Gogol’s The Nose begins with the smell of newly baked bread and some characteristically surreal black humour.
‘There was something whitish in the middle of the roll. He poked at it with his knife, then felt it with his finger.
“It’s quite compact…” he muttered under his breath. “Whatever can it be…?”
He thrust in two fingers this time and pulled it out. It was a nose.’
Gogol has just invoked the wonderful smell of baking bread on the behalf of our somewhat disgruntled barber, would-be consumer of the roll, so it is clear whose nose it is not. With the discovery of the detached nose, the author whisks away the pleasing aroma, ensuring that the lost nose must be taken more seriously than the barber’s semi-comic revelation might otherwise indicate.
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A Rat in the Book Pile 