One man's consumption becomes his neighbor's wish.

Watching him closely after he paid for the books and took the package into his hands, I saw his pupils dilate the way a diner's do when food is brought to the table.

the man who has a favorite restaurant but not a favorite author. He’s picked out a favorite place to feed his body, but he doesn’t have a favorite place to feed his mind! One

Sit a man on his ass with nothing to do but eat and the first thing that goes is his mind. It never fails.

Gulp by gulp, in the air-conditioned study, he swallowed civilisation.

He pictures the evening he might have spent, snugly at home, fixing the food he has bought, then lying down on the couch beside the bookcase and reading himself slowly sleepy. At first glance this is an absolutely convincing and charming scene of domestic contentment. Only after a few instants does George notice the omission that makes it meaningless. What is left out of the picture is Jim, lying opposite him at the other end of the couch, also reading; the two of them absorbed in their books yet so completely aware of each other's presence.

Jeff smiled to himself and went on eating. He had heard his father discuss the issues so often that he knew them forward and backward. But he saw no need for injecting himself into the conversation here. Besides, he was too busy with his supper. The food was good, and there was lots of it. In bed that night in the barracks, Jeff turned on his stomach and sighed with satisfaction. At last he was in the Army.

His meals were always punctual. Whether she cooked well or badly he did not know; it was a matter of total indifference to him. During his meals, which he ate at his writing desk, he was busy with important considerations. As a rule he would not have been able to say what precisely he had in his mouth. He reserved consciousness for real thoughts; they depend upon it; without consciousness, thoughts are unthinkable. Chewing and digestion happen of themselves.

A man's own dinner is to himself so important that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly indifferent to every one else.

He was caught in the old dilemma of the man with unintegrated values, who eats meat but would rather somebody else did the butchering.

His manner of Studie was thus…About every three houres his man was to bring him a roll and a pott of Ale to refocillate his wasted spirits: so he studied and dranke, and munched some bread; and this maintained him till night, and then, he made a good Supper: now he did well not to dine, which breakes off one's fancy, which will not presently be regained: and 'tis with Invention as a flux, when once it is flowing, it runnes amaine: if it is checked, flowes but guttim [drop by drop]: and the like for perspiration, check it, and 'tis spoyled.

Until Henry Ford saw the chance to get free publicity (making Sub-chasers) he thought submarines were something to eat.

He's so happy," Eliot said dryly. "It's like he cooked something and it came out looking like the picture in the cookbook.

You can get used to eating breakfast with a man in a fedora. You can get used to anything, my mother was in the habit of saying.