There are two things that will be believed of any man whatsoever, and one of them is that he has taken to drink.

I am sure of this: that if everybody was to drink their bottle a day, there would not be half the disorders in the world there are now.

Whoever gulps down wine as a horse gulps down water is called a Scythian.

To live on a day-to-day basis is insufficient for human beings; we need to transcend, transport, escape; we need meaning, understanding, and explanation.

Drunkenness is the very sepulcher / Of man’s wit and his discretion.

I mean, why on earth (outside sickness and hangovers) aren’t people continually drunk? I want ecstasy of the mind all the time.

People who’ve drunk neat wine don’t care a damn.

I used to do drugs. I still do, but I used to, too.

Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need—a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing.

Under the pressure of the cares and sorrows of our mortal condition, men have at all times and in all countries, called in some physical aid to their moral consolations—wine, beer, opium, brandy, or tobacco.

Sobriety diminishes, discriminates, and says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes.

If you were to ask me if I’d ever had the bad luck to miss my daily cocktail, I’d have to say that I doubt it; where certain things are concerned, I plan ahead.

Give me chastity and continence, but not just now.