I wrote like a junkie. I had to have my daily fix.

The things men come to eat when they are alone are, I suppose, not much stranger than the men themselves.... A writer years ago told me of living for five months on hen mash.

It is puzzling to me that otherwise sensitive people develop a real docility about the obvious necessity of eating, at least once a day, in order to stay alive. Often they lose their primal enjoyment of flavors and odors and textures to the point of complete unawareness. And if ever they question this progressive numbing-off, they shrug helplessly in the face of mediocrity everywhere. Bit by bit, hour by hour, they say, we are being forced to accept the not-so-good as the best, since there is little that is even good to compare it with.

Salad is roughage and a French idea.

... there can be no more shameless carelessness than with the food we eat for life itself.

When shall we live if not now?

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.