one’s nose shows our eternal immaturity and unmasks our pretense of refinement.
Tycho Brahe had a nose of gold.
Just like the ear, the nose can be embellished with a ring.
My dear colleagues, we’ve all seen a man tugging his dog who refuses to budge until he’s finished reading some smelly story left by the roadside.
The nose is a storyteller.
This supreme awakener of memories still remembers the smells of the attic and of the cellar of our parents’ home.
The nose is the throne for our pince-nez.
Perfume makers from Paris and Cologne are the great friends of the human soul.
The nose gifts us the fragrances of basil, coffee, and lemon rind.
The Greeks, Jews, and other ancient peoples believed that the gods, just like us, loved the smell of barbecue. Those gods of antiquity received burnt sacrifices with their—undoubtedly beautiful—noses.
In front of inns, beggars try to satisfy their craving for food as they anxiously inhale the smell of soup, stew, and roasted meat.
Eskimos kiss with their noses.
The nose is fragile and delicate, and boys like to punch that precious thing.
“Hit him in the nose!” they yell. “His eyes will well with blood. He won’t be any good after that!”
According to legend, one of Napoléon’s gunners blasted the Sphinx’s nose off her face because it was too perfect.
Many people are unsatisfied with their noses. Visionaries dream of being able to swap noses or even establish a nose stock exchange under the control of the East India Company, with its centers in both London and Amsterdam.
My grandfather used to say that any face with a nose is beautiful.
What works for horses, works for noses: a good horse has a thousand imperfections, while a nag has only one—it’s no good.
My dear colleagues, spirited colleagues—follow your noses!
As he reached this salient conclusion, Tesla raised his chin and presented the audience with his profile.
Big-nosed Kulišić, who was sitting in the first row, turned sideways, like a parrot, in order to get a better look.
CHAPTER 19
Kisses and Voltaire
In the darkness of a baroque entryway, a young man and a girl clung to each other. The shadow of the gate was thick with cuddles and kisses. The girl unwrapped her fingers only to have them intertwined with the boy’s again. Her cheek rubbed against his and that was so interesting. Their bosoms touched and that was so exciting. They could not have kissed with less passion even if the world were to end the next day, or if the young man were to leave for war. His lips brushed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Then the girl put her fingers across his lustful lips.
“I have to go.”
“Wait,” the young man said dreamily. “Just a bit more.”
She tried to push him away.
“Just one more.”
When their magnetic lips parted, the girl touched her brow and whispered, “I really have to…”
At that moment, a window on the upper floor banged open and a harsh voice spoke: “Ulrike, you little slut! Get in here!”
The girl flushed and stiffened. Frightened, she hissed, “My landlady is calling.”
“You have no shame,” the voice boomed from the window.
The girl looked at the young man with horror. She tore herself away, but turned back to blow him a kiss. Then she vanished into the entryway. The young man adjusted his clothes. He raised his eyes and noticed that the roofs and the chimneys on the houses stood awry. Only the moon above them remained straight. His feet felt unsteady. He smiled to himself and admitted, “I have no clue where I am.”
Humming to himself, the young man lowered his eyes from the stars and saw a late passerby. It was a tall man with a sharp nose. Oblivious to the cooing couples in the gateways, the lanky fellow strode on with determination. There was no doubt that he knew what city he was in, what year it was, and who he was. If one had asked him, he would have readily responded that it was Graz, 1876, and he was… Then the young man from the
Tycho Brahe had a nose of gold.
Just like the ear, the nose can be embellished with a ring.
My dear colleagues, we’ve all seen a man tugging his dog who refuses to budge until he’s finished reading some smelly story left by the roadside.
The nose is a storyteller.
This supreme awakener of memories still remembers the smells of the attic and of the cellar of our parents’ home.
The nose is the throne for our pince-nez.
Perfume makers from Paris and Cologne are the great friends of the human soul.
The nose gifts us the fragrances of basil, coffee, and lemon rind.
The Greeks, Jews, and other ancient peoples believed that the gods, just like us, loved the smell of barbecue. Those gods of antiquity received burnt sacrifices with their—undoubtedly beautiful—noses.
In front of inns, beggars try to satisfy their craving for food as they anxiously inhale the smell of soup, stew, and roasted meat.
Eskimos kiss with their noses.
The nose is fragile and delicate, and boys like to punch that precious thing.
“Hit him in the nose!” they yell. “His eyes will well with blood. He won’t be any good after that!”
According to legend, one of Napoléon’s gunners blasted the Sphinx’s nose off her face because it was too perfect.
Many people are unsatisfied with their noses. Visionaries dream of being able to swap noses or even establish a nose stock exchange under the control of the East India Company, with its centers in both London and Amsterdam.
My grandfather used to say that any face with a nose is beautiful.
What works for horses, works for noses: a good horse has a thousand imperfections, while a nag has only one—it’s no good.
My dear colleagues, spirited colleagues—follow your noses!
As he reached this salient conclusion, Tesla raised his chin and presented the audience with his profile.
Big-nosed Kulišić, who was sitting in the first row, turned sideways, like a parrot, in order to get a better look.
CHAPTER 19
Kisses and Voltaire
In the darkness of a baroque entryway, a young man and a girl clung to each other. The shadow of the gate was thick with cuddles and kisses. The girl unwrapped her fingers only to have them intertwined with the boy’s again. Her cheek rubbed against his and that was so interesting. Their bosoms touched and that was so exciting. They could not have kissed with less passion even if the world were to end the next day, or if the young man were to leave for war. His lips brushed her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. Then the girl put her fingers across his lustful lips.
“I have to go.”
“Wait,” the young man said dreamily. “Just a bit more.”
She tried to push him away.
“Just one more.”
When their magnetic lips parted, the girl touched her brow and whispered, “I really have to…”
At that moment, a window on the upper floor banged open and a harsh voice spoke: “Ulrike, you little slut! Get in here!”
The girl flushed and stiffened. Frightened, she hissed, “My landlady is calling.”
“You have no shame,” the voice boomed from the window.
The girl looked at the young man with horror. She tore herself away, but turned back to blow him a kiss. Then she vanished into the entryway. The young man adjusted his clothes. He raised his eyes and noticed that the roofs and the chimneys on the houses stood awry. Only the moon above them remained straight. His feet felt unsteady. He smiled to himself and admitted, “I have no clue where I am.”
Humming to himself, the young man lowered his eyes from the stars and saw a late passerby. It was a tall man with a sharp nose. Oblivious to the cooing couples in the gateways, the lanky fellow strode on with determination. There was no doubt that he knew what city he was in, what year it was, and who he was. If one had asked him, he would have readily responded that it was Graz, 1876, and he was… Then the young man from the
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