Incense Smoke Quotes

Miraculously, smoke curled out of his own mouth, his nose, his ears, his eyes, as if his soul had been extinguished within his lungs at the very moment the sweet pumpkin gave up its incensed ghost.

It was her first book, an indigo cover with a silver moonflower, an art nouveau flower, I traced my finger along the silver line like smoke, whiplash curves. ... I touched the pages her hands touched, I pressed them to my lips, the soft thick old paper, yellow now, fragile as skin. I stuck my nose between the bindings and smelled all the readings she had given, the smell of unfiltered cigarettes and the espresso machine, beaches and incense and whispered words in the night. I could hear her voice rising from the pages. The cover curled outward like sails.

The dust of my dreams swim spiced incense smoke.

Lexie Madison developed out of nothing like a Polaroid, she curled off the page and hung in the air like incense smoke, a girl with my face and a life from a half-forgotten dream.

There was more than one way to be lost. More than one way to be saved. While my mother had saved me from the waves and gave me breath, my father had tried to save me only by suffocation. With ever increasing strictures, with incense smoke, with fire. Both had wanted better for me, but only one of them would protect me in the end.

I had fallen into a profound dream-like reverie in which I heard him speaking as at a distance. 'And yet there is no one who communes with only one god,' he was saying, 'and the more a man lives in imagination and in a refined understanding, the more gods does he meet with and talk with, and the more does he come under the power of Roland, who sounded in the Valley of Roncesvalles the last trumpet of the body's will and pleasure; and of Hamlet, who saw them perishing away, and sighed; and of Faust, who looked for them up and down the world and could not find them; and under the power of all those countless divinities who have taken upon themselves spiritual bodies in the minds of the modern poets and romance writers, and under the power of the old divinities, who since the Renaissance have won everything of their ancient worship except the sacrifice of birds and fishes, the fragrance of garlands and the smoke of incense. The many think humanity made these divinities, and that it can unmake them again; but we who have seen them pass in rattling harness, and in soft robes, and heard them speak with articulate voices while we lay in deathlike trance, know that they are always making and unmaking humanity, which is indeed but the trembling of their lips.

I’ve warned him about the dangers of smoking and second-hand smoke. He always looks off in the distance, as if giving my warnings serious thought, then returns to his paper. I reconcile it all by thinking of him as an incense burner. I do like the smell of pipe tobacco . . . may Al Gore forgive me.

Burn a little incense, sacrifice a chicken or two, smoke a cigar, then shake your maracas and dance.

is called a thurible. The rising smoke is supposed to symbolize the prayers of believers rising up to heaven. The word incense comes from a Greek word. Originally it meant sacrifice. It’s no wonder one

They walked in silence through the little streets of Chinatown. Women from all over the world smiled at them from open windows, stood on the doorsteps inviting them in. Some of the rooms were exposed to the street. Only a curtain concealed the beds. One could see couples embracing. There were Syrian women wearing their native costume, Arabian women with jewelry covering their half-naked bodies, Japanese and Chinese women beckoning slyly, big African women squatting in circles, chatting together. One house was filled with French whores wearing short pink chemises and knitting and sewing as if they were at home. They always hailed the passers-by with promises of specialities. The houses were small, dimly lit, dusty, foggy with smoke, filled with dusky voices, the murmurs of drunkards, of lovemaking. The Chinese adorned the setting and made it more confused with screens and curtains, lanterns, burning incense, Buddhas of gold. It was a maze of jewels, paper flowers, silk hangings, and rugs, with women as varied as the designs and colors, inviting men who passed by to sleep with them.

Often, after extinguishing the oil lamp in our house on stilts, we would lie on our beds and smoke in the dark. Book titles poured from our lips, the mysterious and exotic names evoking unknown worlds. It was like Tibetan incense, where you need only say the name, Zang Xiang, to smell the subtle, refined fragrance and to see the joss sticks sweating beads of scented moisture which, in the lamplight, resemble drops of liquid gold.

Together, on his back porch, his cigarette smoke rising like incense to the heavens, we spoke to the God of grace we both are so grateful to know up close and personal. It may be the most beautiful prayer I've ever heard. Jesus, for some reason you've given us another day, and you've set us in Narnia. There are people who still think it's frozen, and there are people who are longing to be thawed but don't know it. God, I pray that what you've called us to do would be the subversive work of the kingdom, that we would help participate in the melting of Narnia, and that people would come alive and would drink and dance and sing and just celebrate life in ways that are so marvelous that the world would press its face against the glass and see the redeemed celebrate life. Amen.

Looking at her, he thought of smoke, of incense and altars, and the painting of a girl he’d seen in a discarded museum catalogue.

So many gods. Which was the god of test scores? Which was the god of unmarried shopgirls who wished to stay that way? She decided to simply pray to all of them. “If you exist, if you’re up there, help me. Give me a way out of this shithole. Or, if you can’t do that, give the import inspector a heart attack.” She looked around the empty temple. What came next? She had always imagined that praying involved more than just speaking out loud. She spied several unused incense sticks lying by the altar. She lit the end of them by dipping it in the brazier, and then waved it experimentally in the air. Was she supposed to hold the smoke to the gods? Or should she smoke the stick herself? She had just held the burned end to her nose when a temple custodian strode out from behind the altar. They blinked at each other. Slowly, Rin removed the incense stick from her nostril. “Hello,” she said. “I’m praying.” “Please leave,” he said.

I have smoothed the hem of the robe of Parsifal. Watched Giotto's sheep wander from a fresco. Prayed before holy icons unveiled, surviving time. Held shavings swept from the hut of Geppetto. Unzipped a body bag and beheld the face of my brother. Witnessed the acolyte scatter petals over a dying poet. I saw the smoke of incense form the shape of my days. I saw my love return to God. I saw things as they are.

What, for some, is sin, others do to the glory of God. And the good Dr. Pentecost's remarks notwithstanding, I intend to go home tonight and smoke a cigar to the glory of God. It is a kind of incense drifting to Heaven.

