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	<title>Comments on: Literary Defecation</title>
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	<description>Oh Solitude, if I must with thee dwell...</description>
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		<title>By: jacksonp</title>
		<link>http://www.chadpollock.com/2009/06/16/38/comment-page-1/#comment-56</link>
		<dc:creator>jacksonp</dc:creator>
		<pubDate>Wed, 17 Jun 2009 21:30:12 +0000</pubDate>
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		<description>Ulysses, or course.  The best book I&#039;ve never read.  Great passage, Jeff.  Thanks for sharing.  I think Joyce takes first place for literary defecation.</description>
		<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>Ulysses, or course.  The best book I&#8217;ve never read.  Great passage, Jeff.  Thanks for sharing.  I think Joyce takes first place for literary defecation.</p>
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		<title>By: Jeff Smithpeters</title>
		<link>http://www.chadpollock.com/2009/06/16/38/comment-page-1/#comment-54</link>
		<dc:creator>Jeff Smithpeters</dc:creator>
		<pubDate>Wed, 17 Jun 2009 05:21:23 +0000</pubDate>
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		<description>From the Calypso Chapter of Ulysses:

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 window. The king was in his counting house. 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&#039;s Masterstrike. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers&#039; 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&#039;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 master-stroke 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.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers, the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.

http://www.online-literature.com/james_joyce/ulysses/4/</description>
		<content:encoded><![CDATA[<p>From the Calypso Chapter of Ulysses:</p>
<p>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 window. The king was in his counting house. Nobody.</p>
<p>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&#8217;s Masterstrike. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers&#8217; 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.</p>
<p>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&#8217;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 master-stroke 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.</p>
<p>*  *  *</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers, the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper.</p>
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