Une Fleur de Cassie Editions de Parfums Frédéric Malle 2000
8
Stendhal Syndrome (I Cried)
Like the flight of an albatross, this one. Such heavy molecules to become airborne - and it’s an effort - but after some lumbering along the ground and some ungainly flapping it finds my thermals and flies!
And there it is, aloft. Gliding for what seems an unreasonable time, this beauty is such a resolved whole it seems that evolutionary forces are responsible in bringing about an entity so fit for its purpose.
Its purpose? To soar. That it brings me pleasure through its being seems an irrelevant aside to its joyous existence. Certainly not all its aspects are uncomplicated or simply pleasing, but there is much simple pleasure herein. It rises far above mere prettiness; I would certainly not call it accessible.
That I am by turns and simultaneously aware of the details and the whole is a brilliant work of balance. I am aware of an effortless grace, of a creaminess, of a softness, of an intimate warm animal smell, of a distant elegance. From some angles I see that extraordinary wingspan, if I turn my head I catch the beaked profile or the curve of primary feathers, the tucked webbed feet that indicate this bird can (but doesn’t often) come to ground or water.
Always it appears a live, breathing thing. In scent, something like the smell of sweat on my skin after sweet debauchery.
A creation that brings me to tears with its sheer magnificence.
And there it is, aloft. Gliding for what seems an unreasonable time, this beauty is such a resolved whole it seems that evolutionary forces are responsible in bringing about an entity so fit for its purpose.
Its purpose? To soar. That it brings me pleasure through its being seems an irrelevant aside to its joyous existence. Certainly not all its aspects are uncomplicated or simply pleasing, but there is much simple pleasure herein. It rises far above mere prettiness; I would certainly not call it accessible.
That I am by turns and simultaneously aware of the details and the whole is a brilliant work of balance. I am aware of an effortless grace, of a creaminess, of a softness, of an intimate warm animal smell, of a distant elegance. From some angles I see that extraordinary wingspan, if I turn my head I catch the beaked profile or the curve of primary feathers, the tucked webbed feet that indicate this bird can (but doesn’t often) come to ground or water.
Always it appears a live, breathing thing. In scent, something like the smell of sweat on my skin after sweet debauchery.
A creation that brings me to tears with its sheer magnificence.