‘Tis a superstition to insist on a special diet. All is made at last of the same chemical atoms.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

I cannot but bless the memory of Julius Caesar, for the great esteem he expressed for fat men and his aversion to lean ones.

’Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.

No lyric poems live long or please many people which are written by drinkers of water.

Most vegetarians I ever saw looked enough like their food to be classed as cannibals.

To eat is to appropriate by destruction.

For, say they, when cruising in an empty ship, if you can get nothing better out of the world, get a good dinner out of it, at least.

Whatsoever was the father of a disease, an ill diet was the mother.

A great step toward independence is a good-humored stomach, one that is willing to endure rough treatment.

Is it only the mouth and belly which are injured by hunger and thirst? Men’s minds are also injured by them.

The belly is the reason why man does not mistake himself for a god.

It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard for their own interest.