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THE UNSTEADY GOVERNESS It made me, the sound of the words, in which it seemed to me that I caught for the very first time a small faint quaver of consenting consciousness—it made me drop on my knees beside the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him. "Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you KNEW how I want to help you! It's only that, it's nothing but that, and I'd rather die than give you a pain or do you a wrong—I'd rather die than hurt a hair of you. Dear little Miles"—oh, I brought it out now even if I SHOULD go too far—"I just want you to help me to save you!" But I knew in a moment after this that I had gone too far. The answer to my appeal was instantaneous, but it came in the form of an extraordinary blast and chill, a gust of frozen air, and a shake of the room as great as if, in the wild wind, the casement had crashed in. The boy gave a loud, high shriek, which, lost in the rest of the shock of sound, might have seemed, indistinctly, though I was so close to him, a note either of jubilation or of terror. I jumped to my feet again and was conscious of darkness. So for a moment we remained, while I stared about me and saw that the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight. "Why, the candle's out!" I then cried. "It was I who blew it, dear!" said Miles. —The Turn of the Screw, Henry James White tea and violet leaf. I have always said that some of Beth's best creations come with the simplest notes. I was right then...and I am right now! This is just gorgeous! White tea with hints of fresh almost juicy violet. The smells like fresh wet white tea with violet. I just love it. I want to drink this blend and wear it all at the same time. It's just amazing. Beth has outdone herself once again!
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THE DECREPIT HOUSE During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was; but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me—upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain—upon the bleak walls—upon the vacant eye-like windows—upon a few rank sedges—and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium—the bitter lapse into every-day life—the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart—an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it—I paused to think—what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the dwelling, and gazed down—but with a shudder even more thrilling than before—upon the remodeled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows. —The Fall of the House of Usher, EA Poe An architectural doppelganger reflecting a ruined soul: dilapidated planks of mahogany and cypress wood perched feebly on a grim foundation of long-dead leaves, black musk, patchouli, galbanum, tobacco absolute, fragonia, and oakmoss. The scent of sweet, sun warmed, aged wood, with a smoky, musky, autumnal kind of backdrop. Its not sharp like fresh cut tree, or dusty and prickly like sawdust, nor does it have any mildewy aspects. Its sweet and heady and actually not very decrepit at all.
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A HOWL IN THE DARKNESS At last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. I could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether. But just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. They were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. For myself, I felt a sort of paralysis of fear. It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import. All at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. The horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see. But the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side, and they had perforce to remain within it. I called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach, I shouted and beat the side of the caleche, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from the side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. As he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. Just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness. When I could see again the driver was climbing into the caleche, and the wolves disappeared. This was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and I was afraid to speak or move. The time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. —Dracula, Bram Stoker A scent evocative of a forest at midnight, with animalic brown musk, wild sage, Terebinth pine, black oak, and a chilly shock of terror personified by kunzea, cistus labdanum, verbena, juniper, metallic ozone, and white mint. Cursory review: a cool, crisp scent, evocative of chilly night air, over some of the sexiest primal musks I've ever smelled from BPAL. I didn't get any pine/wood notes once it hit my skin, and little to no ozone, which I usually amp into headache-inducing volumes. If only Wolf Moon or Lycaon had smelled like this! I need to sneak it onto my husband to see how he wears it.
