“The greatest poets in the world have smelt nothing but roses on the one hand, and dung on the other. The infinite gradations that lie between are unrecorded. Yet it was in the world of smell that Flush mostly lived. Love was chiefly smell; form and colour were smell; music and architecture, law, politics, and science were smell. To him religion itself was smell. To describe his simplest experience with the daily chop or biscuit is beyond our power.”
— Flush, a Biography, Virginia Woolf
Doggerel 