… though it could just as easily be “I remember my sin,” and isn’t it a lovely and evocative memory either way?  Writing about scent, smell, is very very difficult, much like writing about music (as opposed to writing about musicians, which is an entirely different animal). This sad and loving memory entirely removes the flat grey taste of the news that there will be, or is, a perfume named for Baudelaire (no, no link, no thanks), to which all I can say is wtf.

A scent that, to me, will always evoke Under the Poppy is Nippon Kodo’s gorgeous “Sahara Moon” incense, which I burned daily like the good little obsessive I am throughout the writing of the novel.

But what is the scent of dried-and-bottled weevil? Is that a step too far into the land of verisimilitude? And would a person have to be Chandler Burr to describe it?