All eating is a kind of proselytising—a kind of dogmatising—a maintaining
that the eater’s way of looking at things is better than the eatee’s. We
convert the food, or try to do so, to our own way of thinking, and, when
it sticks to its own opinion and refuses to be converted, we say it
disagrees with us. An animal that refuses to let another eat it has the
courage of its convictions and, if it gets eaten, dies a martyr to them.
So we can only proselytise fresh meat, the convictions of putrid meat
begin to be too strong for us.
It is good for a man that he should not be thwarted—that he should have
his own way as far, and with as little difficulty, as possible. Cooking
is good because it makes matters easier by unsettling the meat’s mind and
preparing it for new ideas. All food must first be prepared for us by
animals and plants, or we cannot assimilate it; and so thoughts are more
easily assimilated that have been already digested by other minds. A man
should avoid converse with things that have been stunted or starved, and
should not eat such meat as has been overdriven or underfed or afflicted
with disease, nor should he touch fruit or vegetables that have not been
well grown.
Sitting quiet after eating is akin to sitting still during divine service
so as not to disturb the congregation. We are catechising and converting
our proselytes, and there should be no row. As we get older we must
digest more quietly still, our appetite is less, our gastric juices are
no longer so eloquent, they have lost that cogent fluency which carried
away all that came in contact with it. They have become sluggish and
unconciliatory. This is what happens to any man when he suffers from an
attack of indigestion.