Jonathan Swift On Women Who Fart (Or Don't)

Today's guest blogger is Stinky the Brontosaurus, recently cloned from an errant strand of DNA recovered from a bone fossil. "Born" with the ability to communicate in a manner unknown during the Jurassic, he is a prehistoric marvel. - SJG

By Stinky the Brontosaurus

I read the news today, oh boy. It appears that my dinosaur brethren and I farted our way into climate change, our effusions of methane warming the Earth and, perhaps, rendering us extinct. Tyrannosaurus Reeks? I'm sticking to the death by asteroid theory. 

Within my bathroom reading library is a book that refutes Fartageddon, one that I routinely peruse while on the throne awaiting an explosion down below. 

The Benefit of Farting Explain’d, a tract attributed to Jonathan Swift (and not to be confused with The Winds of War by Herman Wouk), swiftly, of course, gets to the heart of things, its subtitle a redolent prospectus of what is to come in one of the great run-on titles: 

Or, The Fundament-All Cause of the Distempers incident to the Fair-Sex, enquired into. Proving á Posteriori most of the Dis-ordures In tail’d upon them, are owing to Flatulen-cies not seasonably vented. Wrote in Spanish by Don Fartinando Puff-indorst’, Professor of Bumbast in the University of Crackow. And Translated into English at the Request, and for the Use, of the Lady Damp-fart of Her-fart-shire. By Obadiah Fizzle, Groom of the Stool to the Princess of Arsimini in Sardinia. Long-Fart (Longford in Ireland): Printed by Simon Bumbubbad, at the Sign of the Wind-Mill opposite Twattling-Street.

The ladies will, I pray, direct their displeasure at Swift, not me. That unexpressed farts are the cause of bad moods a la femme is a calumny, though I once dated a stegosaurus who became a harridan while holding them in; she was a Lady who, as fine ladies often do, feared the social consequences of letting 'em rip in public. One need only read the book's A Certificate from the Court of the Princess Arsemini, and Miss V***e' F***s, in the Philippic Style to understand their anxiety.

While we're on the subject of A Woman Under the Influence of Flatulence, the movie that John Cassavetes dared not make, allow me to relate a story we often tell around the campfire:

Once upon a time, Gangolfus,  a Carolingian warrior-aristocrat from Burgundy later beatified, was married to an adulterous wife.

It came to pass that, while on a long journey, Gangolfus bought a piece of land graced with a pure spring. Upon his return, his shrewish spouse ridiculed his purchase because the spring was so distant from their home that it was useless to them.

In riposte, Gangolfus thrust a stick into the ground and, miraculously, water poured forth and a clear pond, exactly like the one he just had bought, came into being. Suspicious of his wife's lousy attitude, he suggested that she  dip her hand into the cool water. She did, and was scalded thereby betraying her adulteries. In revenge, her swain, a swinish priest, murdered Gangolfus.

Shortly afterward, God punished the evil ecclesiastic by gutting his entrails in the loo, the same death that took Judas the betrayer and Arius the heretic.

Miracles soon began to occur at the tomb of Gangolfus, a  sign of his sanctity in life. When news of the miracles reached his widow, she said, "If Gangolfus can work miracles, then so can my asshole!" 

As punishment for this wisecrack, God cursed her with violent flatulence whenever she spoke about the miracles of her dead husband. For the rest of her life her ass announced, in a malodorous, inflammable foghorn voice, his sainthood. Take that, wanton woman!

(I paraphrased this version from a review of Vita Gangolfi, Das Leben Gangolfs by Paul Dräger, found in Medieval Review, a journal I keep in the bathroom next to Primeval Quarterly).

Originally appearing in 1722, The Benefit of Farting Explain'd was reprinted in 1735 within a  miscellany including two other scatological works. It is a very rare book. The first edition has fallen under the hammer only twice within the last thirty six years, in 1980 and 2007; the same copy. The 1935 edition has not been seen at auction at all within the same period.

This lower intestinal tract has long been attributed to Swift but, according to him is was written by "one Dobbs, a surgeon." Yet to my Bronosaurian mind it's quite characteristically amusing, Swifty and sniffty. I suspect Swift dodged attribution.

