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| Obsession over the only scent that matters |
Perfume is not the story
of a murderer; it is the story of obsession.
It is an obsession that tortures men relentlessly and without remorse.
It is the scent of life, the smell of her hair, the whiff of her skin. It is the very fabric of her being, coming to your senses in a manner befitting the ‘veritable’ feast of life.
It is the story of the human condition of men. It is tortuous to watch, yet so darkly beckoning that one cannot but help notice the distinct connection between our pleasure and that which is horrible to conceive.
We squirm away in terror when we see what men are capable of. Yet, within the culpability lies the truth of man.
This master class of cinema (and literature) is not the story of a murderer. It is the story of essence. The history of life itself. Only told from the dark side.
It is an obsession that tortures men relentlessly and without remorse.
It is the scent of life, the smell of her hair, the whiff of her skin. It is the very fabric of her being, coming to your senses in a manner befitting the ‘veritable’ feast of life.
It is the story of the human condition of men. It is tortuous to watch, yet so darkly beckoning that one cannot but help notice the distinct connection between our pleasure and that which is horrible to conceive.
We squirm away in terror when we see what men are capable of. Yet, within the culpability lies the truth of man.
This master class of cinema (and literature) is not the story of a murderer. It is the story of essence. The history of life itself. Only told from the dark side.
The subject matter is
truly one “which leaves no trace in history”, for in the end, life itself consumes
it.
The very essence of our
experience is so strong that it remains, for ever and ever, but a fleeting
moment in time, and therefore history.
The scent of a woman which we may no longer recall, yet which still defines how we feel. The smell of our mothers which we cannot possibly associate with anymore, yet it defines who we are.
It lasts but in our immortal imagination.
The scent of a woman which we may no longer recall, yet which still defines how we feel. The smell of our mothers which we cannot possibly associate with anymore, yet it defines who we are.
It lasts but in our immortal imagination.
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