People ask me: "Why do you write about food, and eating, and drinking? Why don't you write about the struggle for power and security, and about love, the way the others do?" . . . The easiest answer is to say that, like most other humans, I am hungry.

Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken.

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.

Between the ages of twenty and fifty, John Doe spends some twenty thousand hours chewing and swallowing food, more than eight hundred days and nights of steady eating. The mere contemplation of this fact is upsetting enough.

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.

In general, I think, human beings are happiest at table when they are very young, very much in love or very alone.

Hunger is more than a problem of belly and guts, and ... the satisfying of it can and must and does nourish the spirit as well as the body.