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ECCLESIASTICAL EXCESSES Hark, Ambrosio, while I unveil your crimes! You have shed the blood of two innocents; Antonia and Elvira perished by your hand. That Antonia whom you violated, was your Sister! That Elvira whom you murdered, gave you birth! Tremble, abandoned Hypocrite! Inhuman Parricide! Incestuous Ravisher! Tremble at the extent of your offences! And you it was who thought yourself proof against temptation, absolved from human frailties, and free from error and vice! Is pride then a virtue? Is inhumanity no fault? Know, vain Man! That I long have marked you for my prey: I watched the movements of your heart; I saw that you were virtuous from vanity, not principle, and I seized the fit moment of seduction. I observed your blind idolatry of the Madonna's picture. I bade a subordinate but crafty spirit assume a similar form, and you eagerly yielded to the blandishments of Matilda. Your pride was gratified by her flattery; Your lust only needed an opportunity to break forth; You ran into the snare blindly, and scrupled not to commit a crime which you blamed in another with unfeeling severity. It was I who threw Matilda in your way; It was I who gave you entrance to Antonia's chamber; It was I who caused the dagger to be given you which pierced your Sister's bosom; and it was I who warned Elvira in dreams of your designs upon her Daughter, and thus, by preventing your profiting by her sleep, compelled you to add rape as well as incest to the catalogue of your crimes. Hear, hear, Ambrosio! Had you resisted me one minute longer, you had saved your body and soul. The guards whom you heard at your prison door came to signify your pardon. But I had already triumphed: My plots had already succeeded. Scarcely could I propose crimes so quick as you performed them. You are mine, and Heaven itself cannot rescue you from my power. Hope not that your penitence will make void our contract. Here is your bond signed with your blood; You have given up your claim to mercy, and nothing can restore to you the rights which you have foolishly resigned. Believe you that your secret thoughts escaped me? No, no, I read them all! You trusted that you should still have time for repentance. I saw your artifice, knew its falsity, and rejoiced in deceiving the deceiver! You are mine beyond reprieve: I burn to possess my right, and alive you quit not these mountains. —The Monk, MG Lewis Faustian depravity: daemonorops, rose-infused frankincense, vetiver, mate absolute, and clove bud. I really hoped that since this has so many notes of WIN for me (daemondrops, vetiver, clove, frankincense) that Ecclesiastical Excesses would be a spicy incense perfume with just a hint of rose. Once again, rose takes over everything else and amps to !SOAP! After the drydown, it has mellowed to a frankincense-rose blend, but nothing more. Disappointed.
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ENCROACHING MADNESS It is the strangest yellow, that wall-paper! It makes me think of all the yellow things I ever saw—not beautiful ones like buttercups, but old foul, bad yellow things. But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful, I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the COLOR of the paper! A yellow smell. There is a very funny mark on this wall, low down, near the mopboard. A streak that runs round the room. It goes behind every piece of furniture, except the bed, a long, straight, even SMOOCH, as if it had been rubbed over and over. I wonder how it was done and who did it, and what they did it for. Round and round and round—round and round and round—it makes me dizzy! I really have discovered something at last. Through watching so much at night, when it changes so, I have finally found out. The front pattern DOES move—and no wonder! The woman behind shakes it! Sometimes I think there are a great many women behind, and sometimes only one, and she crawls around fast, and her crawling shakes it all over. Then in the very bright spots she keeps still, and in the very shady spots she just takes hold of the bars and shakes them hard. And she is all the time trying to climb through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so; I think that is why it has so many heads. They get through, and then the pattern strangles them off and turns them upside down, and makes their eyes white! If those heads were covered or taken off it would not be half so bad. I think that woman gets out in the daytime! And I'll tell you why—privately—I've seen her! I can see her out of every one of my windows! It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight. I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines. I don't blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight! —The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman A yellow smell. Old foul, bad yellow things. Honeysuckle, chrysanthemum, balsam, hydrangea, and helichrysum. Encroaching Madness - "Old foul, bad yellow things." You know what else is foul and yellow? Urine. That's exactly what this smells like when sniffing it in the bottle. It's so gross it's retch-inducing. I wasn't going to skin-test this one, but then someone in the Seattle Will Call thread mentioned how funny it would be if Beth made a scent that smelled horrible in the bottle but lovely on the skin, and I thought... hmmm... yeah, what if? So I hitched up my britches and jumped right in. And wouldn't you know... it actually smells gorgeous on my skin. I mean, so gorgeous that I couldn't stop huffing away at my skin, partly because I couldn't get over how something so god-awful could become so pretty, and partly because it was just so damn pretty. On my skin it's fairly light. I don't smell the honeysuckle at all (thankfully, since it's not a good note for me). I'm not sure what hydrangea or helichrysum smell like, so I don't know what was doing what on my skin, but it is a gentle floral that is very sweet and incredibly feminine, pretty, and soothing. It's such a gorgeous floral that I'm tempted to find a bottle, or at least a partial bottle of my own. And if I wouldn't have built up the courage to try it out, I'd have never known how pretty it would actually turn out to be. It may smell like urine in the bottle, but on my skin, it's really, really lovely.
