Having Bowed To The Inevitability Of The

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...

When I Write Of Hunger, I Am Really Writing About Love And The Hunger For It, And Warmth And The Love Of It And It Is All One.

All Men Are Hungry. They Always Have Been. They Must Eat, And When They Deny Themselves The Pleasures Of Carrying Out That Need, They Are Cutting Off Part Of Their Possible Fullness, Their Natural Realization Of Life, Whether They Are Rich Or Poor.

It Is Impossible To Think Of Any Good Meal, No Matter How Plain Or Elegant, Without Soup Or Bread In It

I Can No More Think Of My Own Life Without Thinking Of Wine And Wines And Where They Grew For Me And Why I Drank Them When I Did And Why I Picked The Grapes And Where I Opened The Oldest Procurable Bottles, And All That, Than I Can Remember Living Before I Breathed.