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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