Book: Perfumer. The story of a murderer. Page 1

Deciding to win people over, he felt euphoric rise. In his eyes was not crazy fire, crazy face did not distort his face. He's not raged. He was filled with such clarity and fun, I asked myself, why do I want it. And he said himself that he wants this because that is imbued with evil. And he grinned and was very pleased. He looked quite innocently as a man who's happy.

For if has allowed the most shameless and daring to question the authority of God's Church; if of God-given monarchy and the sacred person of the king said simply as exchangeable positions in a directory other forms of Board which you can choose according to your taste; if, finally, has come to the point that God himself, the Almighty Lord personally, declare redundant and quite seriously claim that the order, morality and happiness in the world conceivable without It, simply by innate morality and reason of the people themselves... Oh my! - then, in any case, do not be surprised if everything goes upside down, and manners completely corrupt, and mankind brought upon themselves the punishment of the one Whom it denies.

He was hardy, as adapted bacterium and, as a tick sitting quietly on a tree and living off a tiny drop of blood plundered years ago.

The only two known her feelings were barely noticeable obscuration of the soul, when approaching a monthly migraine, and barely perceptible brightening of the soul when a migraine took place. And felt nothing more alive this dying woman.

In eighteenth century France there lived a man who belonged to the most brilliant and most heinous figures of this epoch, so rich in genius and disgusting figures. About it and speech will go. His name was Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. And if that name, unlike the names of other brilliant monsters like de Sade, Saint-just, Fouche, Bonaparte etc., now consigned to oblivion, it is not because Grenouille inferior to the famous spawn of darkness of arrogance, contempt for people, immorality, - in short, in atheism, but because his genius and his phenomenal ambition was restricted to a domain that leaves no traces in history - volatile realm of scent.

He didn't have a passionate longing for the cave alone. This experience has been done and proved to be unsuitable for life. Just as another experience, the experience of living among the people. Suffocate there.

And suddenly he realized that not pigeon broth, not a trick with ventilation made him a normal person, only his fancy clothes, hair and a few cosmetic tricks.

Stupid time didn't leave him any choice. The Lord sends good and bad times, but He wants in bad times, we did not complain, not wailing and acting like real men.

All great feats of the spirit drop not only light but also shadow and bring humanity along with the blessings and sorrows and sadness.

On duty, he disposed of the monastery's charitable Foundation gave money to the poor and the needy. And he expected that he would say thank you and will not burden other things.

... he stayed at the Eastern parapet and looked upstream, to at least once to see how everything tends toward him.

He drank the smell, drowning in it, was filled with them until the very last inside the pores.

The perfumer creates miracles, he is half-alchemist, I think people - the better! That his art is a craft, like any other, only he knew, and this was his pride.

No one could comprehend that this frail, small, hunched man standing there in the window, that this worm, this handful of dust, this jerk made two dozen murders. However, no one could say how he actually imagined the killer - the devil - but one thing they all were unanimous: not so!