Can a book be both gruesome and sensuous at the same time? Then Perfume is such a novel. I first was drawn to this book when I read a passage in Daniel Pennac’s The Rights of the Reader, wherein Suskind describes the stink of Paris and its inhabitants in the 18th century. He evokes the sense of smell in such detailed, visceral ways, even (or most especially) when they are disgustingly awful. (Picture is from when I was relaxing in the hotel bar in Québec with a book and a beer after a day of sightseeing.)