Later, when I stood in front of an alter waving incense, I would remember standing in front of the bar at Dante's waving cigarette smoke out of my face, and the exact same feeling of tenderness would wash over me, because the people in both places were so much alike. We were all seeking company, meaning, solace, self-forgetfulness. Whether we found those things or not, it was the seeking that led us to find each other in the cloud even when we had nothing else in common. Sometimes I wondered if it even mattered if our communion cups were filled with consecrated wine or draft beer, as long as we bent over them long enough to recognize each other as kin.

The German astronomer Johannes Kepler coined the term “camera obscura” in the early seventeenth century, but by then the phenomenon had been known for millennia; in fact, it is perhaps the oldest known optical illusion. Some form of camera obscura was most likely behind a popular illusion performed in ancient Greece and Rome, in which spectral images were cast upon the smoke of burning incense by performers using concave metal mirrors—hence the expression “smoke and mirrors.

Fire and water and smoke and incense and chanting and bells and butter and blood: this was a language whose syllables were translated into physical terms; a language of the elements. It was a language that he hoped might speak to him one day.

Holding the amethyst between my thumb and index finger, I held the crystal in the smoke of the sandalwood incense. As I turned the crystal all directions in the smoke, I thought, calm. I did the same with the lapis lazuli and thought, clarity.

At the city gates a corpse or two hung, moldering, from the municipal gallows. Within the walls, there were the usual dirty streets, the customary gamut of smells, from wood smoke to excrement, from geese to incense, from baking bread to horses, swine and unwashed humanity. Peasants,

I remember when Vianne Rocher first moved into town all those years ago. That window, papered in orange and gold, just like a Chinese lantern. That scent of spices, and incense smoke, like something from the Arabian Nights. So many things have changed since then: now Vianne and I are almost friends. But how I resented that little shop, with its brightly colored awning, and the scent of vanilla and allspice and the bitter rasp of raw cacao drifting out into the air. How I longed to step in, to taste the wares in those glass cases! Now, I tell myself, I could. But though I do not fast for Lent, chocolate still seems one indulgence too far.

Methinks, Oh! vain ill-judging Book, I see thee cast a wishful look, Where reputations won and lost are In famous row called Paternoster. Incensed to find your precious olio Buried in unexplored port-folio, You scorn the prudent lock and key, And pant well bound and gilt to see Your Volume in the window set Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett. Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn Whence never Book can back return: And when you find, condemned, despised, Neglected, blamed, and criticised, Abuse from All who read you fall, (If haply you be read at all Sorely will you your folly sigh at, And wish for me, and home, and quiet. Assuming now a conjuror’s office, I Thus on your future Fortune prophesy: — Soon as your novelty is o’er, And you are young and new no more, In some dark dirty corner thrown, Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown, Your leaves shall be the Book-worm’s prey; Or sent to Chandler–Shop away, And doomed to suffer public scandal, Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle! But should you meet with approbation, And some one find an inclination To ask, by natural transition Respecting me and my condition; That I am one, the enquirer teach, Nor very poor, nor very rich; Of passions strong, of hasty nature, Of graceless form and dwarfish stature; By few approved, and few approving; Extreme in hating and in loving; Abhorring all whom I dislike, Adoring who my fancy strike; In forming judgements never long, And for the most part judging wrong; In friendship firm, but still believing Others are treacherous and deceiving, And thinking in the present aera That Friendship is a pure chimaera: More passionate no creature living, Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving, But yet for those who kindness show, Ready through fire and smoke to go. Again, should it be asked your page, ‘Pray, what may be the author’s age?’ Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear, I scarce have seen my twentieth year, Which passed, kind Reader, on my word, While England’s Throne held George the Third. Now then your venturous course pursue: Go, my delight! Dear Book, adieu!

Actually, I sometimes think there is something very Jesus-like about Charlie Brown—his heartbreaking patience, his endless suffering. You have to admit the show would have a very different ending if, after he and Linus bought the sad little Christmas tree, the other kids in the Peanuts gang came after them with a hammer and some nails. The thing that contains the burning incense in a Catholic church is called a thurible. The rising smoke is supposed to symbolize the prayers of believers rising up to heaven. The word incense comes from a Greek word. Originally it meant sacrifice. It’s no wonder one of the Magi brought it as a gift. Gold and myrrh were powerful presents, I’m sure. But the king who brought frankincense

back,” Daddy said. “It’ll work out.” He had no idea what to do about Helen. They spoke a completely different language. He was an old-timer who called school “schoolin”’ and called me “boy.” He had run off from Jim Crow in the South and felt that education, any education, was a privilege. Helen was far beyond that. Weeks passed, months, and Helen didn’t return. Finally Jack called. “I found her. She’s living with some crazy woman,” Jack said. She told Ma she didn’t know much about the lady other than that she wore a lot of scarves and used incense. Mommy got the address and went to the place herself. It was a dilapidated housing project near St. Nicholas Avenue, with junkies and winos standing out front. Mommy stepped past them and walked through a haze of reefer smoke and took the elevator to the eighth floor. She went to the apartment door and listened. There was music playing on a stereo inside, and the voice of someone on the phone. She knocked on the door. The stereo lowered. “Who is it?” someone asked. It sounded like Helen. “I’m here to see Helen,” Mommy said. Silence. “I know you’re there, Helen,” Mommy said. Silence. “Helen. I want you to come home. Whatever’s wrong we’ll fix. Just forget all of it and come on home.” From down the hallway, a doorway opened and a black woman watched in silence as the dark-haired, bowlegged white lady talked to the closed door. “Please come home, Helen.” The door had a peephole in it. The peephole slid back. A large black eye peered out. “Please come home, Helen. This is no place for you to be. Just come on home.” The peephole closed.

Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame.

