For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
The Swiss have an interesting army. Five hundred years without a war. Pretty impressive. Also pretty lucky for them. Ever seen that little Swiss Army knife they have to fight with? Not much of a weapon there. Corkscrews. Bottle openers. ‘Come on, buddy, let’s go. You get past me, the guy in the back of me, he’s got a spoon. Back off, I’ve got the toe clippers right here.
What's sad about not eating is the experience, whether at a family reunion or at midnight by yourself in a greasy spoon under the L tracks. The loss of dining, not the loss of food.
As difficult as it is to have company within one's house, the absence of company is more so. The quiet echoing of solitary footsteps within the halls is suddenly amplified without the voices of excited guests. The clinking of plates and silver has narrowed to individual forks and spoons instead of the enchanting din of dining. The natural creaks and squeaks of the home are louder and more surprising.
Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.
Beware the flatterer: he feeds you with an empty spoon.