Digestion is one of the most delicately balanced of all human and perhaps angelic functions.

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.

When I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and it is all one.

Wine and cheese are ageless companions, like aspirin and aches, or June and moon, or good people and noble ventures.

In spite of all the talk and study about our next years, all the silent ponderings about what lies within them...it seems plain to us that many things are wrong in the present ones that can be, must be, changed. Our texture of belief has great holes in it. Our pattern lacks pieces.

Family dinners are more often than not an ordeal of nervous indigestion, preceded by hidden resentment and ennui and accompanied by psychosomatic jitters.

At present, I myself do not know of any local witches or warlocks, but there are several people who seem to have an uncanny power over food.