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ODD PORTENTS "Isaac, you dreamed your ill dream on this Wednesday morning. What time was it when you saw the fair woman with the knife in her hand?" Isaac reflected on what the landlord had said when they had passed by the clock on his leaving the inn; allowed as nearly as he could for the time that must have elapsed between the unlocking of his bedroom door and the paying of his bill just before going away, and answered. "Somewhere about two o'clock in the morning." His mother suddenly quitted her hold of his neck, and struck her hands together with a gesture of despair. "This Wednesday is your birthday, Isaac, and two o'clock in the morning was the time when you were born." —Brother Morgan's Story of the Dream-Woman, Wilkie Collins Black rose, olibanum, dark musk, myrrh, blackcurrant, lavender buds, bourbon geranium, and amber incense. Odd indeed! Portents in here are amazing. There is fruit in this. Black currant is peeking through along with the lavendar with the barest hints of rose. There is something fruity, dark, and sensual about this. I don't smell the myrrh or the black musk. Everything is so well blended that nothing dominates. It's just kind of all mish mashed in there to create this heavenly scent. This is definitely a keeper!
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THE INFERNAL LOVER She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated in Ambrosio's bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure, Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which it behooved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was aware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. He perceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed upon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda's ivory fingers. —The Monk, MG Lewis A creamy, sensual, honeyed red musk. Oh, wow, am I really the first to review? I've been on a honey + musk kick lately (I'm looking at you, Judith and Holofernes), so this was the Halloweenie scent that I knew I had to try. Wet, on the skin and in the bottle, it smells sharp and a bit perfumey. This, I think, is the red musk; while I've not smelled that on its own, it smells very reminiscent of the wet stages of other scents that reviews often identify as red musky (I'm thinking of LaFlamme, here). The oil itself is a rich, dark color, that stains my pale skin a bit, but I don't mind! As it dries, the honey comes out a bit and sweetens things up, but I'm surprised to see that it's not really a strong presence in this one. The musk really does predominate on me (not too surprising, since I seem to amp lighter musks--why not these, as well?) though it loses the sharpness and, as it smooths out, sits closer to the skin, making it a very sexy scent in part because I think it is a very intimate one, the sort of thing that someone is only going to smell if you two are in, ahem, very close quarters--not so much a seductive scent as one for when you've already been seduced. The verdict: I like it. It stays almost entirely musk, and very little honey on me, so I may hang onto it for a bit and see if the honey comes out a bit more with aging (I'm telling you, me and Beth's honey note have really got somethin' goin' on, if you know what I mean) but even now, it dries down to something really lovely on my skin. Edited to add: I've been wearing this, well, every day since it arrived, and I think it's not quite right to characterize the wet stages, or even the red musk itself as "sharp"--it is, but more and more, I notice this juicy side to it as well, as though the "red" in red musk is owed partly to some sort of delicious, ripe, red fruit--plum, berries, something. Really nice.
