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INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER • Set in eighteenth-century France, the classic novel that provokes a terrifying examination of what happens when one man’s indulgence in his greatest passion—his sense of smell—leads to murder.

In the slums of eighteenth-century France, the infant Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with one sublime gift—an absolute sense of smell. As a boy, he lives to decipher the odors of Paris, and apprentices himself to a prominent perfumer who teaches him the ancient art of mixing precious oils and herbs. But Grenouille’s genius is such that he is not satisfied to stop there, and he becomes obsessed with capturing the smells of objects such as brass doorknobs and fresh-cut wood. Then one day he catches a hint of a scent that will drive him on an ever-more-terrifying quest to create the “ultimate perfume”—the scent of a beautiful young virgin. Told with dazzling narrative brilliance, Perfume is a hauntingly powerful tale of murder and sensual depravity.

Translated from the German by John E. Woods.

Review

?A fable of criminal genius?. Remarkable."?The New York Times

From the Inside Flap

An acclaimed bestseller and international sensation, Patrick Suskind's classic novel provokes a terrifying examination of what happens when one man's indulgence in his greatest passion-his sense of smell-leads to murder.

In the slums of eighteenth-century France, the infant Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with one sublime gift-an absolute sense of smell. As a boy, he lives to decipher the odors of Paris, and apprentices himself to a prominent perfumer who teaches him the ancient art of mixing precious oils and herbs. But Grenouille's genius is such that he is not satisfied to stop there, and he becomes obsessed with capturing the smells of objects such as brass doorknobs and frest-cut wood. Then one day he catches a hint of a scent that will drive him on an ever-more-terrifying quest to create the "ultimate perfume"-the scent of a beautiful young virgin. Told with dazzling narrative brillance, Perfume is a hauntingly powerful tale of murder and sensual depravity.

Translated by John E. Woods

"A fable of crimial genius.... Remarkable."
--The New York Times

"Superb storytelling all the way...the climax is a savage shocker."
--The Plain Dealer

"An astonishing performance, a masterwork of artistic conception and execution. A totally gripping page-turner."
--The San Francisco Chronicle

From the Back Cover

An acclaimed bestseller and international sensation, Patrick Suskind's classic novel provokes a terrifying examination of what happens when one man's indulgence in his greatest passion-his sense of smell-leads to murder.
In the slums of eighteenth-century France, the infant Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with one sublime gift-an absolute sense of smell. As a boy, he lives to decipher the odors of Paris, and apprentices himself to a prominent perfumer who teaches him the ancient art of mixing precious oils and herbs. But Grenouille's genius is such that he is not satisfied to stop there, and he becomes obsessed with capturing the smells of objects such as brass doorknobs and frest-cut wood. Then one day he catches a hint of a scent that will drive him on an ever-more-terrifying quest to create the "ultimate perfume"-the scent of a beautiful young virgin. Told with dazzling narrative brillance, Perfume is a hauntingly powerful tale of murder and sensual depravity.
Translated by John E. Woods
"A fable of crimial genius.... Remarkable."
--"The New York Times
"Superb storytelling all the way...the climax is a savage shocker."
--"The Plain Dealer
"An astonishing performance, a masterwork of artistic conception and execution. A totally gripping page-turner."
--"The San Francisco Chronicle

About the Author

PATRICK SÜSKIND was born in Ambach, near Munich, in 1949. He studied medieval and modern history at the University of Munich. His first play, The Double Bass, was written in 1980 and became an international success. It was performed in Germany, in Switzerland, at the Edinburgh Festival, in London, and at the New Theatre in Brooklyn. His first novel, Perfume became an internationally acclaimed bestseller. He is also the author of The Pigeon and Mr. Summer's Story, and a coauthor of the enormously successful German television series Kir Royal. Mr. Süskind lives and writes in Munich.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

In eighteenth-century France there lived a man who was one of the most gifted and abominable personages in an era that knew no lack of gifted and abominable personages. His story will be told here. His name was Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and if his name-in contrast to the names of other gifted abominations, de Sade's, for instance, or Saint-Just's, Fouch?'s, Bonaparte's, etc.-has been forgotten today, it is certainly not because Grenouille fell short of those more famous blackguards when it came to arrogance, misanthropy, immorality, or, more succinctly, to wickedness, but because his gifts and his sole ambition were restricted to a domain that leaves no traces in history: to the fleeting realm of scent.

