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

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

Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences.

Alcohol is the monarch of liquids.

Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

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

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.

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.

My advice to people today is as follows: if you take the game of life seriously, if you take your nervous system seriously, if you take your sense organs seriously, if you take the energy process seriously, you must turn on, tune in, and drop out.

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.

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

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