When we eat factory-farmed meat we live, literally, on tortured flesh. Increasingly, that tortured flesh is becoming our own.

I am doing something I hate for you. This is what it means to be in love.

We shouldn't be intimidated by someone else's idea of perfection if it will prevent us from taking steps we actively want to take.

Look, taste is clearly the crudest of our senses: this is scientifically, objectively factual. It is less nuanced. Eyesight is extraordinary - hearing, touch. I find people who devote their whole lives to taste a little strange.

They do not desire anything more than everything they have known.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

I said I kicked a French chicken in the stomach once." "Huh?" "It said, 'Oeuf.'" "What is that?" "It's a joke. Do you want to hear another, or have you already had un oeuf?