Quantity in diet is more to be regarded than quality. A full meal

When Samuel Richardson wrote, “Quantity in diet is more to be regarded than quality. A full meal is a great enemy both to study and industry,” he was not speaking only of food, but of the discipline of the soul. His words, cloaked in the language of nourishment, reveal an ancient wisdom: that excess dulls the spirit, while restraint sharpens it. The body, though a vessel of flesh, is also the instrument of the mind; when it is burdened by indulgence, the flame of intellect burns dim. In this truth, Richardson joins the chorus of sages who have long taught that mastery of appetite is the foundation of mastery in all things.

The ancients understood the peril of gluttony, not as mere overconsumption, but as the surrender of will to desire. In the feasting halls of Greece and Rome, philosophers like Seneca and Epictetus warned that the man who fills his stomach too freely cannot fill his mind with wisdom. A “full meal,” they would say, does not only weigh upon the belly—it presses upon the soul, breeding lethargy, dullness, and distraction. The scholar who feasts before study finds his thoughts slow, his focus dim, his creativity buried under the weight of his indulgence. Thus Richardson, though a writer of the eighteenth century, speaks in the eternal voice of the Stoics: temperance is the mother of clarity.

Consider the example of Pythagoras, the philosopher who founded a school not only of mathematics but of discipline. He taught his followers that moderation in diet was essential to the purity of the mind. “Eat lightly,” he would say, “for the body is the servant of the soul.” His disciples consumed simple meals—bread, fruit, and water—believing that the fewer the distractions of the flesh, the greater the harmony of thought. History remembers them not for their feasts, but for their focus. In this way, Richardson’s warning that quantity must be “regarded more than quality” is not an insult to fine food, but a call to reverence for balance: eat not to please the tongue, but to sustain the flame of labor.

The connection between diet and diligence is one the ancients wove into every art of life. The samurai of old Japan, the monks of medieval Europe, and the scholars of Confucius’s court all practiced the same discipline: to eat only what was needed for strength, never for sloth. For they knew that industry—the steady pursuit of one’s purpose—demands lightness, both of body and of heart. A man who rises from a modest meal rises ready to act; a man who rises from a feast must first fight his own fatigue. Thus, Richardson’s words are not simply moral advice—they are practical wisdom. The fullness of the body becomes the emptiness of the will.

And yet, there is compassion in his teaching. He does not condemn pleasure, nor forbid joy at the table. The ancients, too, celebrated the beauty of food shared among friends. But they understood the line between pleasure and possession, between eating for joy and eating from habit. To let appetite rule is to live as a slave to the senses; to govern it wisely is to live as a free man. Richardson’s phrase “enemy both to study and industry” reminds us that gluttony is not only a danger to health, but to purpose. The mind cannot soar when the body is too heavy to lift it.

In the story of Siddhartha, who became the Buddha, we find the same revelation. He once starved himself in pursuit of purity, believing abstinence to be the key to enlightenment. But when he nearly died of weakness, he realized that wisdom lies not in deprivation nor in excess, but in the Middle Way—the path of moderation. A bowl of rice given by a humble girl restored his strength and his insight. In that moment, he saw the truth Richardson later echoed: that balance sustains both body and spirit. Too little weakens the body; too much weakens the will.

So, let this be the lesson, passed down as from one generation to the next: eat with awareness, work with intention, live with moderation. Do not fill your plate merely because it is offered; fill it only as much as your labor requires. A mind fed with simplicity is fertile ground for genius, while one drowned in indulgence yields only sleep. Let your meals be fuel, not fetters. For the wise know that true nourishment is measured not by how much we consume, but by how much energy we have to give—to study, to create, to serve.

Thus, Samuel Richardson’s counsel stands as both command and comfort: guard the gate of appetite, for the body obeys the measure of the mind. A light meal leaves the spirit unburdened; a glutton’s feast chains the soul. Choose restraint, not denial. For it is better to hunger for wisdom than to be full of emptiness.