My body continued to find new things intolerable. My beloved Mitsouko perfume suddenly produced migraines. The man who gave it to me had explained that scents could have narrative arcs, like ballets or novels. One of the first true chypres, the scent was based on Jacques Guerlain’s love affair with Japanese culture—or perhaps with a woman he met in Japan—but there is nothing Japanese about Mitsouko aside from the name. Like the male protagonist in a Stravinsky ballet, Guerlain didn’t know what he was talking about, the man had told me. Obviously, I did not call a doctor to complain about not being able to wear a perfume.

There’s no such thing as an aesthetic illness, a boyfriend once said to me. Do you even want to get better?