If it were not for the Belly, the Back might wear Gold.
The body whips the soul. In its great desire it demands the elixir In the roar of spring, transmutations.
Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
The appetites of the body were private battles.
It is a sign of a dull nature to occupy oneself deeply in matters that concern the body; for instance, to be over much occupied about exercise, about eating and drinking, about easing oneself, about sexual intercourse.
This body of ours has one fault: the more you indulge it, the more things it discovers to be essential to it. It is extraordinary how it likes being indulged.
A fat kitchin, a lean Will.
It is absolutely impossible at the same time to be a man of understanding and not to be ashamed to gratify the body.
Sometimes it seems to me that all of life is a struggle to contain the natural impulses of the body and spirit, and that what we call character represents only the degree to which we are successful in this endeavor.
