On The Other Hand, A Flaccid, Moping,

. . . Word-sniffing . . . Is An Addiction, Like Glue -- Or Snow -- Sniffing In A Somewhat Less Destructive Way, Physically If Not Economically. . . . As An Addict, I Am Almost Guiltily Interested In Converts To My Own Illness . . .

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.

One Martini Is Just Right. Two Martinis Are Too Many. Three Martinis Are Never Enough.

Probably No Strychnine Has Sent As Many Husbands Into Their Graves As Mealtime Scolding Has, And Nothing Has Driven More Men Into The Arms Of Other Women As The Sound Of A Shrill Whine At Table.

... Most Bereaved Souls Crave Nourishment More Tangible Than Prayers: They Want A Steak. What Is More, They Need A Steak. Preferably They Need It Rare, Grilled, Heavily Salted, For That Way It Is Most Easily Digested, And Most Quickly Turned Into The Glandular Whip Their Tired Adrenals Cry For.