If Food Is The Body Of Good

To Divide One's Life By Years Is Of Course To Tumble Into A Trap Set By Our Own Arithmetic. The Calendar Consents To Carry On Its Dull Wall-existence By The Arbitrary Timetables We Have Drawn Up In Consultation With Those Permanent Commuters, Earth And Sun. But We, Unlike Trees, Need Grow No Annual Rings.

A Bottle Of Wine Begs To Be Shared; I Have Never Met A Miserly Wine Lover.

Socrates Called Himself A Midwife Of Ideas. A Great Book Is Often Such A Midwife, Delivering To Full Existence What Has Been Coiled Like An Embryo In The Dark, Silent Depths Of The Brain.

Insomnia Is A Gross Feeder. It Will Nourish Itself On Any Kind Of Thinking, Including Thinking About Not Thinking.

Wine Is Poetry In A Bottle.