At Present, I Myself Do Not Know

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.

Gastronomy Is And Always Has Been Connected With Its Sister Art Of Love.

I Like Old People When They Have Aged Well.

Cheese Has Always Been A Food That Both Sophisticated And Simple Humans Love.

I Sat In The Gradually Chilling Room, Thinking Of My Whole Past The Way A Drowning Man Is Supposed To, And It Seemed Part Of The Present, Part Of The Gray Cold And The Beggar Woman Without A Face And The Moulting Birds Frozen To Their Own Filth In The Orangerie. I Know Now I Was In The Throes Of Some Small Glandular Crisis, A Sublimated Bilious Attack, A Flick From The Whip Of Melancholia, But Then It Was Terrifying...nameless...