a book review

Not the review exactly I’d write, but no doubt not the book either.

It is about historical digestion. And morality.

a branch of medicine

A friend of mine proposed, last night while eating pulled pork for dinner, that pork may be responsible for bad dreams. Or perhaps it was this particular pig; he had the whole pig in his freezer and had been eating a lot of it lately. Perhaps it was the way it was raised, he thought—but then it was not so badly raised. A little cooped up maybe.

Well, I had bad dreams. Woke up with my head in a rush and my belly in a knot, went down stairs to bake bread and drink coffee and write, a little before four this morning. I don’t blame the pig particularly, though I allow the possibility, but rather the plentiful eating of rich food at a late hour followed by indolence and then sleep. The effect was, after all, entirely predictable.

I am in fact entirely ruled by my stomach. I was a lost man, and deeply suffered, before I was found, and well fed, and eventually married. It was, to be certain, a little embarrassing. To see all that anguish evaporate. My whole portfolio if you will—my case study, my personal history—in the face of a few decent regular meals a day. Really. I’d thought I was doomed.

So saved, and capable again of reasoned action, and of subtle study, I have dedicated a considerable amount of my time to fine tuning my digestion. Yes! like an old man in a novel, I know. I never eat this before noon, and never that after eight—the other not at all, not since whenever. It is an absorbing study. It is, or ought to be, I believe, a branch of medicine.