... but urination, defecation, and death are certainly three.
I was made aware of this fact at about the age of 14, when I was working (@75 cents/hour) as a Page at the Idaho Falls, Idaho, public library...(yeah, yeah the old joke is: If you work real hard as a Page, you could eventually be promoted to a Chapter). Pages did things like fetch books that patrons requested and reshelve returned books.
It's almost fifty years gone now, but I still remember reshelving a copy of D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover in the ...uh, special collection...in the basement of the library. I don't recall how, but I did chance upon this passage:
All the while he spoke he exquisitely stroked the roundedtail, till it seemed as if a slippery sort of fire came from it into his hands. And his finger-tips touched the two secret openings to her body, time after time, with a soft little
brush of fire. ’An’ if tha shits an’ if tha pisses, I’m glad. I don’t want a woman as couldna shit nor piss.’
Connie could not help a sudden snort of astonished laughter, but he went on unmoved. Here tha shits an’ here tha pisses: an’ I lay my hand on ‘em both an’ I like thee for it. I like thee for it. Tha’s got a proper, woman’s arse, proud of itself. It’s none ashamed of itself this isna.’ He laid his hand close and firm over her secret places, in a kind of close greeting.
’I like it,’ he said. ‘I like it! An’ if I only lived ten minutes, an’ stroked thy arse an’ got to know it, I should reckon I’d lived ONEl ife, see ter! Industrial system or not! Here’s one o’ my lifetimes.’ She turned round and climbed into his lap, clinging to him. ‘Kiss me!’ she whispered. And she knew the thought of their separation was latent in both their minds, and at last she was sad.
She sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her ivory-gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing unequally upon them. Sitting with his head dropped, he looked at the folds of her body in the fire-glow, and at the fleece of soft brown hair that hung down to a point between her open thighs. He reached to the table behind, and took up
her bunch of flowers, still so wet that drops of rain fell on to her.
’Flowers stops out of doors all weathers,’ he said. ‘They have no houses.’
’Not even a hut!’ she murmured.
With quiet fingers he threaded a few forget-me-not flowers in the fine brown fleece of the mound of Venus.
’There!’ he said. ‘There’s forget-me-nots in the right place!’
She looked down at the milky odd little flowers among the brown maiden-hair at the lower tip of her body.
So, to those who claim that:
The open-air urination hole violates the privacy of those who need to use the restroom but would be required to expose their bodies and suffer shame and degradation of urinating in public view,"
I say, wake up and touch the roses.
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