"I settled on the Chamber-pot as soon as ever he was off,” a sprightly prostitute named Juliette says of her latest client, “till I made it whurra, and roar like the Tide at London-Bridge."
ny mag (via 30prufrock)
"Charlie Parker wrecked jazz by—or so they tell me—using the chromatic rather than the diatonic scale. The diatonic scale is what you use if you want to write a national anthem, or a love song, or a lullaby. The chromatic scale is what you use to give the effect of drinking a quinine martini and having an enema simultaneously."
— Philip Larkin
"One of Bloom’s mooted entrepreneurial schemes involves selling human waste on an industrial scale. Joyce’s work is mired in excremental language and imagery: water closets, commodes, sewers, ‘clotted hinderparts’, ‘slopperish matter’, ‘nappy spattees’, ‘pip poo pat’ of ‘bulgar … bowels’ and so on. Nowhere is Joyce more potty-mouthed than when taking on the language and procedure of religious devotion. At the outset of Finnegans Wake the books of Genesis and Exodus become urinary and colonic tracts and Christ the salmon turns into a big brown trout, a ‘brontoichthyan’ thunderfish or turd floating in a stream mingling with ‘piddle’. But, again, the process has already begun in Ulysses. Bloom starts his day by votively bowing his head as he enters his outhouse to perform the act of defecation that will see him hailed as ‘Moses, Moses, King of the Jews’ who ‘wiped his arse in the Daily News’. Buck Mulligan, in his parody of Mass, quick-changes from priest to military doctor, peeping at an imaginary stool sample floating in what he has been presenting as an altar bowl. The shaving bowl doesn’t contain faeces, but other sorts of human waste: stubble and cast-off skin cells. These things, too, belong to the category of excreta, as do phlegm, bile, navelcords and blood: whatever is excessive, leaking, trailing, dragging."
— Tom McCarthy does Joyce (LRB)


Awake! For in the Lavatory Bowls of Night
Old Men have peed and stained the brilliant White:
   And Lo! the Yellowness of Age has dimmed
The Star of Youth that once shone bold and bright!

Ah, me, once Damsels all they had bestowed
On those Young Men who batted, bowled and rowed -
   Though they to all and sundry, on their Bikes,
Their rosy Knickers in the Daylight showed!

'Tis at this age that we remember How—-
But no more have we, Friends, the Strength; enow
   To lay the Loved Ones in the silken Bed!
Though HE did us so mightily endow!

Strange, is is not? That Sailors, greatly thewed,
By us with Godlike Beauty were imbued:
   And now from Sea return’d lie still in Earth,
That erst so dazzled us, when in the Nude!

The Wine, the Grape, the Visions that we saw—-
And shared, it seemeth, with great Evelyn Waugh!
   Ah, these the Liver faintly doth forbid.
Once Nightingales, but now the black Rook’s Caw!

I dreamed that Dawn’s Left Hand was in my Fly
And lighted was the Candle, burning high!
   But, waking, saw with disappointed Gaze
That Light a flicker, and about to die.

The Roses and the Gardens, let them go!
Our Youth, our Love, that we once fancied so,
   Forget them, as the Nights of Too Much Wine
Blot out all Memory like falling Snow!

Gavin Ewart

Only the young are allowed to suffer 
openly. Adults go to a punishment room 

with water but nothing to eat. 
They lock the door and suffer the noises 

alone. No one is exempt 
and everyone’s pain has a different smell. 

Craig Raine [C: “does everyone’s rain smell different?”]

"[Robert D. Kaplan] wanders from Sierra Leone to Iran to Cambodia, all the while splattering the reader with regurgitations of various scholarly research: where the word Turk comes from, a pocket history of the Iranian city of Qom, the “deceptive” nature of the term Indochina."