![]() ![]() I felt something give way when I smelled 1740: the shimmering classical accord of leather, immortelle, spice, rich pipe tobacco, and a sort of lived-in buttery warmth is simply irresistible. ![]() But every old roué hides at his core an unblemished memory of the boy he once was, ready to fall for the first creature whose intelligence revives his freeze-dried heart. Familiarity with too many trivial perfumes can at length turn one into a libertine of smell: cynical, unmoved, cruelly practical. Originally a biophysicist by trade, Turin always had an affinity for smells, which led his work to traverse across biology and chemistry and back again. The book is by a journalist, Chandler Burr, who had become entranced with an erratic, eccentric, discipline-crossing scientist by the name of Luca Turin. Well into my chemistry degree, my parents gave me a book called The Emperor of Scent, which was what prompted me to muse about such an illustrious career path. Simply steeping flowers in water does not perfume make. ![]() Nor could the grubby marigold, mandarin and violet concoctions I brewed under the house and stored in glass jars when I was seven, be worn in an attempt to woo a lover. Now, I’ve never been someone who could be described as ‘elegant’. ![]() Mixing vials of rose geranium, ambergris and lily of the valley seemed an occupation that exuded a certain elegance. There was a time when I flirted with the idea of becoming a perfume chemist. ![]()
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