[ 3 / biz / cgl / ck / diy / fa / ic / jp / lit / sci / vr / vt ] [ index / top / reports ] [ become a patron ] [ status ]
2023-11: Warosu is now out of extended maintenance.

/lit/ - Literature

View post   
File: 45 KB, 195x179, 7035.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
6104504 No.6104504 [Reply] [Original]

Has there ever been a passage of prose that artfully describes the euphoric sensation of pooping?

>> No.6104514

Francisco de Quevedo

>> No.6106357
File: 82 KB, 383x550, alpha3.jpg [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google]
6106357

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFbaBAIO_2M
You may be interested in Mozart's "Leck mich im Arsch", a canon in B flat for six voices.
It doesn't deal with feces directly, but with the pleasures of being licked in the arse.
Mozart was a pretty funny guy.

>> No.6106742

the more she shat the more she drank etc etc

>> No.6106747

haiku:

shit comes out my ass
like homemade playdoh through a
star shaped extruder

>> No.6107498

>tfw pooping as reading this

oh yes

>> No.6107504

>>6106357
This is much more beautiful than Amadeus made it seem

>> No.6107507

>>6104504
If you don't clean up that potty mouth you can say goodbye to your GBP.

>> No.6107512

>>6104504
if I remember well, someone here has said that there is a similar passage in the ulysses

>> No.6107519

He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows. The king was in his countinghouse. Nobody.

Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six.

Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six.

...

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.