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THE UNSAVORY GRAVE-DIGGERS "The great thing is not to be afraid. Now, between you and me, I don't want to hang--that's practical; but for all cant, Macfarlane, I was born with a contempt. Hell, God, Devil, right, wrong, sin, crime, and all the old gallery of curiosities --they may frighten boys, but men of the world, like you and me, despise them. Here's to the memory of Gray!" It was by this time growing somewhat late. The gig, according to order, was brought round to the door with both lamps brightly shining, and the young men had to pay their bill and take the road. They announced that they were bound for Peebles, and drove in that direction till they were clear of the last houses of the town; then, extinguishing the lamps, returned upon their course, and followed a by-road toward Glencorse. There was no sound but that of their own passage, and the incessant, strident pouring of the rain. It was pitch dark; here and there a white gate or a white stone in the wall guided them for a short space across the night; but for the most part it was at a foot pace, and almost groping, that they picked their way through that resonant blackness to their solemn and isolated destination. In the sunken woods that traverse the neighbourhood of the burying-ground the last glimmer failed them, and it became necessary to kindle a match and reillumine one of the lanterns of the gig. Thus, under the dripping trees, and environed by huge and moving shadows, they reached the scene of their unhallowed labours. They were both experienced in such affairs, and powerful with the spade; and they had scarce been twenty minutes at their task before they were rewarded by a dull rattle on the coffin lid. At the same moment Macfarlane, having hurt his hand upon a stone, flung it carelessly above his head. The grave, in which they now stood almost to the shoulders, was close to the edge of the plateau of the graveyard; and the gig lamp had been propped, the better to illuminate their labours, against a tree, and on the immediate verge of the steep bank descending to the stream. Chance had taken a sure aim with the stone. Then came a clang of broken glass; night fell upon them; sounds alternately dull and ringing announced the bounding of the lantern down the bank, and its occasional collision with the trees. A stone or two, which it had dislodged in its descent, rattled behind it into the profundities of the glen; and then silence, like night, resumed its sway; and they might bend their hearing to its utmost pitch, but naught was to be heard except the rain, now marching to the wind, now steadily falling over miles of open country. They were so nearly at an end of their abhorred task that they judged it wisest to complete it in the dark. The coffin was exhumed and broken open; the body inserted in the dripping sack and carried between them to the gig; one mounted to keep it in its place, and the other, taking the horse by the mouth, groped along by wall and bush until they reached the wider road by the Fisher's Tryst. Here was a faint, diffused radiancy, which they hailed like daylight; by that they pushed the horse to a good pace and began to rattle along merrily in the direction of the town. They had both been wetted to the skin during their operations, and now, as the gig jumped among the deep ruts, the thing that stood propped between them fell now upon one and now upon the other. At every repetition of the horrid contact each instinctively repelled it with the greater haste; and the process, natural although it was, began to tell upon the nerves of the companions. Macfarlane made some ill-favoured jest about the farmer's wife, but it came hollowly from his lips, and was allowed to drop in silence. Still their unnatural burden bumped from side to side; and now the head would be laid, as if in confidence, upon their shoulders, and now the drenching sackcloth would flap icily about their faces. A creeping chill began to possess the soul of Fettes. He peered at the bundle, and it seemed somehow larger than at first. All over the countryside, and from every degree of distance, the farm dogs accompanied their passage with tragic ululations; and it grew and grew upon his mind that some unnatural miracle had been accomplished, that some nameless change had befallen the dead body, and that it was in fear of their unholy burden that the dogs were howling. "For God's sake," said he, making a great effort to arrive at speech, "for God's sake, let's have a light!" Seemingly Macfarlane was affected in the same direction; for, though he made no reply, he stopped the horse, passed the reins to his companion, got down, and proceeded to kindle the remaining lamp. They had by that time got no farther than the cross-road down to Auchenclinny. The rain still poured as though the deluge were returning, and it was no easy matter to make a light in such a world of wet and darkness. When at last the flickering blue flame had been transferred to the wick and began to expand and clarify, and shed a wide circle of misty brightness round the gig, it became possible for the two young men to see each other and the thing they had along with them. The rain had moulded the rough sacking to the outlines of the body underneath; the head was distinct from the trunk, the shoulders plainly modelled; something at once spectral and human riveted their eyes upon the ghastly comrade of their drive. —The Body-Snatchers, RL Stevenson An unearthed oakwood coffin, cemetery weeds, and a hint of booze. In bottle: Mmmmm….the dark liquor and old wood combination is strong, rich, and heady,. This is exactly what I hoped for. The sharpness of the weeds, gives this lovely blend teeth. I’m in love already and it hasn’t touched my skin. Wet: it’s not quite as lovely as in the bottle, but close. I can’t think of a blend with wood this wonderful, and the booze is softer here, but still adds a key sweetness to balance the plants. It’s wonderful, androgynous, and strangely sexy. I can’t stop sniffing it. I want to roll around in it. Dry: Mmmmm… I swear it’s even better. The plants come into their own, adding a real autumnal feel. I can almost swear I smell nitre too, though I think that’s a fungus, so it likely isn’t. The woods only get richer and more lovely and the booze smoothes everything out. Sheer brilliance!
