Early in the pages of Eat, Pray, Love, on her way to India, author Elizabeth Gilbert drops an ominous talisman: she makes a Gandhi joke.
Dining on the intestines of a newborn lamb she observes Gandhi "never ate lamb intestines in his life."
"But vegetarians can eat this," responds her companion Luca. "Intestines aren't even meat, Liz. They're sh--." Ha Ha!
A few pages later, buying a fur hat, Gilbert sees humor in the disappointing veal she recently ate for dinner. "Are these called Mrs. Paul's Veal Sticks" she and a friend chortle.
Visitors to Gilbert's web site used to be greeted by an image of a little girl covered with flies in keeping with Gilbert's spiritual quest and what she calls her "peace summit."
But nowhere on the site will visitors see the sequestration of the newborn veal calf-- or harvesting of "intestines of a newborn lamb"--behind the meals she extols.
Writing a book about looking for God--and finding him and having him talk directly to you!--always puts someone at risk of hubris. Not only do you violate the axiom "those who speak don't know; those who know don't speak," you probably violate the axiom, "don't think less of yourself; think of yourself less."
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