In the period of which we speak, there reigned in the cities a stench barely conceivable to us modern men and women. The streets stank of manure, the courtyards of urine, the stairwells stank of moldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlors stank of stale dust, the bedrooms of greasy sheets, damp featherbeds, and the pungently sweet aroma of chamber pots. The stench of sulfur rose from the chimneys, the stench of caustic lyes from the tanneries, and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. People stank of sweat and unwashed clothes; from their mouths came the stench of rotting teeth, from their bellies that of onions, and from their bodies, if they were no longer very young, came the stench of rancid cheese and sour milk and tumorous disease. The rivers stank, the marketplaces stank, the churches stank, it stank beneath the bridges and in the palaces. The peasant stank as did the priest, the apprentice as did his master's wife, the whole of the aristocracy stank, even the king himself stank, stank like a rank lion, and the queen like an old goat, summer and winter. For in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria busy at decomposition, and so there was no human activity, either constructive or destructive, no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench.

And of course the stench was foulest in Paris, for Paris was the largest city of France. And in turn there was a spot in Paris under the sway of a particularly fiendish stench: between the rue aux Fers and the rue de la Ferronnerie, the Cimeti?re des Innocents to be exact. For eight hundred years the dead had been brought here from the H?tel-Dieu and from the surrounding parish churches, for eight hundred years, day in, day out, corpses by the dozens had been carted here and tossed into long ditches, stacked bone upon bone for eight hundred years in the tombs and charnel houses. Only later-on the eve of the Revolution, after several of the grave pits had caved in and the stench had driven the swollen graveyard's neighbors to more than mere protest and to actual insurrection-was it finally closed and abandoned. Millions of bones and skulls were shoveled into the catacombs of Montmartre and in its place a food market was erected.

Here, then, on the most putrid spot in the whole kingdom, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille was born on July 17, 1738. It was one of the hottest days of the year. The heat lay leaden upon the graveyard, squeezing its putrefying vapor, a blend of rotting melon and the fetid odor of burnt animal horn, out into the nearby alleys. When the labor pains began, Grenouille's mother was standing at a fish stall in the rue aux Fers, scaling whiting that she had just gutted. The fish, ostensibly taken that very morning from the Seine, already stank so vilely that the smell masked the odor of corpses. Grenouille's mother, however, perceived the odor neither of the fish nor of the corpses, for her sense of smell had been utterly dulled, besides which her belly hurt, and the pain deadened all susceptibility to sensate impressions. She only wanted the pain to stop, she wanted to put this revolting birth behind her as quickly as possible. It was her fifth. She had effected all the others here at the fish booth, and all had been stillbirths or semi-stillbirths, for the bloody meat that emerged had not differed greatly from the fish guts that lay there already, nor had lived much longer, and by evening the whole mess had been shoveled away and carted off to the graveyard or down to the river. It would be much the same this day, and Grenouille's mother, who was still a young woman, barely in her mid-twenties, and who still was quite pretty and had almost all her teeth in her mouth and some hair on her head and-except for gout and syphilis and a touch of consumption-suffered from no serious disease, who still hoped to live a while yet, perhaps a good five or ten years, and perhaps even to marry one day and as the honorable wife of a widower with a trade or some such to bear real children . . . Grenouille's mother wished that it were already over. And when the final contractions began, she squatted down under the gutting table and there gave birth, as she had done four times before, and cut the newborn thing's umbilical cord with her butcher knife. But then, on account of the heat and the stench, which she did not perceive as such but only as an unbearable, numbing something-like a field of lilies or a small room filled with too many daffodils-she grew faint, toppled to one side, fell out from under the table into the street, and lay there, knife in hand.

Tumult and turmoil. The crowd stands in a circle around her, staring, someone hails the police. The woman with the knife in her hand is still lying in the street. Slowly she comes to.

What has happened to her?

"Nothing."

What is she doing with that knife?

"Nothing."

Where does the blood on her skirt come from?

"From the fish."

She stands up, tosses the knife aside, and walks off to wash.

And then, unexpectedly, the infant under the gutting table begins to squall. They have a look, and beneath a swarm of flies and amid the offal and fish heads they discover the newborn child. They pull it out. As prescribed by law, they give it to a wet nurse and arrest the mother. And since she confesses, openly admitting that she would definitely have let the thing perish, just as she had with those other four by the way, she is tried, found guilty of multiple infanticide, and a few weeks later decapitated at the place de Gr?ve.

