As far as I can see, the history of experimental art in the twentieth century is intimately bound up with the experience of intoxification.

A true German can’t stand the French, / Yet willingly he drinks their wines.

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

Life isn’t all beer and skittles, but beer and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must form a good part of every Englishman’s education.

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.

Drink does not drown care but waters it, and makes it grow faster.

An old man is twice a child, and so is a drunken man.

Drink today and drown all sorrow; / You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow.

Moderation in all things.

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

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.

Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

The only thing that really worried me was the ether. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an ether binge. And I knew we’d get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. Probably at the next gas station.