Thus it was we entered a low eating-house on the lamplit shores of the river in a Moslem neighbourhood, a modest boxwood shanty having no walls at all, but sufficiently screened with hanging bags. There were several benches and three tables, and upon each table were oil-lamps which cast soft shadows on the haze of airborne cooking-fats and wood-smoke, and gently illuminating a dozen Africans at food; on the floor at the farther end were cooking-fires, and a fine diversity of smells arose from bubbling pots and sizzling pans. The chef was a robust ogre of glistening dark bronze with an incense pastille smouldering in his hair, a swearing, sweating Panta-gruel naked to the waist and stoking fires, lifting lids, and scooping out great globs of meat and manioc and fish: he might have been cooking skulls on the shores of River Styx.

The thing that contains the burning incense in a Catholic church is called a thurible. The rising smoke is supposed to symbolize the prayers of believers rising up to heaven. The word incense comes from a Greek word. Originally it meant sacrifice. It’s no wonder one of the Magi brought it as a gift. Gold and myrrh were powerful presents, I’m sure. But the king who brought frankincense to that child knew full well that the world would take its toll. My least

Magic. It was worse than feline logic. Leave it to magic to re-fracture and re-herniate his vertebrae in the middle of a battle. A powerful sigh forced itself through the controlled exhale of his Ki breathing, decimating the thin slow line of smoke curling up from the incense. It reformed itself a moment later, right before Bruce’s eyes, and he glared at it with Batman’s most malevolent stare. What a metaphor. A few seconds’ disruption and all was set right again. That was magic’s attitude. No harm done. As if it was as simple as a few seconds’ paralysis.

He guessed the NKVD didn’t even know that Waffen-SS men could be identified by the blood-group tattoos on the underside of their left arms, usually near the armpit. Richter didn’t have one. He’d been classed as a non-combatant, as he’d said, at least for a portion of the war. He decided it could be weeks before they found out who he was. But Volsky’s confidence appeared to have been restored too, now. He said, ‘And the vat of incense?’ ‘I had the incense brought from the remnants of a Christmas smoker factory. Silly little hollow figurines invented by toymakers in the Ore Mountains. Cone incense burns down inside the figurines and the smoke emerges from the open mouths. There was a glut of them,’ Richter said, truthfully. ‘Berliners were shocked and saddened after Stalingrad. But they lost the will to celebrate after the Battle of Kursk. They knew the Red Army was coming. The puerile little incense smokers were redundant, together with the incense they were to hold. Except it didn’t go to waste. The vat was taken from a merchant’s house. It’s from Hong Kong, I think.’ Volsky leaned back in his chair. He said, ‘Why go to all the trouble?’ That’s a good question, Richter thought. He stifled a smile. ‘To mask the smell.

Everything at St. Agnes was comforting to Ronan. The presence of his wiry father, with his smell of lemon and boxwood. His mother entertaining Matthew by subtly casting shadow animals with her hands on the pew before them. Declan reading the bulletin with his eyebrows furrowed as if he very much disagreed with the way they were running things but needed to know anyway. God. Ronan always felt the presence of a god, capital G, when he was in church, but especially on rainy days like this, when the church was hushed and dim, all the stained-glass horrors in the windows dulled to dark gems, the interior lights shimmering and dreamy behind the incense and candle smoke.

He picks one of the boxes on the table this time, a polished-wood box with a swirling pattern etched into its lid. The inside of the box is lined with white silk. The scent is like incense, deep and spiced, and he can feel smoke curling around his head. It is hot, a dry desert air with pounding sun and powder-soft sand. His cheeks flush from the heat and from something else. The feel and sensation of something as luscious as silk falls across his skin in waves. There is music that he cannot discern. A pipe or a flute. And laughter, a high-pitched laugh that blends harmoniously with the music. The taste of something sweet but spicy on his tongue. The feeling is luxurious and lighthearted, but also secretive and sensual. He feels a hand on his shoulder and jumps in surprise, dropping the lid down on the box.

Lana started to make sounds, like the imprecations of a priestess, over the bills that the boy had given her. Whispered numerals and words floated upward from her coral lips, and, closing her eyes, she copied some figures onto a pad of paper. Her fine body, itself a profitable investment through the years, bent reverently over the Formica-top altar. Smoke, like incense, rose from the cigarette in the ashtray at her elbow, curling upward with her prayers, up above the host which she was elevating in order to study the date of its minting, the single silver dollar that lay among the offerings. Her bracelet tinkled, calling communicants to the altar, but the only one in the temple had been excommunicated from the Faith because of his parentage and continued mopping. An offering fell to the floor, the host, and Lana knelt to venerate and retrieve it.

When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.— Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird, Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight, Lark without song, and messenger of dawn, Circling above the hamlets as thy nest; Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts; By night star-veiling, and by day Darkening the light and blotting out the sun; Go thou my incense upward from this hearth, And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame. Hard green wood just cut, though I used but little of that, answered my purpose better than any other. I sometimes left a good fire when I went to take a walk in a winter afternoon; and when I returned, three or four hours afterward, it would be still alive and glowing.

Now into the small ceramic pan I grate the block of couverture. Almost at once the scent rises, the dark and loamy scent of bitter chocolate from the block. At this concentration it is slow to melt; the chocolate is very low in fat, and I will have to add butter and cream to the mixture to bring it to truffle consistency. But now it smells of history; of the mountains and forests of South America' of felled wood and spilled sap and campfire smoke. It smells of incense and patchouli; of the black gold of the Maya and the red gold of the Aztec; of stone and dust and of a young girl with flowers in her hair and a cup of pulque in her hand. It is intoxicating; as it melts, the chocolate becomes glossy; steam rises from the copper pan, and the scent grows richer, blossoming into cinnamon and allspice and nutmeg; dark undertones of anise and espresso; brighter notes of vanilla and ginger. Now it is almost melted through. A gentle vapor rises from the pan. Now we have the true Theobroma, the elixir of the gods in volatile form, and in the steam I can almost see- A young girl dancing with the moon. A rabbit follows at her heels. Behind her stands a woman with her head in shadow, so that for a moment she seems to look three ways- But now the steam is getting too thick. The chocolate must be no warmer than forty-six degrees. Too hot, and the chocolate will scorch and streak. Too cool, and it will bloom white and dull. I know by the scent and the level of steam that we are close to the danger point. Take the copper off the heat and stand the ceramic in cold water until the temperature has dropped. Cooling, it acquires a floral scent; of violet and lavender papier poudré. It smells of my grandmother, if I'd had one, and of wedding dresses kept carefully boxed in the attic, and of bouquets under glass.

