Flush.

 

' The human nose is practically non-existent. The greatest poets in the world have smelt nothing but roses on the 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. To him religion itself was smell. To describe his simplest experience with the daily chop or biscuit is beyond our power. [...] Confessing our inadequacy, then, we can but note that to Flush Italy, in these the fullest, the freest, the happiest years if his life, meant mainly a succession of smells. ' [86]

 
Woolf, Virginia. Flush. Penguin Random House. Clays Ltd. St Ives, 2016