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THE SHADOWY AND THE SUBLIME Meanwhile, the deep impression made by this unknown tormentor, the monk, and especially by his prediction of the death of Bianchi, remained upon his mind, and he once more determined to ascertain, if possible, the true nature of the portentous visitant, and what were the motives which induced him thus to haunt his footsteps and interrupt his peace. He was awed by the circumstances which had attended the visitations of the monk, if monk it was; by the suddenness of his appearance, and departure; by the truth of his prophecies; and, above all, by the solemn event which had verified his last warning; and his imagination, thus elevated by wonder and painful curiosity, was prepared for something above the reach of common conjecture, and beyond the accomplishment of human agency. His understanding was sufficiently clear and strong to teach him to detect many errors of opinion, that prevailed around him, as well as to despise the common superstitions of his country, and in the usual state of his mind, he probably would not have paused for a moment on the subject before him; but his passions were not interested, and his fancy awakened, and, though he was unconscious of this propensity, he would, perhaps, have been somewhat disappointed, to have suddenly from the region of fearful sublimity to which he had soared —the world of terrible shadows— to the earth, on which he daily walked, and to an explanation simply natural. —The Italian, Ann Radcliffe A sudden and shocking insight into the vast, ineffable, overwhelming power of Nature, stirred by a vision or experience of perfected beauty and perfected terror, that changes the soul irretrievably. An epiphany: Moroccan amber, wisteria, ambergris accord, white rose, magnolia, white mint, angelica, bergamot, and myrrh. The Shadowy And The Sublime - Every time there's a big update, there's always one scent that I think I'll actually dislike, but which ends up being the biggest hit of the bunch. For the 2010 Weenies, this was the surprise winner. It has magnolia, bergamot, and wisteria, all of which are "iffy" notes that generally lean to the "no" side of the spectrum. But, it also has some of my favorites - amber, white rose, myrrh. When I sniffed it in the bottle the first time, it didn't do much for me, but the moment I applied it, those resins just blossomed with my skin chemistry, and I was surrounded by a swirl of myrrh and amber and ambergris, which are bolstered by the other notes -- the earthy angelica, the sweet mint, and the florals. The florals are not fully present in their own right, but they seem to boost the resin notes and make them bigger, better, deeper, stronger, and amplify their scent. The overall result on my particular skin is something that is strongly reminiscent of an opium-based perfume oil. (Or maybe there's just opium smoke/tar in this that's not on the ingredient list?) All of these notes blending together definitely leave an overall impression of a scent that I would categorize with my other favorite opium scents. I love this so much. It has amazing throw (a little goes a long way!) and above average staying power. (It's hard to get around to testing the other Weenies because I love this one so much I don't want to give up any skin time to things I don't think I'd like as much!)
