As I write, I am wearing the intriguing Ginsberg is God, a leathery, wood-smokey number for men and women that tells of open fires and open windows, of mid-century autumnal seduction over tea and poetry, of afternoon delights where nature meets intellect, where fallen leaves meet fallen morals. Something peppery spices up the personality of this fragrance, which anchors itself in woods and resins, and there’s a calming echo of old leather that lulls the scent’s fiery opening into an enchanting beatnik smoulder.
