After these fruitless endeavours, I do not think that I am going too far when I deny the creature a sense of smell.
Taste is there, no doubt.

But such taste! The food is without variety: oak, for three years at a stretch, and nothing else.

What can the grub's palate appreciate in this monotonous fare?
The tannic relish of a fresh piece, oozing with sap, the uninteresting flavour of an over-dry piece, robbed of its natural condiment: these probably represent the whole gustative scale.
There remains touch, the far-spreading, passive sense common to all live flesh that quivers under the goad of pain.

The sensitive schedule of the Cerambyx-grub, therefore, is limited to taste and touch, both exceedingly obtuse.

This almost brings us to Condillac's statue.