I Honestly Believe That Everything I Know

...for Me There Is Too Little Of Life To Spend Most Of It Forcing Myself Into Detachment From It.

Painting, It Is True, Was Undergoing A Series Of -isms Reminiscent Of The Whims Of A Pregnant Woman.

It Is A Curious Fact That No Man Likes To Call Himself A Glutton, And Yet Each Of Us Has In Him A Trace Of Gluttony, Potential Or Actual. I Cannot Believe That There Exists A Single Coherent Human Being Who Will Not Confess, At Least To Himself, That Once Or Twice He Has Stuffed Himself To Bursting Point On Anything From Quail Financiere To Flapjacks, For No Other Reason Than The Beastlike Satisfaction Of His Belly.

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

The Smell Of Good Bread Baking, Like The Sound Of Lightly Flowing Water, Is Indescribable In Its Evocation Of Innocence And Delight... [breadmaking Is] One Of Those Almost Hypnotic Businesses, Like A Dance From Some Ancient Ceremony. It Leaves You Filled With One Of The World's Sweetest Smells... There Is No Chiropractic Treatment, No Yoga Exercise, No Hour Of Meditation In A Music-throbbing Chapel. That Will Leave You Emptier Of Bad Thoughts Than This Homely Ceremony Of Making Bread.