Translation from W0X0F's text for those who do not speak Latin (keep in mind, Latin is a language that is not spoken in order; thus, it may sound a little like Yoda):
Shorn my balls are up the rectum of your dead aunt they go.
Given the current state of the world, I grow increasingly fond of the following by William Butler Yeats:
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Faulkner is so much better than every other writer who ever lived (save only for Dostoevsky I reckon) that you can grab anything he ever wrote, flip to a random page and own a thread like this. I tried it with the nearest thing on my bookshelf, Wild Palms, and I liked "My trouble is, every time I tell either the truth or a lie I seem to have to sell myself on the idea first."
"He has no courage, has never crawled out on a limb. He has never been known to use a word that might cause the reader to check with a dictionary to see if it is properly used." -- Faulkner on Hemingway
“Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use." -- Hemingway in response