Henry Miller may write about revelers self-woven into a human hooked rug, because his ecstasy is solemn.

If the first requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite, the second is to put in your apprenticeship as a feeder when you have enough money to pay the check but not enough to produce indifference of the total.

The country's present supply of foreign news depends largely on how best a number of dry goods merchants in New York think they can sell underwear.

An Englishman teaching an American about food is like the blind leading the one-eyed.

The science of booby-trapping has taken a good deal of the fun out of following hot on the enemy's heels.

In the light of what Proust wrote with so mild a stimulus, it is the world's loss that he did not have a heartier appetite. On a dozen Gardiner's Island oysters, a bowl of clam chowder, a peck of steamers, some bay scallops, three sauteed soft-shelled crabs, a few ears of fresh picked corn, a thin swordfish steak of generous area, a pair of lobsters, and a Long Island Duck, he might have written a masterpiece.

I can write better than anyone who can write faster.