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.

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

The drunken man is a living corpse.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

Alcohol is the monarch of liquids.

Thanks be to God: since my leaving drinking of wine, I do find myself much better and do mind my business better, and do spend less money, and less time lost in idle company.

Moderation in all things.

Drugs, cataplasms, and whiskey are stupid substitutes for the dignity and potency of divine mind and its efficacy to heal.