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Ingmar Bergman (recalling the smells of his childhood), The Magic Lantern: An Autobiography (New York: Viking, 1988), pp. 19-20—
People went around like symphonies of smells—powder, perfume, tar-soap, urine, sex, sweat, pomade, snuff and cooking. Some smelt of human beings in general, some smelt safe, others menacing. Father's fat Aunt Emma wore a wig which she stuck on to her bald pate with a special kind of glue. Grandmother smelt of glycerine and rose water a lotion bought artlessly at the chemist's. Mother smelt sweet like vanilla and when she was cross her downy moustache turned moist and gave off a scarcely perceptible order of metal. My favorite smell was of a plump red-haired young nursemaid called Marit who was lame. The best thing in the world was to lie on her arm in her bed with my nose pressed against her coarse nightgown.
People went around like symphonies of smells—powder, perfume, tar-soap, urine, sex, sweat, pomade, snuff and cooking. Some smelt of human beings in general, some smelt safe, others menacing. Father's fat Aunt Emma wore a wig which she stuck on to her bald pate with a special kind of glue. Grandmother smelt of glycerine and rose water a lotion bought artlessly at the chemist's. Mother smelt sweet like vanilla and when she was cross her downy moustache turned moist and gave off a scarcely perceptible order of metal. My favorite smell was of a plump red-haired young nursemaid called Marit who was lame. The best thing in the world was to lie on her arm in her bed with my nose pressed against her coarse nightgown.
