“You’re very keen about perfumes, my dear Modin; I remember that from of old. Is it because the sense of smell is the weakest of the senses?”
Modin made the gesture of pushing up his absent spectacles.
“The weakest? On the contrary, smell is an extraordinarily fine sense. We can distinguish the smallest nuances with it. The truth of the matter is simply this, that we have only fixed a few of these nuances in words.”
“True. But at any rate smell belongs to those senses which have least to do with our thought.”
“It has infinitely much to do with all that lies above or below our comprehension. It is in the highest degree a poetic sense, and I am sorry for anyone who has a weak power of smell.”
Axelson turned over with a grunt so as to be burnt evenly all over.
“Well, my dear Modin, now for your experience! This isn’t ordinarily a town for great experiences.”
“Very good. I came here by accident on a vacation trip. The ticket was good for a longer journey, but the train stopped, it looked pretty, and I got off. I left my knapsack at the hotel of Comfort and betook myself to strolling along the select avenues of Peace.”
“Hm! Traveling is nothing but trying to get away from yourself with lies.”
Modin seemed not to hear. He looked down into the water, which tossed up a thousand splinters of sunlight.