Central Heating, French Rubber Goods And Cookbooks

There Are May Of Us Who Cannot But Feel Dismal About The Future Of Various Cultures. Often It Is Hard Not To Agree That We Are Becoming Culinary Nitwits, Dependent Upon Fast Foods And Mass Kitchens And Megavitamins For Our Basically Rotten Nourishment.

Most Bereaved Souls Crave Nourishment More Tangible Than Prayers: They Want A Steak.

I Believe That One Of The Most Dignified Ways We Are Capable Of, To Assert And Then Reassert Our Dignity In The Face Of Poverty And War's Fears And Pains, Is To Nourish Ourselves With All Possible Skill, Delicacy, And Ever-increasing Enjoyment.

A Well-made Martini Or Gibson, Correctly Chilled And Nicely Served, Has Been More Often My True Friend Than Any Two-legged Creature.

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...