Sir John Suckling (1609-1642):
If when Don Cupids dart
Doth wound a heart,
we hide our grief
and shun relief;
The smart increaseth on that score;
For wounds unsearcht but ranckle more.
Then if we whine, look pale,
And tell our tale,
men are in pain
for us again;
So, neither speaking doth become
The Lovers state, nor being dumb.
When this I do descry,
Then thus think I,
love is the fart
of every heart:
It pains a man when ‘t is kept close,
And others doth offend, when ‘t is let loose.
Sir John Suckling (1640)
James Joyce, contemplating Nora’s essence.
Had James Joyce developed his fart sommelier talent rather than distracting himself with writing novels and drinking … everything in Ireland … with Hemingway, my noble profession may have finally reached peerage with chefs, dancers, and the entertainer I met in Luxembourg who could do that thing with the ping pong balls (Je t’aime… moi non plus, Angelique).
“I think I would know Nora’s fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. “
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