But soon the steeples called good people all, to church and chapel, and away they came, flocking through the streets in their best clothes, and with their gayest faces. And at the same time there emerged from scores of bye-streets, lanes, and nameless turnings, innumerable people, carrying their dinners to the bakers’ shops. The sight of these poor revellers appeared to interest the Spirit very much, for he stood with Scrooge beside him in a baker’s doorway, and taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner-carriers who had jostled with each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humour was restored directly. For they said, it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was! In time the bells ceased, and the bakers’ were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker’s oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too. “Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?” asked Scrooge. “There is. My own.” “Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?” asked Scrooge. “To any kindly given. To a poor one most.” “Why to a poor one most?” asked Scrooge. “Because it needs it most.” “Spirit,” said Scrooge, after a moments thought, “I wonder you, of all the beings in the many worlds about us, should desire to cramp these peoples opportunities of innocent enjoyment.” “I!” cried the Spirit. “You would deprive them of their means of dining every seventh day, often the only day on which they can be said to dine at all,” said Scrooge. “Wouldn’t you?” “I!” cried the Spirit. “You seek to close these places on the Seventh Day?” said Scrooge. “And it comes to the same thing.” “I seek!” exclaimed the Spirit. “Forgive me if I am wrong. It has been done in your name, or at least in that of your family,” said Scrooge. “There are some upon this earth of yours,” returned the Spirit, “who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry* and selfishness in our name; who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us.

As the Christian faith grew, more and more members of the congregation insisted on being buried in and around the church to reap the benefits of saint proximity. This burial practice spread throughout the empire, from Rome to Byzantium and to what is now present-day England and France. Entire towns grew up around these corpse churches. Demand rose and the churches supplied it—for a fee, of course. The wealthiest church patrons wanted the best spots, nearest the saints. If there was a nook in the church big enough for a corpse, you were sure to find a body in it. There were, without hyperbole, dead bodies everywhere. The preferred locations were the half circle around the apse and the vestibule at the entrance. Beyond those key positions, it was a free-for-all: corpses were placed under the slabs on the floor, in the roof, under the eaves, even piled into the walls themselves. Going to church meant the corpses in the walls outnumbered the living parishioners. Without refrigeration, in the heat of the summer months, the noxious smell of human decomposition in these churches must have been unimaginable. Italian physician Bernardino Ramazzini complained that “there are so many tombs in the church, and they are so often opened that this abominable smell is too often unmistakable. However much they fumigate the sacred edifices with incense, myrrh, and other aromatic odors, it is obviously very injurious to those present.

And she knew her defiance in escaping his grasp, even temporarily, had shown Jasu the depth of her strength. In the months afterward, though he behaved awkwardly, he had allowed her the time and space she needed. It was the first genuine show of respect he had made toward her in their four years of marriage. Jasu’s parents made no such concession, their latent disappointment growing into relentless criticism of her for failing to bear a son.Kavita walks outside and spreads her mat on the rough stone steps, where she sits facing the rising sun in the east She lights the small ghee-soaked diya and thin stick of incense, and then closes her eyes in prayer. The wisp of fragrant smoke slowly circles its way up into the air and around her. She breathes deeply and thinks, as always, of the baby girls she has lost. She rings the small silver bell and chants softly. She sees their faces and their small bodies, she hears their cries and feels their tiny fingers wrap around hers. And always, she hears the sound of Usha’s desperate cry echoing behind the closed doors of the orphanage. She allows herself to get lost in the depths of her grief. After she has chanted and sung and wept for some time, she tries to envision the babies at peace, wherever they are. She pictures Usha as a little girl, her hair wound in two braids, each tied with a white ribbon. The image of the girl in her mind is perfectly clear: smiling, running, and playing with children, eating her meals and sleeping alongside the others in the orphanage.Every morning, Kavita sits in the same place outside her home with her eyes closed until the stormy feelings peak and then, very gradually, subside. She waits until she can breathe evenly again. By the time she opens her eyes, her face is wet and the incense has burned down to a small pile of soft ash. The sun is a glowing orange ball on the horizon, and the villagers are beginning to stir around her. She always ends her puja by touching her lips to the one remaining silver bangle on her wrist, reconciling herself to the only thing she has left of her daughters. These daily rituals have brought her comfort and, over time, some healing. She can carry herself through the rest of the day with these peaceful images of Usha in her mind. Each day becomes more bearable. As days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, Kavita feels her bitterness toward Jasu soften. After several months, she allows him to touch her and then, to reach for her at night.

If you can’t send money, send tobacco. George Washington to the Continental Congress, 1776

It couldn’t be. Devon was supposed to be in London! It was a trick of her imagination…a hallucination. Except that the air was hot and humid, spiced with the fragrance that was unmistakably his…a spicy, clean incense of skin and soap. Apprehensively Kathleen parted her fingers just enough to peek through them. Devon was reclining in the copper tub, looking at her in sardonic inquiry. Hot mist rose around him in a smoke-colored veil. Droplets of water clung to the tautly muscled slopes of his arms and shoulders, and sparkled in the dark fleece of hair on his chest. Kathleen whirled to face the door, her thoughts scattering like the pins in a game of skittles. “What are you doing here?” she managed to ask. His tone was caustic. “I received your summons.” “My…my…you mean the telegram?” It was difficult to pull a coherent thought from the wreckage of her brain. “That wasn’t a summons.” “It read like one.” “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Certainly not so much of you!” She went crimson as she heard his low laugh.