Another book has recently wafted its way upon a scatological zephyr onto my bathroom's bookshelf and into my nostrils, An Essay Upon Wind by Charles James Fox, [London}: Printed on superfine pot-paper, at the Office of Peter Puffendorf, Potsdam, 1800. It opens with the following epigraph, courtesy of John Wilmont, 2d Earl of Rochester:

Perhaps such writing ought to be confined
In mere good breeding, like unsavory wind.
Were reading forced, I should be apt to think,
Men might no more write scurvily than stink:
But 'tis your choice whether you'll read or no;
If likewise of your smelling, it were so,
I'd fart, just as I write, for in my own ease,
Nor should you be concerned unless you please.

Fox dedicated his essay to the Lord Chancellor, Edward Thurlow: "I have heard from several of your brother peers, that your Lordship farts, without reserve, when seated upon the woolsack, in a full assembly of nobles… May your Lordship continue to fart like an ancient Grecian for many years…" (I should point out that Fox, a Whig statesman, had, in 1783, formed a coalition government and sacked Thurlow as Lord Chancellor; this was his parting shot).

Fox anticipates a strong headwind from his audience, as I do:  "I think I hear the CURIOUS reader exclaim, 'Heavens! That the brain of a man should be set to work on such cursed nonsense - such damned low stuff as farting; he ought to be ashamed of straining his dull facilities to such a nasty, absorb subject. But to PRINT his THOUGHTS upon farting, and to dedicate his dirty lucubrations to the Lord Chancellor, is the height of all human impudence and folly.'"

He then treats the variations of flatulence:

"I take it there are five or six different species of farts, and which are perfectly distinct from each other, both in weight and smell. First, the sonorous and full-toned, or rousing fart; Second, the double fart; Third, the soft fizzing fart; fourth, the wet fart; and Fifth, the sullen wind-bound fart."

It's Fartapalooza.

As long as we're relieving ourselves, I would be remiss to not mention another scatological tract once published with a reprint of  Swift-Dobbs' Benefits,  A Curious Dissertation on Pissing; Written by Piss-A-Bed Scat-Her-Water, Countess of Piss-in-Ford, and Lady of the Manor of Piss-Pot-Hall. 

Now, Mama brontosaurus, bless her, had a weak bladder since childhood, and, way too often, during seasonal migrations, she forced us all to stop by the side of the road so she could empty herself. I can't say that all women have urinary issues but it's probably no coincidence that incontinence pads are almost exclusively marketed to them. If Ma only had them back then...

Mama brontosaurus always lit a match when she farted, the smell of sulphur, to her nose, canceling-out digestive gas, though the rest of us disagreed, so much so that when she cut the cheese and prepared to strike a match, we ran, dug a hole, and waited for things to blow over. The prospect of the Earth's atmosphere igniting in a planetary conflagration and snuffing-out all life was too much to bear. Talk about global warming!

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[SWIFT, Jonathan, attributed to]. The Benefit of Farting Explain’d: Or, The Fundament-All Cause of the Distempers incident to the Fair-Sex, enquired into. Proving á Posteriori most of the Dis-ordures In tail’d upon them, are owing to Flatulen-cies not seasonably vented. Wrote in Spanish by Don Fartinando Puff-indorst’, Professor of Bumbast in the University of Crackow. And Translated into English at the Request, and for the Use, of the Lady Damp-fart of Her-fart-shire. By Obadiah Fizzle, Groom of the Stool to the Princess of Arsimini in Sardinia. Long-Fart (Longford in Ireland): Printed by Simon Bumbubbad, at the Sign of the Wind-Mill opposite Twattling-Street, 1722 reprinted 1735).  12mo. 16 pp.

Rothchild 2225. Teerink 905.Terink 19 (note). Watt, Bibliotheca Britannica Vol II, p. 890p.

[ANONYMOUS]. A Curious Dissertation on Pissing; Written by Piss-A-Bed Scat-Her-Water, Countess of Piss-in-Ford, and Lady of the Manor of Piss-Pot-Hall. To which is added, The Benefit of Farting or the Fundament-All Cause of the Distempers incident to the Fair Sex enquir’d into: [N.p., n.p.]: 1787. First edition. 12mo. 36 pp.

FOX, Charles James. An Essay Upon Wind; with curious anecdotes of eminent peteurs. Humbly dedicated to the Lord Chancellor. [London}: Printed on superfine pot-paper, at the Office of Peter Puffendorf, Potsdam, 1800.  Limited to 50 copies. Octavo. 56 pp.
ESTC N009441.

