Sharing our meals should be a joyful and a trustful act, rather than the cursory fulfillment of our social obligations.

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.

Painting, it is true, was undergoing a series of -isms reminiscent of the whims of a pregnant woman.

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 wrote from the time I was four. It was my way of screaming and yelling, the primal scream. I wrote like a junkie, I had to have my daily fix.

It is easy to think of potatoes, and fortunately for men who have not much money it is easy to think of them with a certain safety. Potatoes are one of the last things to disappear, in times of war, which is probably why they should not be forgotten in times of peace.

Almost any normal oyster never knows from one year to the next whether he is he or she, and may start at any moment, after the first year, to lay eggs where before he spent his sexual energies in being exceptionally masculine.