The odor of raisins What would be the use, for instance, in giving the plan of the room that was really my room, in describing the little room at the end of the garret, in saying that from the window, across the indentations of the roofs, one could see the hill. I alone, in my memories of another century, can open the deep cupboard that still retains for me alone that unique odor, the odor of raisins drying on a wicker tray. The odor of raisins! It is an odor that is beyond description, one that it takes a lot of imagination to smell. But I've already said too much. If I said more, the reader, back in his own room, would not open that unique wardrobe, with its unique smell, which is the signature of intimacy. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space smellmemory
1984 A Novel by George Orwell Into the dampness of a graveReality exists in the mindPerhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.We shall meet in the place where there is no darknessNothing was your own
Into the dampness of a grave He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave, and it was not much better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him. death
Reality exists in the mind But I tell you, Winston, that reality is not external. Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else. realitymind
Nothing was your own Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed—no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. surveillanceownership