Having bowed to the inevitability of the dictum that we must eat to live, we should ignore it and live to eat.

It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others.

Probably no strychnine has sent as many husbands into their graves as mealtime scolding has, and nothing has driven more men into the arms of other women as the sound of a shrill whine at table.

There is a communication of more than our bodies when bread is broken and wine is drunk. And that is my answer when people ask me: Why do you write about hunger, and not wars or love.

When a man is small, he loves and hates food with a ferocity which soon dims. At six years old his very bowels will heave when such a dish as creamed carrots or cold tapioca appear before him.

I cannot count the good people I know who to my mind would be even better if they bent their spirits to the study of their own hungers.

A complete lack of caution is perhaps one of the true signs of a real gourmet.