It is certain that man loves to eat, it is not certain that he loves that only or that best.

He is supposed to love comfort; it is not a love, at least, that he is faithful to.

He is supposed to love happiness; it is my contention that he rather loves excitement.

Danger, enterprise, hope, the novel, the aleatory, are dearer to man than regular meals.

He does not think so when he is hungry, but he thinks so again as soon as he is fed; and on the hypothesis of a successful ant-heap, he would never go hungry.