Words that I never told you Only those who have been slaves know that in the incense smoke there are tigers. Only the one who has cleaned himself is free to forget them. That is your greatness. A fierce smoke thread. DW

Perfume, in Latin, means through smoke, a reference to the sacred burning of incense, resin, and woods that have defined spiritual practice since ancient times. Perfume is a smoke signal worn on the body, a way to convey who we are, while drawing a protective border between our self and the outside. Perfume is an object of immanence, rooted in our physical world of raw materials, used to transcend this world for the Divine.

In most human cultures there is a festival of reckoning. We honor our dead with food and flowers. Parade red flags and skulls through the streets or visit graves. We use the smoke of incense and sage. We create careful tableaux of heaven and of hell. Bringing the dead to life again, we let their spirits roam. We remember and trace the signals of their actions on the living. Then we burn them up and set them free and tell them not to bother us. It never works. By the following year they’re always back.

Bà Ngoại was usually in the kitchen cooking and taking menthol hits of green Eagle oil from her front pajama pocket. She wasn’t exactly the freshly baked cookies and milk kind of grandma. When I got a runny nose, she would scratch my back skin off with the edge of a quarter, leaving pink lines all over my body. And if I got really sick, she would scoop out some black liquid from a five-gallon glass jar she had at the top of the pantry that housed a giant dead black cobra. Tracing the smoke from a burning-hot incense stick up and down my back, she would spit the black mystery juice all over me as I lay face-down on an old ragged towel. After that, I much preferred taking a teaspoon of thick cough syrup, even if it made me gag.

The gunfire had brought the attention of the bouncers upstairs. We took position at the bottom of the stairs. I told the girls to stay behind us and ran to the top of the stairs. The door opened and I was looking into the face of one of the Thai bouncers. He looked at my gun and started to turn. I grabbed him by the collar and held him in front of me. He was unarmed, but the others weren’t. They opened fire, killing their compatriot as I returned fire, killing one. Fortunately for me the three other guys on my side, Jim, Miguel and Frank came up behind me and cut the other armed men down in a hail of bullets. There was a commotion in the main room of the brothel as I cracked the door open. Four men with guns were walking toward the door. Miguel joined me as I flung it open. We each had two pistols in our hands. I fired one weapon after the other at the two men to the left while Miguel did the same to the two men on our right. The smoke of cordite was swirling into the room like deadly incense. People were screaming and huddling by the walls. Jim and Frank led the girls into the front room. from The Noble Heart

The gunfire had brought the attention of the bouncers upstairs. We took position at the bottom of the stairs. I told the girls to stay behind us and ran to the top of the stairs. The door opened and I was looking into the face of one of the Thai bouncers. He looked at my gun and started to turn. I grabbed him by the collar and held him in front of me. He was unarmed, but the others weren’t. They opened fire, killing their compatriot as I returned fire, killing one. Fortunately for me the three other guys on my side, Jim, Miguel and Frank came up behind me and cut the other armed men down in a hail of bullets. There was a commotion in the main room of the brothel as I cracked the door open. Four men with guns were walking toward the door. Miguel joined me as I flung it open. We each had two pistols in our hands. I fired one weapon after the other at the two men to the left while Miguel did the same to the two men on our right. The smoke of cordite was swirling into the room like deadly incense. People were screaming and huddling by the walls. Jim and Frank led the girls into the front room. from "The Noble Heart

When the organ peals out its melodious tones, but the heart is not in the singing, do you think that God has ears like a man, which can be tickled with sweet sounds? Why have you brought Him down to your level? He is spiritual! The music that delights Him is the love of a true heart, the prayer of an anxious spirit! He has better music than all your organs and drums can ever bring to Him! If He wanted music, He would not have asked you, for winds and wave make melodies transcendently superior to all your chief musicians can compose! Does He want candles when His torch makes the mountains to be great altars smoking with the incense of praise to the God of Creation? Oh, Brothers and Sisters, I fear that it has been true of many who externally appeared to be devout, [that] ‘when they knew God, they glorified Him not as God!’ Weep over your sins; then have you glorified Him as God! Fall on your face and be nothing before the Most High; then you have glorified Him as God! Accept His righteousness. Adore His bleeding Son. Trust in His infinite compassion. Then you have glorified Him as God, for ‘God is a Spirit and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.’ How far, my dear hearers, have you complied with that requisition?”–1892, Sermon 2257

The gunfire had brought the attention of the bouncers upstairs. We took position at the bottom of the stairs. I told the girls to stay behind us and ran to the top of the stairs. The door opened and I was looking into the face of one of the Thai bouncers. He looked at my gun and started to turn. I grabbed him by the collar and held him in front of me. He was unarmed, but the others weren’t. They opened fire, killing their compatriot as I returned fire, killing one. Fortunately for me the three other guys on my side, Jim, Miguel and Frank came up behind me and cut the other armed men down in a hail of bullets. There was a commotion in the main room of the brothel as I cracked the door open. Four men with guns were walking toward the door. Miguel joined me as I flung it open. We each had two pistols in our hands. I fired one weapon after the other at the two men to the left while Miguel did the same to the two men on our right. The smoke of cordite was swirling into the room like deadly incense. People were screaming and huddling by the walls. Jim and Frank led the girls into the front room." from "The Noble Heart

Before the holy of holies, the most holy place, is the altar of incense, a gold-laden structure whose rising smoke represents the perpetual need of intercessory prayer on behalf of the people.” This was yet another need for the people that no human high priest could attain to. Eleazer brought his censer from the sacrifice, whose smoke mixed with the altar of incense to protect him from what he was about to do next: enter the holy of holies, the very presence of Yahweh. This was the only time each year that this could be done. If approached on any other day by the high priest or anyone else, Yahweh would strike them dead.