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THE CREEPING MIST I stopped my horse, and looked round me again. Yes: I saw it. With my own eyes I saw it. A pillar of white mist—between five and six feet high, as well as I could judge—was moving beside me at the edge of the road, on my left hand. When I stopped, the white mist stopped. When I went on, the white mist went on. I pushed my horse to a trot—the pillar of mist was with me. I urged him to a gallop—the pillar of mist was with me. I stopped him again—the pillar of mist stood still. The white colour of it was the white colour of the fog which I had seen over the river—on the night when I had gone to bid her farewell. And the chill which had then crept through me to the bones was the chill that was creeping through me now. I went on again slowly. The white mist went on again slowly—with the clear bright night all round it. I was awed rather than frightened. There was one moment, and one only, when the fear came to me that my reason might be shaken. I caught myself keeping time to the slow tramp of the horse's feet with the slow utterance of these words, repeated over and over again: 'Jéromette is dead. Jéromette is dead.' But my will was still my own: I was able to control myself, to impose silence on my own muttering lips. And I rode on quietly. And the pillar of mist went quietly with me. My groom was waiting for my return at the rectory gate. I pointed to the mist, passing through the gate with me. 'Do you see anything there?' I said. The man looked at me in astonishment. I entered the rectory. The housekeeper met me in the hall. I pointed to the mist, entering with me. 'Do you see anything at my side?' I asked. The housekeeper looked at me as the groom had looked at me. 'I am afraid you are not well, sir,' she said. 'Your colour is all gone—you are shivering. Let me get you a glass of wine.' —Miss Jéromette and the Clergyman, Wilkie Collins A muculent, brumous, ill-omened scent: orris, yuzu, white ginger, linden flower, petitgrain, and lotus. The first to make a comment on a scent? This is definitely a "first" for me! In the bottle and wet on my skin, this is all lotus. After a bit, green (the petitgrain?) and the soft, white floral of the linden push their way in to take the edge off the lotus. Not getting much of a citrus note, however. Overall, this is quite a lovely, soft scent. Not a huge throw, but it seems to have some staying power.
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THE MADWOMAN In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face. —Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte Dusty white sandalwood, ragged cloth, and a dry, long-dead bridal bouquet. This is a very appealing sandalwood scent. It reminds me of the sandalwood fans I sometimes see in import stores. Along with that there's a floral that feels clean and bright to me, or maybe it's how the floral interacts with the cloth note which seems maybe like linen. I'm not sure what's in the bridal bouquet but it doesn't seem to be roses or lilies - I get the feeling of a sort of pleasant sweet kind of flower, but I can't put my finger on exactly what. This scent is unusual enough to hold my interest but I think it's also innocuous enough to fit a variety of moods and occasions. ~edit for spelling
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THE BYRONIC ANTIHERO He stood --- some dread was on his face, Soon Hatred settled in its place: It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Anger's hasty blush, But pale as marble o'er the tomb, Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. His brow was bent, his eye was glazed; He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, And sternly shook his hand on high, As doubting to return or fly; Impatient of his flight delay'd, Here loud his raven charger neigh'd --- Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade; That sound had burst his waking dream, As Slumber starts at owlet's scream, The spur hath lanced his courser's sides; Away, away, for life he rides: Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed Springs to the touch his startled steed: The rock is doubled, and the shore Shakes with the clattering tramp no more: The crag is won, no more is seen His Christian crest and haughty mien. 'T was but an instant he restrain'd That fiery barb so sternly rein'd; 'T was but a moment that he stood, Then sped as if by death pursued; But in that instant o'er his soul Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, And gather in that drop of time A life of pain, an age of crime. O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, Such moment pours the grief of years: What felt he then, at once opprest By all that most distracts the breast? That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! Though in Time's record nearly nought, It was Eternity to Thought ! For infinite as boundless space The thought that Conscience must embrace, Which in itself can comprehend Woe without name, or hope, or end. —The Giaour, Lord Byron An aristocratic cologne of titanic passions, moody and brooding. This scent is dark with disillusionment and cynicism: a Victorian fougère and a dashing carnation boutonnière tainted by a cloud of khus, yew, and patchouli. I had to have this for the name alone, even if it didn't sound like a dark and brooding Dorian! In bottle: Sharp vetiver and yew, a whiff of earthy patchouli, and the faint sweetness of flowers deep underneath. Wet, on skin: Lavender pops right out here, with the vetiver and yew underneath. Drydown: The carnation joins the lavender, with vetiver and yew hovering around, and patchouli forming a solid, grounding base for the scent. I was worried this was going to be too masculine for me to pull off, but it's turning into a fantastically unisex scent. It sort of reminds me of Samhainophobia meets Dorian. I love this one in a big way. Dry: This is one of the only scents that smells exactly like the description on me, which I thought from the florals might be a bad thing, since florals just never work on me, but this one is amazing. It's like wearing a victorian gentleman's coat in a graveyard on a chilly night.