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Images courtesy of David Brass Rare Books, with our thanks.
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The Battle of the Books (and Other Nocturnal Emissions)

by Stephen J. Gertz

Until recently, I would, from time to time, awaken in the middle of the night to a murmured commotion emanating from the living room. Not unlike the sound of whispering children engrossed in play, the music of merriment would waft into my bedroom like dancing notes adrift upon a zephyr.

Clad in only a knee-length nightshirt and long pajama cap with fuzzy ball at its tail, I would silently ease out of bed, light a candle, and, like Ebenezer Scrooge on recon for Christmas ghosts, cautiously, with no little trepidation, make my way to the living room, concealing myself at the doorway so I could espy the goings on without being caught.

And what did I see? All of my books all over the place, relaxed, with their jackets off, refugees from confinement on the shelves, and mingling, working the room, chit-chatting with other volumes, gossiping, laughing, having a bookishly good time. Over to the right, for instance, Ellroy’s L.A. Confidential is whispering to Jane Eyre and Jane appears abashed; a liaison dangereuse is obviously taking place, for sure, and here’s hoping that Jane has protection - and not from Mickey Cohen or a USC-type Trojan. Near the curtains, a copy of David Ebin’s The Drug Experience is huffing a bottle of leather dressing for the fumes that refresh. The Story of O, A Man With a Maid, and Lolita are behind the couch and the less said the better.

Joseph Forshaw’s classic, Parrots of the World, is mimicking every word that Leaves of Grass is reciting; Ron Chernow’s Alexander Hamilton is talking money with Chernow’s John D. Rockefeller, the two marveling that they have a friend in common; Barry Paris’ Louise Brooks is closer-than-this in confab with Lee Server’s Ava Gardner and who wouldn’t want to be the text block between either of those alluring covers?; Herbert Asbury’s Gangs of New York is on the lam and out of control; and Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment is desperately trying to escape.

Last week, however, I awoke to a clamor. Throwing fears aside I dashed into the living room only to find that all my books had gone berserk, were at each other’s throats, rending dust jackets to shreds, cracking joints, throwing spines out of alignment, deckling edges, springing signatures, dislocating shoulder notes, rubbing each other the wrong way, and generally causing mayhem where merriment once reigned.

The Battle of the Books  (1704).

I took a picture with my new digital camera with software that auto-adjusts the snapped image  so it appears as a vintage engraving (see above). While I futzed with the hi-tech Kodak, a crew of mercenary knights on horseback charged in, further thickening the plot, which had now sickened into a sanguinary battle of the books. The blood ran like ink; it was not a pretty sight. And I swear I saw a  mounted horse, flying. Don't ask about the flying chick blowin' Miles' So What.

Curiously, Jonathan Swift had written about this Verdun of the volumes way back in 1704, part of the prolegomena to his satire, A Tale of the Tub, the author's first published work. He saw it as a battle between ancient and modern books in St. James Library, which was very kind of him; I’m no saint, my name ain’t James, and if my collection of books qualifies as a library then libraries are in even worse shape than reported.

Authors and ideas go toe-to-toe, and the entire tableau is worthy of a segment on Oprah, with members her book club, viciously and without conscience or care for the consequences (no free car!), throwing tomes at each other. The psychopathology of book love/hate is now recognized and bibliopath has entered the American Psychiatric Association's Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM) as a standard axis sub-sub-category.

Then the doctor switched my meds. Swift relief was not, alas, forthcoming; the next night I awoke to the reason why my mother routinely lights a match for no obvious reason and Beano was invented.

Attributed to Jonathan Swift.

I went into the living room and for the next hour was transfixed while Jonathan Swift explained the benefits of the wind in the intestinal willows, or the fundament-all cause of the distempers incidental to the fair sex enquired into, proving, a posteriori, once and for all, that most of the disorders in tail’d upon them, are owing to flatulence not seasonably vented. When he finished reading from his book of no ifs, ands, yet butts I felt like I might explode.

'Next morning I called my proctologist. He moonlights as a chimney sweep. My flue swept and thoroughly vented, I slept like a baby that night, which is to say I woke up  four times, crying, hungry, and with a diaper-full.

On the positive side, I no longer awaken in the wee hours with books in the belfry. The meds passed the brain-book barrier, now my books sleep through the night and the bibliographical soap opera that once broadcast while I slumbered has, evidently, been canceled, along with All My Children, One Life To Live, and, due to budget cuts, Reference Desk, the daily serial that ripped the curtain off the scandals, sensations,  raw passions, and illicit desires within a deceptively tranquil suburban library in Liberty Valley, USA, a nice place to raise the kids the American way.

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