The Lord's Creation is like Agarwood, when touched by man (i.e., mould) it becomes infected; as the infection progresses, the Creation produces magic in response to the attack, which only the observant attentive believer can pick up the traces thereof. The purity of that Elixir depends on how it is being distilled from the Agarwood (i.e., The Lord's Creation) by the faithful; the more believing she/he is, the more miraculous the testimony becomes. And only by striving can the incense be extracted into the air (i.e., the public domain) for that its release requires the adequate amount of inquisitive energy to be exerted - that's where the scholar's role lies. Disbelief, however, is touched only by the smoke triggering thereby, disease. Therefore, the Agarwood (i.e., The Lord’s Creation) was given to serve man for that without man’s interaction with it, there would be no magic to extract.

When she arrived at her tiny house smoke was curling from the chimney and the windows glowed golden. Lily went up and stood in the empty flower bed to peer in through the glass, and she was incensed to see Caleb sitting at the table, smoking a pipe as if he owned the place. She shoved open the door and stormed inside to demand, “What are you doing here, Caleb Halliday?” He gave her a distant, noncommittal glance. “You were almost out of firewood,” he said, “so I brought you some from my place. I’ll have more delivered in a few days.” “Couldn’t you have told me that without walking into my house and making yourself at home?” The insolent grin she expected did not curve Caleb’s lips. He only sighed and drew once on his pipe before saying, “April evenings can be cold. I wanted to make sure you were warm, that’s all.” Lily felt foolish, and she was strangely disappointed in Caleb’s reaction. “Well, I don’t like smoking in my house,” she snapped. “When you get a house that belongs to you, and not the army, I guess you’ll be able to dictate things like that,” Caleb responded evenly. He sounded abjectly bored. “Sit down, Lily. We have some things to talk about.” Too weary to argue, Lily took off her cloak and sat, her chin propped in her hands. “Have you had your supper?” “I’m not a child, Caleb. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.” His

The reason assigned by the Christian priests for the images being black, is that they are made so by smoke and incense, but, we may ask, if they became black by smoke, why is it that the white drapery, white teeth, and the white of the eyes have not changed in color? Why are the lips of a bright red color? Why, we may also ask, are the black images crowned and adorned with jewels, just as the images of the Hindoo and Egyptian virgins are represented? When we find that the Virgin Devaki, and the Virgin Isis were represented just as these so-called ancient Christian idols represent Mary, we are led to the conclusion that they are Pagan idols adopted by the Christians.

really matter what you put in there, it is foul-smelling stuff. Pepper, sulfur, vinegar, turned milk, or fish heads if you want. One of my favorite passages in the Bible is actually in the Apocrypha, in the Book of Tobit, and it is the story of Tobias and the Angel. There’s one part of the story of Tobias and the Angel where they’re exorcising evil spirits from a house, and they make an exorcism incense, and one of the ingredients is fish heads. The instructions are, you make this incense, you take it into the house, light it, leave the house and don’t go back for three days, because nothing wants to be in there for three days. It’s a foul stench of exorcism, and so this ritual uses a foul stench-filled incense. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s unpleasant and acrid. That’s why vinegar is one of the important ingredients because it makes it acrid. So you’ve got his nasty, acrid smoke that stings your eyes, and you basically go on a rant. You wear a rough robe, of horsehair or sack

Mark, believer, how sure and unchanging must be our acceptance, since it is in him! Take care that you never doubt your acceptance in Jesus. You cannot be accepted without Christ; but, when you have received his merit, you cannot be unaccepted. Notwithstanding all your doubts, and fears, and sins, Jehovah's gracious eye never looks upon you in anger; though he sees sin in you, in yourself, yet when he looks at you through Christ, he sees no sin. You are always accepted in Christ, are always blessed and dear to the Father's heart. Therefore lift up a song, and as you see the smoking incense of the merit of the Saviour coming up, this evening, before the sapphire throne, let the incense of your praise go up also.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness like a column of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and incense made from all the spices of the merchant?

The Imam and his priests were due to speak to the people at midnight. Feisal intended holding them spellbound and enthralled with his words, whipping them to a fevered pitch of holy frenzy in which they would lose all thought for themselves or for others and exist only for the God. In such a state the smoke of the burning bodies of butchered women and children would not stink with the foulness of murder but would be sweetest perfume and rise like incense to the heavens.

…the scent of incense reaches me. I think of looking back, but the fear of putrefaction suddenly grabs me, and I move on. Finally, at the end of the road, I stop and turn to admire the Roman-columned funeral home. In the distance, I see the bent figure stoking the flame and the thin line of smoke reaching high up towards the sky. A red kite cuts across its path and something tells me Sophie's enjoying this all somehow. The scent of burnt paper reaches me, and I know Grandmother is burning them for me too. (Mismanagement of Grief)

WHEN HE OPENED the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets. Then another angel, having a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, ascended before God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake. So the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.” - Revelation 8:1-6

WHEN HE OPENED the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. And I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and to them were given seven trumpets. Then another angel, having a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense, that he should offer it with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar which was before the throne. And the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, ascended before God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and threw it to the earth. And there were noises, thunderings, lightnings, and an earthquake. So the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared themselves to sound.” - Revelation 8:1-

At length the sun’s rays have attained the right angle, and warm winds blow up mist and rain and melt the snow banks, and the sun dispersing the mist smiles on a checkered landscape of russet and white smoking with incense, through which the traveller picks his way from islet to islet, cheered by the music of a thousand tinkling rills and rivulets whose veins are filled with the blood of winter which they are bearing off.

She approached the brazier and she dropped a small amount of incense in the coals, allowing the smoke to waft up. She used her hands to pull the smoke to her, cleansing senses and mind. She wanted to snort. It would take so much more smoke than this to cleanse her, but that was for another time. Waiting there in the room for a seemingly endless time, more peace came to her. It was the calmness that was always present, but too often easy to miss unless you allowed yourself the option of experiencing

As if I were an incense stick incrementally burning off, first into smoke, and then becoming a part of the room.

There was no ball of smoking incense, no cup of magic wine, and none of the other equipment essential to talk to God.