By that time the child had already changed wet nurses three times. No one wanted to keep it for more than a couple of days. It was too greedy, they said, sucked as much as two babies, deprived the other sucklings of milk and them, the wet nurses, of their livelihood, for it was impossible to make a living nursing just one babe. The police officer in charge, a man named La Fosse, instantly wearied of the matter and wanted to have the child sent to a halfway house for foundlings and orphans at the far end of the rue Saint-Antoine, from which transports of children were dispatched daily to the great public orphanage in Rouen. But since these convoys were made up of porters who carried bark baskets into which, for reasons of economy, up to four infants were placed at a time; since therefore the mortality rate on the road was extraordinarily high; since for that reason the porters were urged to convey only baptized infants and only those furnished with an official certificate of transport to be stamped upon arrival in Rouen; since the babe Grenouille had neither been baptized nor received even so much as a name to inscribe officially on the certificate of transport; since, moreover, it would not have been good form for the police anonymously to set a child at the gates of the halfway house, which would have been the only way to dodge the other formalities . . . thus, because of a whole series of bureaucratic and administrative difficulties that seemed likely to occur if the child were shunted aside, and because time was short as well, officer La Fosse revoked his original decision and gave instructions for the boy to be handed over on written receipt to some ecclesiastical institution or other, so that there they could baptize him and decide his further fate. He got rid of him at the cloister of Saint-Merri in the rue Saint-Martin. There they baptized him with the name Jean-Baptiste. And because on that day the prior was in a good mood and the eleemosynary fund not yet exhausted, they did not have the child shipped to Rouen, but instead pampered him at the cloister's expense. To this end, he was given to a wet nurse named Jeanne Bussie who lived in the rue Saint-Denis and was to receive, until further notice, three francs per week for her trouble.

2

A few weeks later, the wet nurse Jeanne Bussie stood, market basket in hand, at the gates of the cloister of Saint-Merri, and the minute they were opened by a bald monk of about fifty with a light odor of vinegar about him-Father Terrier-she said "There!" and set her market basket down on the threshold.

"What's that?" asked Terrier, bending down over the basket and sniffing at it, in the hope that it was something edible.

"The bastard of that woman from the rue aux Fers who killed her babies!"

The monk poked about in the basket with his finger till he had exposed the face of the sleeping infant.

"He looks good. Rosy pink and well nourished."

"Because he's stuffed himself on me. Because he's pumped me dry down to the bones. But I've put a stop to that. Now you can feed him yourselves with goat's milk, with pap, with beet juice. He'll gobble up anything, that bastard will."

Father Terrier was an easygoing man. Among his duties was the administration of the cloister's charities, the distribution of its moneys to the poor and needy. And for that he expected a thank-you and that he not be bothered further. He despised technical details, because details meant difficulties and difficulties meant ruffling his composure, and he simply would not put up with that. He was upset that he had even opened the gate. He wished that this female would take her market basket and go home and let him alone with her suckling problems. Slowly he straightened up, and as he did he breathed the scent of milk and cheesy wool exuded by the wet nurse. It was a pleasant aroma.

"I don't understand what it is you want. I really don't understand what you're driving at. I can only presume that it would certainly do no harm to this infant if he were to spend a good while yet lying at your breast."

"None to him," the wet nurse snarled back, "but plenty to me. I've lost ten pounds and been eating like I was three women. And for what? For three francs a week!"

"Ah, I understand," said Terrier, almost relieved. "I catch your drift. Once again, it's a matter of money."

"No!" said the wet nurse.

"Of course it is! It's always a matter of money. When there's a knock at this gate, it's a matter of money. Just once I'd like to open it and find someone standing there for whom it was a matter of something else. Someone, for instance, with some little show of thoughtfulness. Fruit, perhaps, or a few nuts. After all, in autumn there are lots of things someone could come by with. Flowers maybe. Or if only someone would simply come and say a friendly word. 'God bless you, Father Terrier, I wish you a good day!' But I'll probably never live to see it happen. If it isn't a beggar, it's a merchant, and if it isn't a merchant, it's a tradesman, and if it isn't alms he wants, then he presents me with a bill. I can't even go out into the street anymore. When I go out on the street, I can't take three steps before I'm hedged in by folks wanting money!"

