# The Power of Scent **URL:** \ **Category:** Lounge\ **Created:** [November 26, 2007, 8:54am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924 "2007-11-26T08:54:50Z")\ **Posts on this page:** 7\ **Page:** 1
**Author:** ![Phoenix](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/phoenix/32/673_2.png) [@Phoenix](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/Phoenix)\ **Post date:** [November 26, 2007, 8:54am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/1 "2007-11-26T08:54:50Z")
Hello, I found this article on the power of scent and colognes… seems interesting, even though it’s quite basic to tell you the truth. Essentially it mentions that wearing a cologne can trigger memories in people… [The Power of Scent: Hot New Colognes |](http://www.kinowear.com/blog/the-power-of-scent-hot-new-colognes/) ---
**Author:** ![PheroQuirk](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/p/9e8a1a/32.png) [@PheroQuirk](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/PheroQuirk)\ **Post date:** [November 26, 2007, 7:54pm UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/2 "2007-11-26T19:54:36Z")
[The cookie-Proust](http://www.haverford.edu/psych/ddavis/p109g/proust.html) And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom , my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks’ windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated segment which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea. ---
**Author:** ![Bella](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/bella/32/1738_2.png) [@Bella](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/Bella)\ **Post date:** [November 27, 2007, 1:18am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/3 "2007-11-27T01:18:15Z")
Hi Phoenix and Pheroquirk! So true. The sublime scent of honeysuckle blossoms, growing on the fence, feeding deer, when I was a child. The scent of Grampas’ amphora pipe tobacco and, of course, the eternal aroma of Grandmothers’ baking bread. There are also, the not so fond memories…the Channel 22 I wore…my boyfriend loved it! When we broke up, I could never wear it again…it reminded me of HIM. Don’t feel too bad for me, I ditched HIM! LOL. NOTHING throws me into the “WAYBACK MACHINE” as “scent memories”. That was lovely, PQ. Bella P.S. I adore the “petite madeleine’”…I’ve made them myself…in the very pans my Grandmother used. ---
**Author:** ![Holmes](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/holmes/32/2128_2.png) [@Holmes](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/Holmes)\ **Post date:** [November 27, 2007, 1:22am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/4 "2007-11-27T01:22:11Z")
> [@PheroQuirk](#): > > [The cookie-Proust](http://www.haverford.edu/psych/ddavis/p109g/proust.html) > > And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom , my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks’ windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. > And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated segment which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea. That made my day. ---
**Author:** ![mark-in-dallas](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/mark-in-dallas/32/860_2.png) [@mark-in-dallas](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/mark-in-dallas)\ **Post date:** [November 29, 2007, 3:15am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/5 "2007-11-29T03:15:36Z")
Music brings back the most vivid memories to me. I can hear a song from my school days and it’ll take me back to a specific time and place, almost always to back a fond memory too. I guess that’s why I am such a music fanatic. 😃 ---
**Author:** ![flaming](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/flaming/32/212_2.png) [@flaming](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/flaming)\ **Post date:** [November 29, 2007, 6:20am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/6 "2007-11-29T06:20:40Z")
…last night my GF said my scent (instant openness and a little honesty) reminded her of a particular building from music camp as a teenager.She said that all those memories she had almost forgotten came flooding back to her in my presence. She is a big believer in the power of scent and Proust is her favorite author! She said something else too.She told me my natural scent is like freshly baked chocolate biscuits 😃 Please Tater don’t eat me! 😛 ---
**Author:** ![Phoenix](https://sea2.discourse-cdn.com/flex016/user_avatar/pheromonetalk.com/phoenix/32/673_2.png) [@Phoenix](https://pheromonetalk.com/u/Phoenix)\ **Post date:** [November 29, 2007, 9:05am UTC](https://pheromonetalk.com/t/the-power-of-scent/6924/7 "2007-11-29T09:05:20Z")
> [@flaming](#): > > She said something else too.She told me my natural scent is like freshly baked chocolate biscuits 😃 Please Tater don’t eat me! 😛 😃😃😃😃 that’s a good one!