Pipe-smokers are usually associated with contemplative and scholarly figures. This is where the image of Sherlock Holmes, the Inklings, Gandalf, and philosophers in general come from. Tolkien and Einstein’s pipe-smoking images always portray the idea that something brilliant is about to emerge.

The pipe draws wisdom from the lips of the philosopher, and shuts up the mouth of the foolish; it generates a style of conversation, contemplative, thoughtful, benevolent, and unaffected. William Makepeace Thackeray, The Social Pipe

With pipe and book at close of day, Oh, what is sweeter, mortal say?

But like liturgy, symbols powerfully communicate the desires of human beings. Pipe-smoking communicates a desire for temperance and a certain calm disposition toward the world. Einstein once wrote: “I believe that pipe smoking contributes to a somewhat calm and objective judgment in all human affairs.

In those days, I wanted to believe our love was something tangible and permanent, like a good luck charm I could always wear around my neck. Now I know that it was more like the wisp of smoke trailing off a stick of incense: most of what I could hold on to was the memory of the burning, the aftermath of its scent.

A noise recalled him to Saint-Sulpice; the choir was leaving; the church was about to close. “I should have tried to pray,” he thought. “It would have been better than sitting here in the empty church, dreaming in my chair—but pray? I have no desire to pray. I am haunted by Catholicism, intoxicated by its atmosphere of incense and candle wax. I hover on its outskirts, moved to tears by its prayers, touched to the very marrow by its psalms and chants. I am revolted with my life, I am sick of myself, but so far from changing my ways! And yet … and yet … however troubled I am in these chapels, as soon as I leave them I become unmoved and dry. In the end,” he told himself, as he rose and followed the last ones out, shepherded by the Swiss guard, “in the end, my heart is hardened and smoked dry by dissipation. I am good for nothing.” —J.-K. Huysmans, En route

That service was gross, carnal, calculated for an infant and sensitive church. It consisted in rudiments, the circumcision of the flesh, the blood and smoke of sacrifices, the steams of incense, observation of days, distinction of meats, corporal purifications; every leaf of the law is clogged with some rite to be particularly observed by them.

Christians, or so their preachers claimed, felt anxious when forced to inhale the smoke that drifted from altars in the Forum—the good Christian would rather spit on the altar of a pagan and blow out the incense than accidentally breathe in its fumes. The worship of the old gods began to be represented as a terrifying pollution and, like a miasma in Greek tragedy, one that might drag you to catastrophe.

the continual clatter and clang of hammers and the black smoke of manufacture rose to the African sky. The malodorous incense of civilisation was offered to the startled gods of Egypt.

Words that I never told you (english-español) Only those who have been slaves know that in the incense smoke there are tigers. Only the one who has cleaned himself is free to forget them. That is your greatness. A fierce thread.

Leila suddenly felt as if there was a great physical distance between her and this girl. She saw this serene young woman sitting there: it was like a visualisation of what Ari was to become. She smiled at her and shook her head. The aroman and smoke of the incense seemed to have moved the primitive tent to a new continuum. I am looking at a goddess, Leila thought.

Thamel" A narrative written by Avijeet Das The feelings of Paarijat linger as an epiphany and the smoke and aroma of incense sticks welcome you into a dream land. Myriad Thanka paintings splash colors in your eyes and the melodious chants of the Buddhist monks add tranquility to your heart. Cafes and restaurants mushroom here all the year round as does the grass in the valley around Kathmandu. While drifting in these lanes of Thamel, you feel like Alice in Wonderland, discovering the magic of hand crafted wooden sculptures, pashminas and yak wool shawls. And meeting foreign tourists from all around the world, smiling and greeting you a "Namaste" will serenade you with the fragrance of Nepal, intoxicating one and all!

...[B]uddhists prefer to cremate the dead. The smoke carries the spirit to the sacred realm above...When someone dies above the timberline and it's hard to find firewood, a sky burial substitues for cremation. Although outsiders consider sky burials barbaric, [to Buddhists] this was the sacred wqy to free the soul. During a sky burial, Buddhist lamas or others with religious authority carry the body to a platform on a hill. While burning incense and reciting mantras, they hack the corpse into chunks and slices. They pound the bones with a rock or hammer, beating the flesh into a pulp and mixing in tea, butter, and milk. The preparation attracts vultures, and the birds consume the carcass, carrying the spirit aloft and burying it in the sky, where it belongs.” (Buried in the Sky: The Extraordinary Story of the Sherpa Climbers on K2's Deadliest Day, p. 103)

Light the incense and cleanse your crystals with the smoke before entering the circle.” Tripp held the cords and the paper while I held the incense to the flame. Once lit, I returned the incense to the cauldron. After holding our crystals over the incense smoke, Morgan instructed, “Enter the circle and place the cauldron to one side. You’ll notice that two stones opposite each other on the circle are out of place. Each of you, take a stone and put it in place to close the circle.” Once we’d done that, “Now sit cross-legged in the center of the circle knees to knees, one of you facing north, the other south.” I chose the north-facing position, and Tripp sat with his knees pressed lightly against mine. Next, we were to read the words on the paper out loud to each other. Tripp went first. “On this night, beneath this Snow moon, in the presence of those who love us, I commit to you. I promise to always respect you for who and what you are and to never again reflect past hurts onto you. I love you with all that I am.” After I’d repeated the words to him, Morgan instructed us to secure a length of cord around each other’s left wrists symbolizing our bond. “Now take the longer cord,” Morgan said of the remaining piece, “and tie the two crystals together as a further sign of your commitment to each other.” Tripp wrapped the crystals. As I tied the cord, I thought of Lily Grace’s “two pink cylinders side by side” vision. That might be her best one yet. “The final step,” Morgan said, a smile brightening her face and happy tears gleaming in her dark eyes, “is to remove a stone together, breaking the circle and releasing your commitment into the world.” We did and as we stepped out of the circle, hands clasped tightly, Briar proclaimed, “So mote it be.