"Not me," said the wet nurse.

"But I'll tell you this: you aren't the only wet nurse in the parish. There are hundreds of excellent foster mothers who would scramble for the chance of putting this charming babe to their breast for three francs a week, or to supply him with pap or juices or whatever nourishment . . ."

"Then give him to one of them!"

". . . On the other hand, it's not good to pass a child around like that. Who knows if he would flourish as well on someone else's milk as on yours. He's used to the smell of your breast, as you surely know, and to the beat of your heart."

And once again he inhaled deeply of the warm vapors streaming from the wet nurse.

But then, noticing that his words had made no impression on her, he said, "Now take the child home with you! I'll speak to the prior about all this. I shall suggest to him that in the future you be given four francs a week."

"No," said the wet nurse.

"All right-five!"

"No."

"How much more do you want, then?" Terrier shouted at her. "Five francs is a pile of money for the menial task of feeding a baby."

I don't want any money, period," said the wet nurse. "I want this bastard out of my house."

"But why, my good woman?" said Terrier, poking his finger in the basket again. "He really is an adorable child. He's rosy pink, he doesn't cry, and he's been baptized."

"He's possessed by the devil."

Terrier quickly withdrew his finger from the basket.

"Impossible! It is absolutely impossible for an infant to be possessed by the devil. An infant is not yet a human being; it is a prehuman being and does not yet possess a fully developed soul. Which is why it is of no interest to the devil. Can he talk already, perhaps? Does he twitch and jerk? Does he move things about in the room? Does some evil stench come from him?"

"He doesn't smell at all," said the wet nurse.

"And there you have it! That is a clear sign. If he were possessed by the devil, then he would have to stink."

And to soothe the wet nurse and to put his own courage to the test, Terrier lifted the basket and held it up to his nose.

"I smell absolutely nothing out of the ordinary," he said after he had sniffed for a while, "really nothing out of the ordinary. Though it does appear as if there's an odor coming from his diapers." And he held out the basket to her so that she could confirm his opinion.

Review:

