Too Few Of Us, Perhaps, Feel That

Sharing Our Meals Should Be A Joyful And A Trustful Act, Rather Than The Cursory Fulfillment Of Our Social Obligations.

. . . Word-sniffing . . . Is An Addiction, Like Glue -- Or Snow -- Sniffing In A Somewhat Less Destructive Way, Physically If Not Economically. . . . As An Addict, I Am Almost Guiltily Interested In Converts To My Own Illness . . .

I Am More Modest Now, But I Still Think That One Of The Pleasantest Of All Emotions Is To Know That I, I With My Brain And My Hands, Have Nourished My Beloved Few, That I Have Concocted A Stew Or A Story, A Rarity Or A Plain Dish, To Sustain Them Truly Against The Hungers Of The World.

I Live With Carpe Diem Engraved On My Heart.

It Is Puzzling To Me That Otherwise Sensitive People Develop A Real Docility About The Obvious Necessity Of Eating, At Least Once A Day, In Order To Stay Alive. Often They Lose Their Primal Enjoyment Of Flavors And Odors And Textures To The Point Of Complete Unawareness. And If Ever They Question This Progressive Numbing-off, They Shrug Helplessly In The Face Of Mediocrity Everywhere. Bit By Bit, Hour By Hour, They Say, We Are Being Forced To Accept The Not-so-good As The Best, Since There Is Little That Is Even Good To Compare It With.