I am a conservative in large part because I believe that politics should intrude on life as little as possible. Conservatives surely believe that there are times when the government should meddle in the daily affairs of the people, but they normally reserve those times for large questions of right and wrong, good and evil. Most conservatives, for instance, may want to restrict abortion on grounds rooted in the Decalogue, but few want the government to stop you from drinking raw milk. So much of liberalism is about unleashing the Joy Police on us, politicizing our prosaic wants and desires because some expert somewhere thinks he or she knows better how to live your life than you do. The result is to scrub the Hobbit warrens of our daily lives of the simple pleasures and to make many of those simple pleasures “political” even when properly speaking they are not. . . . In today’s health-obsessed culture, where progressives see themselves as masters of a sin-eating Leviathan determined to tell you how to live “for your own good,” cigar smoking — smoking of any kind, really, save for the incense of cannabis — is seen as sacrilegious, like using a church as a stable.

Bell Protection Spell Bells protect against evil. Their ringing causes many malicious spirits to flee and they are thus a primary component of exorcism rites. It’s not only their ringing tones that repel evil; bells, like broomsticks and mortars and pestles, are a discreet metaphor for the reproductive act. Creative acts of life counteract forces of destruction. For this protective ritual, four silver or iron bells are required. Consecrate the bells with Fiery Wall of Protection Incense. (Pass the bells through the smoke.) Charge the bells. Hold them and tell them their mission of protection, aloud if possible. Hang one in each corner of the area to be protected. Allegedly the bells will warn when danger appears from that direction by spontaneously ringing. Recharge bells that ring. After an emergency or perhaps as annual maintenance, repeat the entire ritual.

Not everyone should smoke a pipe, but everyone should be encouraged to appreciate a pipe-smoker.

Sesame oil sizzled in the air, popping out of a hot wok filled with stir-fried enoki mushrooms, mustard greens, baby bok choy, and strips of pork tenderloin. My mother had danced by the stove against snakes of smoke emanating from sticks of sandalwood incense stuck in nearby pots of ash. scent filled our Chinatown apartment.

large quantity of incense was given to him to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar that stood in front of the throne; 4 and so from the angel's hand the smoke of the incense went up in the presence of God and with it the prayers of the saints.

The central garden courtyard rang with conversation and tinkling bells, sphere vines in every shade of green and blue bobbing from ropes across the yard. There were streamers and bouquets of everbue branches, and white incense smoke curled up from the four corners. Marda saw Ferize and her partners cushioned on blankets and holding their new babies for everyone to greet. On the long table were bowls of cider and small towers of honey candy, a few bottles of gnostra berry wine probably from town and candied fruit and boxes of pastries certainly from town. Most people wore the simple tunics of the Path, but there were others, newcomers, and visitors. Two small droids near the road to town projected competing music, and Marda nearly laughed as they fought with percussion.

One Christian soldier was obliged, in the course of military duty, to enter a temple to the old gods. As he went in, a drop of sacred water splashed onto his robe. Ostentatiously unable to bear it, he instantly slashed off that part of his cloak and flung it away. Christians, or so their preachers claimed, felt anxious when forced to inhale the smoke that drifted from altars in the Forum—the good Christian would rather spit on the altar of a pagan and blow out the incense than accidentally breathe in its fumes. The worship of the old gods began to be represented as a terrifying pollution and, like a miasma in Greek tragedy, one that might drag you to catastrophe.

When the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. Then I saw the seven angels who stand before God, and seven trumpets were given to them. And another angel came and stood at the altar with a golden censer, and he was given much incense to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar before the throne, and the smoke of the incense, with the prayers of the saints, rose before God from the hand of the angel. Then the angel took the censer and filled it with fire from the altar and threw it on the earth, and there were peals of thunder, rumblings, flashes of lightning, and an earthquake. (Revelation 8:1-5)

It swung back and forth, billowing smoke from the incense burning inside. The smell made Clora’s nose twitch as she watched Kishran soldiers fall in line behind the religious leaders.

Given extensive leisure, what do not the Chinese do? They eat crabs, drink tea, taste spring water, sing operatic airs, fly kites, play shuttle-cock, match grass blades, make paper boxes, solve complicated wire puzzles, play mahjong, gamble and pawn clothing, stew ginseng, watch cock-fights, romp with their children, water flowers, plant vegetables, graft fruits, play chess, take baths, hold conversations, keep cage-birds, take afternoon naps, have three meals in one, guess fingers, play at palmistry, gossip about fox spirits, go to operas, beat drums and gongs, play the flute, practise on calligraphy, munch duck-gizzards, salt carrots, fondle walnuts, fly eagles, feed carrier-pigeons, quarrel with their tailors, go on pilgrimages, visit temples, climb mountains, watch boatraces, hold bullfights, take aphrodisiacs, smoke opium, gather at street corners, shout at aeroplanes, fulminate against the Japanese, wonder at the white people, criticize their politicians, read Buddhist classics, practise deep-breathing, hold Buddhist séances, consult fortune-tellers, catch crickets, eat melon seeds, gamble for moon-cakes, hold lantern competitions, burn rare incense, eat noodles, solve literary riddles, train pot-flowers, send one another birthday presents, kow-tow to one another, produce children, and sleep.

Montag said nothing but stood looking at the women's faces as he had once looked at the faces of saints in a strange church he had entered when he was a child. The faces of those enameled creatures meant nothing to him, though he had talked to them and stood in that church for a long time, trying to be of that religion, trying to know what that religion was, trying to get enough of the raw incense and special dust of the place into his lungs and thus into his soul to feel touched and concerned by the meaning of the colorful men and women with the porcelain eyes and the blood-ruby lips. But here was nothing, nothing; it was a stroll through another store, and his currency strange and unusable there, and his passion cold, even when he touched the wood and plaster and clay. So it was now, in his own parlor, with these women twisting in their chairs under his gaze, blowing smoke, touching their sun-fired hair and examining their blazing fingernails as if they had caught fire from his look.