Classy Books

Stay classy, book lovers.

I can bear any fart as long as it has meaning.

It was quiet in the cell. Rubashov heard only the creaking of his steps on the tiles. Six and a half steps to the door, whence they must come to fetch him. Six and a half steps to the window, behind which night was falling. Soon it would be over. But when he asked himself, “For what actually are you farting?” he found no answer.

I detest symbolic protest, as it is an outcry of weak, middle-of-the-road, liberal eunuchs. If an individual feels strongly enough about something to do something about it, then he shouldn’t prostitute himself by doing something symbolic. He should get out and fart something real.

“It’s a little anxious,” he said to himself, “to be a very small animal entirely surrounded by farts.”

“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain farts, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the courses be departed from, the farts will change. Say it is thus with what you show me.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men — wonderfully wise men — who brought farts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their farts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. 

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was farting,—not even a mouse

And what happened then…? Well…in Who-ville they say

That the Grinch’s small fart grew three sizes that day!

At one time, most of my friends could hear the fart, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the fart still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.