Sono state inventate zoologie e geografie intime per definire e collocare 'la cosa': down there, come si usa dire ai bambini inglesi, là sotto. Da una parte sta la volgarità sempre in agguato: fregna, topa, sorca. Dall'altra il ricorso a diminutivi infantili vagamente esorcizzanti il pauroso mistero: farfallina, patatina, gattina, passera, chitarrina. Insomma, si passa improvvisamente dal trucido al fru fru. Possibile che non vi sia scampo?

Canestrini, Duccio. I misteri del monte di Venere : viaggio nelle profondità del sesso femminile. Milano: Rizzoli, 2010.

S.O.S. Ho bisogno del vostro aiuto. Sono malato, prossimo alla morte, e troppo debole per andarmene a piedi. Sono solo, non è uno scherzo. In nome di Dio, vi prego, rimanete per salvarmi. Sono nei dintorni a raccogliere bacche e tornerò stasera. Grazie. Chris McCandless. Agosto

Krakauer, Jon. Nelle Terre Estreme. 25a ed. Exploits. Milano: Corbaccio, 2013.

Post-House, St. George, six leagues from Lyons
I'm particular in dating this letter, in hopes that every English traveller may avoid the place I write from, by either Hopping fhort, or going beyond it; as it is the only house of reception for travellers in the village, and the worst I have met with in my whole journey.

Thicknesse, Philip. A Year’s Journey through France, and Part of Spain. London: Printed for W. Brown, 1789.

But, seriously, a Washoe wind is by no means a trifling matter. It blows flimsy houses down, lifts shingle roofs occasionally, rolls up tin ones like sheet music, now and then blows a stage-coach over and spills the passengers; and tradition says the reason there are so many bald people there is, that the wind blows the hair off their heads while they are looking skyward after their hats. Carson streets seldom look inactive on summer afternoons, because there are so many citizens skipping around their escaping hats, like chambermaids trying to head off a spider.

Twain, Mark. Roughing It. Toronto: Musson, 1899.

I never shall want another Turkish lunch. The cooking apparatus was in the little lunch room, near the bazaar, and it was all open to the street. The cook was slovenly, and so was the table, and it had no cloth on it. The fellow took a mass of sausage-meat and coated it round a wire and laid it on a charcoal fire to cook. When it was done, he laid it aside and a dog walked sadly in and nipped it. He smelt it first, and probably recognized the remains of a friend. The cook took it away from him and laid it before us. Jack said, "I pass" - he plays euchre sometimes - and we all passed in turn. Then the cook baked a broad, flat, wheaten cake, greased it well with the sausage, and started towards us with it. It dropped in the dirt, and he picked it up and polished it on his breeches, and laid it before us. Jack said, "I pass". We all passed. He put some eggs in a frying pan, and stood pensively prying slabs of meat from between his teeth with a fork. Then he used the fork to turn the eggs with - and brought them along. Jack said " Pass again". All followed suit. We did not know what to do, and so we ordered a new ration of sausage. The cook got out his wire, apportioned a proper amount of sausage-meat, spat it on his hands and fell to work ! This time, with one accord, we all passed out. We paid and left. That is all I learned about Turkish lunches. A Turkish lunch is good, no doubt, but it has its little drawbacks.

Twain, Mark. Innocents abroad. Hartford: American Pub. Co., 1881.

Could we have trout? No. Chicken? No. Beefsteak ? No. What could we have ? Veal and eggs. The strangers from Gastein had eaten up everything else which the Bockstein inn possessed. Veal and eggs are the two staple delights of the German stomach; the veal steaming with fat and mustard, and the eggs horrible with butter and garlic. Ugh 1 All my life I shall remember the egg-salad which dear Marie added to our dinner yesterday, and of which I tasted, to appear civil, but was positively obliged to swallow hastily, like calomel, by help of great mouthfuls of beer. I thought I had tasted of bad things in Italy, but I give Germany the unquestioned palm.

Hunt Jackson, Helen. Bits of travel. Boston: J.R. Osgood, 1874.

In time we got to Fyaukmyaung, or Kyoukmoung, or anything you care to call it, but notorious a year or two back for being looted by the dacoits. We were a little tired of a rice diet, and Lowe in his innocence suggested a fish dinner. The idea was brilliant, but it nearly killed the three of us. We had eaten frogs' legs in France, and regarded with equanimity the consumption of spring puppies in China. Therefore a feed of Burmese nga-pee was appropriate.

When we had recovered from our illness we investigated how the food was prepared. First of all the fish were caught and laid in the sun for three days to dry. The fish being then dead, though moving, were pounded in plenty of salt. Then they were put into a jar, and when the mouth was opened people five miles away knew all about it. Nga-pee, I soon saw, was a delicacy that could only be appreciated by cultured palates. The taste is original; it is salt, rather like rancid butter flavoured with Limburger cheese, garlic, and paraffin oil. The odour is more interesting than the taste. It is more conspicuous.

Fraser, John Foster. Round the world on a wheel. London: Methuen & Co., 1899.

After some conversation on other matters, I inquired about the library, and asked permission to view its contents. The agoumenos declared his willingness to show me everything that the monastery contained. " But first," said he, " I wish to present you with something excellent for your breakfast ; and from the special good will that I bear towards so distinguished a guest I shall prepare it with my own hands, and will stay to see you eat it ; for it is really an admirable dish, and one not presented to all persons."