If a cultivated alien were to investigate humanity via our traditionally esteemed achievements in art, literature, and philosophy, they might never suspect that we all spend non-negligible parts of our lives releasing quantities of excrement.
No visit to the Prado is educative on the topic.
The gods and heroes of Homer never defecate, nor does any Jane Austen heroine.
The fact has been taken to be far too disgusting for the polite realm of high thought.
But each morning, as we perch on a hinged rim above a small pool of water, we encounter one of the great puzzles of the human condition, the gap between the will, the mind's call to action, and the body, the complex biological system that we inhabit.
Normally, we enjoy a reassuring harmony.
The hand moves when the mind wants it to.
The tongue and lungs swing into action to speak.
But on the toilet, we have to cajole and coax our innards.
In a crucial perversity of our nature, the fact that we are trying may be the very obstacle to performance.
