I Wrote Like A Junkie. I Had

I Notice That As I Get Rid Of The Protective Covering Of The Middle Years, I Am More Openly Amused And Incautious And Less Careful Socially, And That All This Makes For Increasingly Pleasant Contacts With The World.

I Like Old People When They Have Aged Well.

Good Wine, Well Drunk, Can Lend Majesty To The Human Spirit.

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.

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.