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.

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

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

The pleasure we hold in esteem for the course of our lives ought to have a greater share of our time dedicated to it; we should refuse no occasion nor omit any opportunity of drinking, and always have it in our minds.

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

There was a great deal of drinking among us but little drunkenness. We all seemed to feel that Prohibition was a personal affront and that we had a moral duty to undermine it.

Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

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

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.

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

Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences.

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.

I have sometimes thought that the laws ought not to punish those actions of evil which are committed when the senses are steeped in intoxication.