The drunken man is a living corpse.

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.

That which the sober man keeps in his breast, the drunken man lets out at the lips. Astute people, when they want to ascertain a man’s true character, make him drunk.

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

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.

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

A man who exposes himself when he is intoxicated has not the art of getting drunk.

Drinking with women is as unnatural as scolding with ’em.

As he brews, so shall he drink.

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

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

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