Probably One Of The Most Private Things

I Honestly Believe That Everything I Know About The Writing Of Non-fiction (or Writing) Could Be Engraved On The Head Of A Pin With A Garden Hoe.

If Time, So Fleeting, Must Like Humans Die, Let It Be Filled With Good Food And Good Talk, And Then Embalmed In The Perfumes Of Conviviality.

The Things Men Come To Eat When They Are Alone Are, I Suppose, Not Much Stranger Than The Men Themselves.... A Writer Years Ago Told Me Of Living For Five Months On Hen Mash.

A Pleasant Aperitif, As Well As A Good Chaser For A Short Quick Whiskey, As Well Again For A Fine Supper Drink, Is Beer.

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.