SOMETHING PUNGENT THIS WAY COMES
Which are tobaccos sold in South Africa.
Today I met that man.
He also likes the nice pungent perfume of Latakia.
And it turns out that his tastes are guided by memory. The aroma of tobacco is, you understand, a powerful mental sparker. Many people will appreciatively sniff the fragrance of a pipe or cigar, and in blissed-out reverie remark that it reminds them of an uncle, or a school teacher, an elderly relative, perhaps an antique older gentleman of their family's acquaintance, some impossibly old fart, an ancient arthritic and drooling wreck, or a dessicated corpse from the last century kept in a basement nook of the family manse.
Best case scenario: a charming classmate from highschool or college, or that handsome dude pensively drinking double espressos while reading all the way through James Joyce's Ulysses in the back corner of the Caffe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, three blocks from Sather Gate, amid the fog from Gauloises and Gitanes.
That was me, by the way.
You should have spoken.
And yes, I finished it.
I was less successful with À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu, by Proust.
A friend read it several years ago, and asserted that it was a work of great literature. Another friend averred that this was an accurate statement, and waxed lyrical and fulsome in praise.
I'm still working on the last volume. The entire set is in the pit under the teevee, behind stacked plates and bowls by artisan potters.
One of these days I'll steel myself.
I am no longer quite sure how I feel about Madeleines.
There are times when I remember Berkeley fondly.
In case you were wondering, the South African gentleman was originally mentioned in this post: Afrikaner Smoke Clouds, back in July of 2009. This evening he is no doubt enjoying some Dunhill Nightcap, which is an Oriental mixture with an extraordinary complement of Latakia.
It bears no resemblance to Boxer, Assegai, and Jock.
From what I can gather, mostly flue-cured leaf.
Strong, earthy, and a bit wild.
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