The Senses Are The Organs By Which

Another Novelty Is The Tea-party, An Extraordinary Meal In That, Being Offered To Persons That Have Already Dined Well, It Supposes Neither Appetite Nor Thirst, And Has No Object But Distraction, No Basis But Delicate Enjoyment.

A Meal Without Wine Is Like A Day Without Sun

'monsieur,' Madame D'arestel, Superior Of The Convent Of The Visitation At Belley, Once Said To Me More Than Fifty Years Ago, 'whenever You Want To Have A Really Good Cup Of Chocolate, Make It The Day Before, In A Porcelain Coffeepot, And Let It Set. The Night's Rest Will Concentrate It And Give It A Velvety Quality Which Will Make It Better. Our Good God Cannot Possibly Take Offense At This Little Refinement, Since He Himself Is Everything That Is Most Perfect.'

The Senses Are The Organs By Which Man Places Himself In Connexion With Exterior Objects.

If Any Man Has Drunk A Little Too Deeply From The Cup Of Physical Pleasure; If He Has Spent Too Much Time At His Desk That Should Have Been Spent Asleep; If His Fine Spirits Have Become Temporarily Dulled; If He Finds The Air Too Damp, The Minutes Too Slow, And The Atmosphere Too Heavy To Withstand; If He Is Obsessed By A Fixed Idea Which Bars Him From Any Freedom Of Thought: If He Is Any Of These Poor Creatures, We Say, Let Him Be Given A Good Pint Of Amber-flavored Chocolate... And Marvels Will Be Performed.