4.7 out of 5

94.00% of customers are satisfied

5.0 out of 5 stars "Perfume" - A Surreal & Chilling Tale Gloriously Told

J.L. · April 3, 2005

First and foremost, German author Patrick Suskind's novel, "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer," is a celebration of the written word, and an affirmation of good popular literature. Suskind's beautifully crafted narrative excites the imagination and expands the reader's senses - especially that least appreciated of faculties, the olfactory. John E. Woods should be lauded for bringing the richness and texture of the author's language to his English translation. "Perfume" is much more than a murder mystery or suspense thriller. It is an extraordinary tale that defies genre classification.Jean-Baptiste Grenouille was born in the most squalid, stinking marketplace of 18th-century Paris, perhaps even the most putrid place in all France, on July 17, 1738. And, as the author explains, the stench of 18th-century Paris is one that modern man cannot begin to fathom - manure, moldering wood, rat droppings, human excretions both common and exotic, caustic lyes and sulfur from the tanneries, congealed blood from the slaughterhouses, the great unwashed masses, spoiled and rotting food, etc., etc.. His mother, who suffered from "gout, syphilis and a touch of consumption," was otherwise healthy. She was not concerned when her labor began. She had delivered four other babies beneath her fish booth, all illegitimate, and disposed of all four, along with the bloody refuse of fish and entrails at the end of the market day. Amoral, she had no idea she was doing wrong, nor did she particularly care. Jean-Baptiste was fortunate. He cried lustily at birth, thus calling sufficient attention to himself, that his mother was forced to acknowledge him. The baby boy was allowed to live. Taken in by the church, he was placed in the care of a wet nurse.In the novel's wonderful first paragraph, Suskind introduces John-Baptiste. "In eighteenth-century France there lived a man who was one of the most gifted and abominable personages in an era that knew no lack of gifted and abominable personages. His name was Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and if his name - in contrast to the names of other gifted abominations, de Sade's, for instance, or Saint-Just's, Fouche's, Bonaparte's, etc. - has been forgotten today, it is not because Grenouille fell short of those more famous blackguards when it came to arrogance, misanthropy, immorality, or, more succinctly, to wickedness, because his gifts and his sole ambition were restricted to a domain that leaves no traces in history: to the fleeting realm of scent."Grenouille had no scent of his own - absolutely no odor. This was a terrible handicap which caused all to shun him from infancy, without understanding why they avoided him. However, in a bizarre attempt to balance this aberration, nature provided Jean-Baptiste with the most acute sense of smell of any human that ever lived. At an early age, he was able to clearly distinguish differences in people with his eyes closed. He knew the different scents of wood, which he had to chop everyday, and even which of a variety of cows provided the milk he drank each morning. He spent his every waking hour identifying, ordering and classifying scent. This extraordinary olfactory gift, and his passion to pursue, capture and distill all scents, were to be the cause of his unforeseeable elevation in society, which rarely recognized one of his lowly class, and also, his ultimate downfall. Mr. Suskind chronicles here Grenouille's life - from his stint at the home of Madame Gaillard, who took in orphans like Jean-Baptiste, to his arduous apprenticeship with the tanner Grimal, his work with the famous perfumer Baldini, where he became a journeyman perfumer, and his wanderings throughout all Paris to learn the city's every smell. He aspired to become the omnipotent god of scent. He knew that the person "who ruled scent also ruled the hearts of men," for "scent was the brother of breath." Then came the day he discovered the single most exquisite scent of all, which he became obsessed to possess for his own.Grenouille had never known love or the slightest affection, not even a tender touch. No one educated him about right and wrong, and he had no inherent ability to distinguish between good and evil. From the earliest age, he did what was necessaey to survive. He was truly a man with no conscience - totally narcissistic. Morality played no part in his life - the pursuit of scent was all that gave him joy. It is to Patrick Suskind's credit that I felt such empathy for this creature. I don't excuse his behavior, but given his background and life, how else could he have been expected to turn out?"Perfume's" various settings are illustrated, and the characters depicted, as Jean-Baptiste would perceive them, through smell. The descriptions are so vivid, and the use of language so bountiful, that I found myself reading passages aloud at times, just to savor the words. The historic detail is meticulous and fascinating, as is the process of perfume making, much of which is described here. This is a compelling tale, that is surreal, almost otherworldly. It is also a chilling portrait of a psychopath with a mission. The conclusion is brilliant, unexpected and riveting. A marvelous read!JANA

4.0 out of 5 stars A great read!

t. · May 28, 2024

A well paced and engrossing tale. I loved how the characterization and dynamic of the members unfolded. Ties well together at the end, and you almost have sympathy to Grenouille for all the murders he did, he never found his own scent.

5.0 out of 5 stars I saw this on Netflix, it made me buy the book.

j. · August 27, 2024

As stated above, I saw this on Netflix, I then thought WTF if this is the show the book has to be way more in depth. It was and it was disturbing. If you like books like this where you are like WTF did I just read, and like why and wtf you may like this book. I read it in a weekend, not a hard read, it's back in the day in Paris I believe and about a child who grew up detached and a weird sense of smell which led to him wanting to create perfume in a gross way. As I write this I think I sound weird that I read this but then again I am a stay at home mom who watches dateline all the time so if your like me this will make you think hmmm another weird thing to watch out for and you'll probably check to make sure you have the gland in your armpit which will make you want to guard it a little more than you've ever thought you would.. If you read it you'll be like hmm ok Jennifer I see what your saying.. I also never knew this could ever be a way anyone would think to make perfume... it's different.

3.0 out of 5 stars different

S. · March 3, 2024

Definitely not a book for the faint of heart. Graphic descriptions abound. But a clear picture of a serial killer is created. I enjoyed learning how perfumes are made and created.

