Ivan

“Some fathers have made themselves over into convincing replicas of beautiful sea animals, and some into convincing replicas of people they hated as children. Some fathers are goats, some are milk, some teach Spanish in cloisters, some are exceptions, some are capable of attacking world economic problems and killing them, but have not yet done so, they are waiting for one last vital piece of data. Some fathers strut but most do not, except inside; some fathers pose on horseback but most do not, except in the eighteenth century; some fathers fall off the horses they mount but most do not; some fathers, after falling off the horse, shoot the horse, but most do not; some fathers fear horses, but most fear, instead, women; some fathers masturbate because they fear women; some fathers sleep with hired women because they fear women who are free; some fathers never sleep at all, but are endlessly awake, staring at their futures, which are behind them.”
― Donald Barthelme, The Dead Father

“Подтирался я еще курицей, петухом, цыпленком, телячьей шкурой, зайцем,
голубем, бакланом, адвокатским мешком, капюшоном, чепцом, чучелом птицы.
В заключение, однако ж, я должен сказать следующее: лучшая в мире
подтирка - это пушистый гусенок, уверяю вас, - только когда вы просовываете
его себе между ног, то держите его за голову. Вашему отверстию в это время
бывает необыкновенно приятно, во-первых, потому, что пух у гусенка нежный, а во-вторых, потому, что сам гусенок тепленький, и это тепло через задний
проход и кишечник без труда проникает в область сердца и мозга. И напрасно
вы думаете, будто всем своим блаженством в Елисейских полях герои и полубоги обязаны асфоделям, амброзии и нектару, как тут у нас болтают старухи. По-моему, все дело в том, что они подтираются гусятами, и таково мнение
ученейшего Иоанна Скотта.”
― Francois Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel

“Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.”
― James Joyce, Ulysses

“You’re right: if there’s sentient life behind the border, it probably won’t share my goals. Unlike the people in this room, who all want exactly the same things in life as I do, and have precisely the same tastes in food, art, music, and sex. Unlike the people of Schur, and Cartan, and Zapata — who I came here in the hope of protecting, after losing my own home — who doubtless celebrate all the same festivals, delight in the same songs and stories, and gather every fortieth night to watch actors perform the same plays, in the same language, from the same undisputed canon, as the people I left behind.

“If there’s sentient life behind the border, of course we couldn’t empathize with it. These creatures are unlikely to possess cute mammalian neonate faces, or anything else we might mistake for human features. None of us could have the imagination to get over such insurmountable barriers, or the wit to apply such difficult abstractions as the General Intelligence theorem — though since every twelve-year-old on my home world was required to master that result, it must be universally known on this side of the border.

“You’re right: we should give up responsibility for making any difficult moral judgments, and surrender to the dictates of natural selection. Evolution cares so much about our happiness that no one who’s obeyed an inherited urge has ever suffered a moment’s regret for it. History is full of joyful case studies of people who followed their natural instincts at every opportunity — fucking whoever they could, stealing whatever they could, destroying anything that stood in their way — and the verdict is unanimous: any behavior that ever helped someone disseminate their genes is a recipe for unalloyed contentment, both for the practitioners, and for everyone around them.”
― Greg Egan, Schild's Ladder