Ciao cari amici lettori e ciao care amiche lettrici, finalmente una recensione dopo anni e anni e anni e anni e anni direte voi. Finalmente sono riuscita a leggere un libro dopo anni e anni e anni e anni dico io. Il profumo - Patrick Suskind. La calura pesava come piombo sul cimitero e spingeva i miasmi della putrefazione, un misto di meloni marci e di corno bruciato, nei vicoli circostanti. Il povero bambino nasce nel luogo meno igienico e probabilmente meno adatto ad accogliere una nuova vita.
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Shelves: all-time-favorites , jericho-fucking-barrons I was predisposed to love this book no matter what. I love perfumes. The fact that this book had blood and murder was just a bonus.
For me, perfumes and scents are a visceral thing. I love perfume. I have never been a visual person, my memories are composed of layers of scent. Those jasmines would put the pitiful little star jasmines to shame. They were I was predisposed to love this book no matter what. They were huge, each petal as wide as a fingernail. White, waxen, and filled with the most beautiful, deep, richly floral scent that even as a 5-year old I could feel was seductive without ever knowing the meaning or the existence of the word.
I remember the green, earthy smell of the rice paddies where I grew up. I remember the bitter, smoky smell of the pits so environmentally destructive, but whatever that my neighbors dug in which they burned wood slowly for months to make a small supply of coal. Not all the smells were pleasant, of course, because hello, I did grow up on a farm, but my memories are built upon scent.
My love of perfume grew when I was a teen. I learned about perfumes, and how they were made. I learned about how flowers were distilled for their scents, an enormous quantity of raw ingredients required for a few precious drops of essential oils. I learned about making aromatic compounds in an organic chemistry lab, and that my beloved scent of jasmine and tuberose smelled as beautifully seductive and sexual as it did because it contained a compound called indoles, which smells like poop.
Who knew! I learned that each perfume as a top note, which quickly dissipates, the middle notes, which remains, the base notes, which lingers onto your skin like the touch of a long-gone lover. There are certain scents I will never be able to wear again, because one I wore for months, while longing after a guy I thought I could never have. The entire book could have had no mystery at all, and I would still read it and revel in the descriptions alone.
The Summary: Jean-Baptiste Grenouille was a bastard, born in to a syphilitic, consumptive woman working in a stinking fish stall as a gutter. After delivering the unfortunate child, she was promptly arrested for abandoning said child, and hanged.
A most auspicious beginning. Even in the beginning, his wet nursepaid for by the statenoticed that something was wrong with Grenouille. Grenouille has no scent. People notice. His fellow children notice. They could not stand the nonsmell of him.
They were afraid of him. As a teen, he sought work at a tannery in Paris. Paris is a stinking pit of hell. To Grenouille It was a mixture of human and animal smells, of water and stone and ashes and leather, of soap and fresh-baked bread and eggs boiled in vinegar, of noodles and smoothly polished brass, of sage and ale and tears, of grease and soggy straw and dry straw.
Thousands upon thousands of odors formed an invisible gruel that filled the street ravines, only seldom evaporating above the rooftops and never from the ground below. Her sweat smelled as fresh as the sea breeze, the tallow of her hair as sweet as nut oil, her genitals were as fragrant as the bouquet of water lilies, her skin as apricot blossoms The scent of a living human being that he must commit to memory, that he must capture, in the way a flower collector dries a specimen within parchment, in the way an insect lover kills and pins to a page the very thing he loves.
When she was dead he laid her on the ground among the plum pits, tore off her dress, and the stream of scent became a flood that inundated him with its fragrance. He thrust his face to her skin and swept his flared nostrils across her, from belly to breast, to neck, over her face and hair, and back to her belly, down to her genitals, to her thighs and white legs.
He smelled her over from head to toe, he gathered up the last fragments of her scent under her chin, in her navel, and in the wrinkles inside her elbow.
His is an obsessive quest that will lead him to murder again, and again, and again, in this desperate search. Grenouille knew for certain that unless he possessed this scent, his life would have no meaning. This is a book in which the title is completely self-explanatory. It is about a murderer, and his obsessive quest for a perfect perfume.
But I have yet to succumb to the urge to murder.
Il Profumo di Patrick Süskind – Riassunto
Ma non potevano sottrarsi al profumo. Il libro narra la vita di un uomo, un assassino, vissuto nella Francia del diciottesimo secolo: Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. Ma ci sono odori e odori, e la maggior parte di questi disgustano Jean-Baptiste, che comincia a provare disprezzo verso il mondo che lo circonda. Grenouille allora decide di voler imparare le tecniche di estrazione e conservazione degli odori andando a lavorare come apprendista nella profumeria di Giuseppe Baldini, dal quale si lascia sfruttare, creando, grazie al suo straordinario olfatto, magnifici profumi che il profumiere italiano vende spacciando per proprie creazioni. Uccide numerose donzelle, nelle quali avverte fragranze che un essere umano normale non potrebbe mai sentire tramite il semplice olfatto, e getta nel caos e nel panico la piccola cittadina di Grasse arrivando ad assassinare 24 ragazze. Da esse estrae e conserva meticolosamente il loro candido profumo, finalizzato a ottenere il tanto desiderato profumo perfetto. Ma prima di essere catturato Grenouille riesce a mescolare tutti i profumi delle donne che aveva ucciso e a portare quindi a termine il suo piano.