And that surely is art with a capital “A.” I have acquired the art of Good Eating. Usually it is in the gray and elderly forties and fifties that people cultivate this art--if they ever do; it is indeed a rare art. But I know it in all its rare exquisiteness at the young slim age of nineteen--which is one more mark of my genius, do you see? The art of Good Eating has two essential points: one must eat only when one is hungry, and one must take small bites. There are persons who eat for the sake of eating. They are gourmands, and partake of the natures of the pig and the buzzard. There are persons who take bites that are not small. These also are gourmands and partake of the natures of the pig and the buzzard. There are persons who can enjoy nothing in the way of eating except a luxurious, well-appointed meal. These, it is safe to say, have not acquired the art of anything. But I--I have acquired the art of eating an olive. Now listen, and I will tell you the art of eating an olive: I take the olive in my fingers, and I contemplate its green oval richness. It makes me think at once of the land where the green citron grows--where the cypress and myrtle are emblems; of the land of the Sun where human beings are delightfully, enchantingly wicked,--where the men are eager and passionate, and the women gracefully developed in mind and in body--and their two breasts show round and full and delicately veined beneath thin drapery. The mere sight of the olive conjures up this charming picture in my mind. I set my teeth and my tongue upon the olive, and bite it. It is bitter, salt, delicious. The saliva rushes to meet it, and my tongue is a happy tongue. As the morsel of olive rests in my mouth and is crunched and squeezed lusciously among my teeth, a quick, temporary change takes place in my character. I think of some adorable lines of the Persian poet: “Give thyself up to Joy, for thy Grief will be infinite. The stars shall again meet together at the same point in the firmament, but of thy body shall bricks be made for a palace wall.” “Oh, dear, sweet, bitter olive!” I say to myself. The bit of olive slips down my red gullet, and so into my stomach. There it meets with a joyous welcome. Gastric juices leap out from the walls and swathe it in loving embrace. My stomach is fond of something bitter and salt. It lavishes flattery and endearment galore upon the olive. It laughs in silent delight. It feels that the day it has long waited for has come. The philosophy of my stomach is wholly epicurean. Let it receive but a tiny bit of olive and it will reck not of the morrow, nor of the past. It lives, voluptuously, in the present. It is content. It is in paradise.