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Non c’è niente di peggio che farsi una bella cacata e poi stendere la mano e trovare il contenitore della carta igienica vuoto. Anche l’essere più orribile del mondo ha diritto di pulirsi il culo. Mi è capitato di tendere la mano e non trovare la carta igienica, poi di provare con i coprisedile di carta e scoprire che erano finiti anche quelli. Ti alzi, guardi e vedi che anche quello che hai usato tu è caduto dentro. Quella che trovo più soddisfacente è pulirsi il culo con le mutande, buttar dentro anche quelle, tirare lo sciacquone e ingorgare la tazza.

In Factotum di Bukowski.

PROLOGO DELL'AUTORE
Beoni lustrissimi, e voi Impestati pregiatissimi (poiché a voi non ad altri dedico i miei scritti) ...

Finnegans Wake, James Joyce, estratto dal cap. dedicato ad Anna Livia Plurabelle

[...] facemen, boomslanging and plugchewing, fruiteyeing and flower-
feeding, in contemplation of the fluctuation and the undification
of her filimentation, lolling and leasing on North Lazers' Waal
all eelfare week by the Jukar Yoick's and as soon as they saw her
meander by that marritime way in her grasswinter's weeds and
twigged who was under her archdeaconess bonnet, Avondale's
fish and Clarence's poison, sedges an to aneber, Wit-upon-
Crutches to Master Bates: Between our two southsates and the
granite they're warming, or her face has been lifted or Alp has doped!
    But what was the game in her mixed baggyrhatty? Just the 
tembo in her tumbo or pilipili from her pepperpot? Saas and
taas and specis bizaas. And where in thunder did she plunder?
Fore the battle or efter the ball? I want to get it frisk from the
soorce. I aubette my bearb it's worth while poaching on! Shake
it up, do, do! That's a good old son of a ditch! I promise I'll
make it worth your while. And I don't mean maybe. Nor yet
with a goodfor. Spey me pruth and I'll tale you true.
    Well, arundgirond in a waveney lyne aringarouma she pattered 
and swung and sidled, dribbling her boulder through narrowa
mosses, the diliskydrear on our drier side and the vilde vetchvine
agin us, curara here, careero there, not knowing which medway
or weser to strike it, edereider, making chattahoochee all to her
ain chichiu, like Santa Claus at the cree of the pale and puny,
nistling to hear for their tiny hearties, her arms encircling Isola-
bella, then running with reconciled Romas and Reims, on like a
lech to be off like a dart, then bathing Dirty Hans' spatters with
spittle, with a Christmas box apiece for aisch and iveryone of her
childer, the birthday gifts they dreamt they gabe her, the spoiled
she fleetly laid at our door! On the matt, by the pourch and in-
under the cellar. The rivulets ran aflod to see, the glashaboys, the
pollynooties. Out of the paunschaup on to the pyre. And they all
about her, juvenile leads and ingenuinas, from the slime of their
slums and artesaned wellings, rickets and riots, like the Smyly
boys at their vicereine's levee. Vivi vienne, little Annchen! Vielo
Anna, high life! Sing us a sula, O, susuria! Ausone sidulcis!
Hasn't she tambre! Chipping her and raising a bit of a chir or a
210 UP
jary every dive she'd neb in her culdee sacco of wabbash she
raabed and reach out her maundy meerschaundize, poor souvenir
as per ricorder and all for sore aringarung, stinkers and heelers,
laggards and primelads, her furzeborn sons and dribblederry
daughters, a thousand and one of them, and wickerpotluck for
each of them. For evil and ever. And kiks the buch.