I Live With Carpe Diem Engraved On

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.

I Think That When Two People Are Able To Weave That Kind Of Invisible Thread Of Understanding And Sympathy Between Each Other, That Delicate Web, They Should Not Risk Tearing It. It Is Too Rare, And It Lasts Too Short A Time At Best.

It Seems To Me That Our Three Basic Needs, For Food And Security And Love, Are So Mixed And Mingled And Entwined That We Cannot Straightly Think Of One Without The Others. So It Happens That When I Write Of Hunger, I Am Really Writing About Love And The Hunger For It, And Warmth And The Love Of It And The Hunger For It… And Then The Warmth And Richness And Fine Reality Of Hunger Satisfied… And It Is All One.

But If I Must Be Alone, I Refuse To Be Alone As If It Were Something Weak And Distasteful, Like Convalescence.

Between The Ages Of Twenty And Fifty, John Doe Spends Some Twenty Thousand Hours Chewing And Swallowing Food, More Than Eight Hundred Days And Nights Of Steady Eating. The Mere Contemplation Of This Fact Is Upsetting Enough.