memory—namely, that it is the dimmest. Smell is parasitic on the other senses, always "eating at their tables," for it is never satisfied within itself, but always only finds completion in the company of the others.
Now, in contrast, imagine each of the other senses exulting in its own glory: the agonizing ecstasy of music; the way in which Nature's majesty can so clearly display the pathetic meaninglessness of Man's own existence; the exhilarating longing and heart-rending self-loathing that accompany the tender touch and implicit promise of an illicit lover's hand. We must even give a nod to the gourmand and the connoisseur, whose appetites sometimes drive them across the globe in pursuit of their satisfaction. But smell? In isolation, where does smell attain its height? In fancy perfumes? In the stench of death? Or perhaps in the appetizing scent of a subtle yet sudden terror?—Mere trivialities, by comparison! So, you see, smell needs the other senses, depends on them, for it is the weakest. But in this way, smell loses itself, becomes the mediator of the other senses, and the smell of a thing is thus intimately bound to our other impressions.
Through her smell you can see the softness of her skin. Through her smell you can taste her words and her moans, indifferent to which you preferred. Through her smell you can access every way in which you knew her, in all their combinations.—How convenient for you, since that's all she left behind.