5.0 out of 5 stars The Human Condition

p.o.i. · July 3, 2024

THIS BOOK!! 🌟 How can I assign any labels to such a one-of-a-kind read? Reading ‘Perfume’ by Patrick Süskind was such a magical experience that no single label can capture its essence.The story follows Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, a boy born in 18th-century France with a magical gift: an extraordinarily heightened sense of smell. From his difficult birth in the squalor of Paris to his rise and fall as a perfumer, Grenouille’s life is marked by his uncanny ability to discern and create scents. What seems like a miraculous talent quickly reveals itself to be more of a curse. Isolated and misunderstood, Grenouille’s obsession with capturing the perfect scent leads him down a dark and twisted path. His journey delves deep into themes of identity, obsession, and the human condition, making this book an immersive exploration of the senses and the psyche.Grenouille’s character is crafted to evoke a strong sense of disgust in the reader. His cold, calculating nature and his lack of empathy makes him a character that is easy to despise. However, despite his insufferable traits, I couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of sorrow and sadness for him. His actions, though horrific, seem detached, as if driven by an internal compulsion rather than a conscious desire for evil. This detachment evokes a tragic dimension to his character, highlighting the loneliness and the profound disconnection from humanity that define his existence. His inability to relate to others and his obsessive pursuit of creating the perfect scent underscore a deep, intrinsic void, making his story as pitiable as it is repellent.I know that I’ll be thinking of this book forever, which is why it’s a 5 🌟 read for me. Süskind’s writing is nothing short of genius. His talent for describing scents is so vivid and evocative that it feels as though you can actually smell them through the pages. Every fragrance, from the most sublime to the most repulsive, is brought to life with astonishing detail. Best. Book. Ever. Can’t wait to rewatch the film!!!

Perfetto

N. · June 6, 2024

Copertina e libro originale, stampa del 1986. Ottimo e bellissimo! Gran romanzo!

ISOLATION & PERFUME TASTE NOVEL...

M. · February 23, 2021

Ever since teen is my most fav novel of all the times!! 🖤🖤🖤“He possessed the power. He held it in his hand. A power stronger than the power of money or the power of terror or the power of death: the invincible power to command the love of mankind. There was only one thing that power could not do: it could not make him able to smell himself.”Perfume is a story about social isolation; it’s a story about not belonging in the world and the negative effects this can wrought on one’s mind. It’s also a story about obsession, a singular pursuit for perfection regardless of the costs.Consequences simply do not matter for Jean. He is completely detached from reality; he lives in his own world of scent, invisible to all others. Murder means nothing to him because he does not fully understand what he is murdering. He has no feelings. He cannot comprehend what it is to snuff out a life because he is not truly alive himself. He is dead inside and numb to all else in his differentness.“He realized that all his life he had been a nobody to everyone. What he now felt was the fear of his own oblivion. It was as though he did not exist.”“He had withdrawn solely for his own personal pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid.”As such befalls misery for all those that meet him. His talent is remarkable and his motivation (when roused) is unstoppable. His singular pursuit for his goal is uncompromising and he will stop at nothing to achieve the most perfect of scents. The secret ingredient he has been looking for comes his way and he cannot rest until he has it. Innocence is a mighty hard thing to harvest, though it is the missing piece he has been looking for; it will give his perfume the power to inspire love: it will be irresistible.However, as the tale of Icarus taught us, those who fly too high will burn. As such the ending of this is simply perfection. The moment captures the heart of the book in one beautifully horrific frenzy of emotions and desire. The delivery is masterful. I knew it was coming (I’d seen the film many years previously) though I don’t think the film could every quite capture the intensity and euphoric nature of the situation.The only reason I have not given this five stars is because I found it rambled a little in places. I think the story could have been cut back and made tighter and more effective, though I loved the prose and the plot. Jean makes for an interesting character study for sure.

Histoire prenante

P. · October 16, 2022

Je l’ai acheté car c’est le livre préféré de Kurt Cobain. Lors d’un vieux interview il l’a donné envie de le lire. Et je ne regrette pas, histoire sombre et prenante. A lire.

Inigualável

k. · October 25, 2020

Olá!Venho falar com dificuldade desta obra, pois não creio ter a capacidade de usar as palavras de tal forma que façam jus a essa obra de arte MAGNÍFICA, FABULOSA, INCOMPARÁVEL. Que baste isso. Leia, é uma obra filosófica, que fala de maneira simples e clara sobre memória, sobre afetos e desafetos, sobre a mente humana e sobre a vida na terra e do que somos feitos.Quanto ao produto: chegou com leves riscos na capa, nada que incomode, a edição da capa é linda, as folhas são finas, cuidado para não rasgar!É o tipo de livro que se você encontrar: COMPRE-O!

Brilliantly written

S.P. · May 30, 2021

Reviewing the book, not the Bolo order.The book is quite strange in its storytelling. The principle idea is unique, but some events are bizarre. But fast paced, good read.

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Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

Name: Perfume: The Story of a Murderer
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