Best 1268 quotes in «wine quotes» category

He looked as if he had been beaten to death with a wine bottle, but by doing it with the contents of the bottle.

Here’s a random factoid: I like cats. And here’s another: I like red wine.

He seemed to be lying on the bed. He could not see very well. Her youthful, rapacious face, with blackened eyebrows, leaned over him as he sprawled there. “‘How about my present?’ she demanded, half wheedling, half menacing. “Never mind that now. To work! Come here. Not a bad mouth. Come here. Come closer. Ah! “No. No use. Impossible. The will but not the way. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Try again. No. The booze, it must be. See Macbeth. One last try. No, no use. Not this evening, I’m afraid. “All right, Dora, don’t you worry. You’ll get your two quid all right. We aren’t paying by results. “He made a clumsy gesture. ‘Here, give us that bottle. That bottle off the dressing-table.’ “Dora brought it. Ah, that’s better. That at least doesn’t fail.

He wrote her name in wine. So she showered his soul in stardust.

Hitch hiked a thousand miles and brought You wine

Hold the bottle up to the light; you will see your dreams are always at the bottom.

How many nights are we here?" Cassie asked. "Six? So we need what, 20 bottles?

How very like you, Puck.” Ash’s voice came from a great distance, and the room started to spin. “Offer them a taste of faery wine, and act surprised when they’re consumed by it.” That struck me as hilarious, and I broke into hysterical giggles. And once I began, I couldn’t stop. I laughed until I was gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face. My feet itched and my skin crawled. I needed to move, to do something. I tried standing up, wanting to spin and dance, but the room tilted violently and I fell, still shrieking with laughter. Somebody caught me, scooping me off my feet and into their arms. I smelled frost and winter, and heard an exasperated sigh from somewhere above my head. “What are you doing, Ash?” I heard someone ask. A familiar voice, though I couldn’t think of his name, or why he sounded so suspicious. “I’m taking her back to her room.” The person above me sounded wonderfully calm and deep. I sighed and settled into his arms. “She’ll have to sleep off the effects of the fruit. We’ll likely be here another day because of your idiocy.” The other voice said something garbled and unintelligible. I was suddenly too sleepy and light-headed to care. Relaxing against the mysterious person’s chest, I fell into a heady sleep.

Hunger gives flavour to the food.

I always enjoy French, yet Australian are so fresh, but if you talk about white I prefer German. THAT'S right! Oh, they are all so Divine... A love that's more like libertine. And all that is my taste for wine.

I cannot offer wine without the poison of the alcohol within.

I am fine with coffee in the coldest night; I don't need wine to make the dark more romantic.

I adore cock and champagne together. My favourite food group.

I am still drunk that you were here, and you were mine. And once again I stretch my hand out for that wine; As your drunk eyes could not bestir themselves, I too Can’t move; as you love wine, I love the wine that’s you;

I can work anywhere," said the Muskrat. "It's all a matter of thinking. I sit and think about how unnecessary everything is." "Really?" said Moominpappa, much impressed. "Perhaps I might offer you a glass of wine? Against the cold?" "Wine, I am bound to say, is unnecessary," replied the Muskrat, "but a small drop nevertheless would not be unwelcome.

I dreamt that ‪@mark_wahlberg‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬ and his wife were our neighbors and we had dance parties in our living room and drank wine from solo cups. Everyone said I danced like I was doing parkour, and everyone laughed, until I fell off the roof and broke my neck. -Crystal Woods and Jarod Kintz

I could smell garlic, butter, and wine - the world's most delicious flavor combination. It made me feel warm, like the first few sips of wine always do.

I drink to our ruined house, to the dolor of my life, to our loneliness together; and to you I raise my glass, to lying lips that have betrayed us, to dead-cold pitiless eyes, and to the hard realities; that the world is brutal and coarse, that God, in fact, has not saved us.

I drown myself in liquids of all kind Pour me another fiery glass of wine Volcanoes flash before my eyes I fear the love I left behind

I'd urge you to try German Riesling because it's delicious, but I fear you'll be more impressed if I tell you it's cutting-edge. That, after all, is what we want to know-- what's now and happening. (Do you really think clunky square-toed shoes make your feet look better than those with slimming, tapered toes? You just wear them because that's what fashion dictates, you slut.)

I had drunk much wine and afterward coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully, how we did not do the things we wanted to do; we never did such things.

I feel like you can’t judge a book by its cover, that’s always been the story of my life. I can walk into any restaurant and people would be floored to learn that I know what I do about wine, let alone that I ran one of the best wine programs in the world.

If money could buy happiness, the rich would not drown their sorrows in expensive wine.

If my belief in the God-force-principle-thing had faltered from time to time, it was completely reaffirmed that morning when I considered how completely brilliant a creation was fermentation. From decay came a pleasure sublime enough to keep decay at bay. Only for a few minutes, perhaps, but some minutes are like no others.

If there was any magic in this world that was not magic, it was wine.

If you don't like wine, don't prohibit those who love wine. Alcohol, we know, is very powerful. Use, but do not abuse it. And by no means condemn the totality. By doing that you deny God, since He has created all the things that should be enjoyed by human beings without excess. In drinking moderately, you taste and know what it is. In drinking to the point of drunkenness, you revert and become uncivilised. If you don't drink at all you lose something from earth. But if you impede this enjoyment you are just as criminal as the one who kills by taking the life of the individual. You take away pleasure and freedom, and this action I call criminal tyranny. You force the honest one to cheat, the truthful one to lie, and the sober one to become a drunkard.

I had a dream that Mark Wahlberg and his wife were our neighbors and we had dance parties in our living room and drank wine from Solo cups. I remember being confused as to why they lived in a regular neighborhood, or why it didn't seem to make anyone awkward that I had Marky's Calvin ads up in the living room.

I have become intoxicated again. You are such a potent wine, my friend. To escape your withdrawal effects, tomorrow I will drink in excess. Alas, why make me love? I was aware, conscious, and sensible before. I am ill by cause of this illusion. The devil plays tricks on me more and more. I was a harp you immaculately plucked at will. Your score, the nightingale song within notes composed to imprison and bear me wings. Oh, if only they could hear how it sings! I am now beyond parched. My strings left untouched. You are no longer an oasis, my friend, but a mirage soon coming to an end.

I have heard Silvius, an excellent physician of Paris, say that lest the digestive faculties of the stomach should grow idle, it were not amiss once a month to rouse them by this excess, and to spur them lest they should grow dull and rusty; and one author tells us that the Persians used to consult about their most important affairs after being well warmed with wine.

I love these words that just can't be translated from language to language. They seem dignified, grounded, battling against the imperialism of reality.

I hope I don't write TOO many books! When I look at authors who have written too many books, I wonder to myself "When did they live?" I certainly want to write BECAUSE I live! I know I don't want to write in order to live! My writing is an overflow of the wine glass of my life, not a basin in which I wash out my ideals and expectations.

I hung up the phone and tapped it lightly against my chin, then wrapped myself tighter in my giant woolen cardigan and poured another glass of boxed wine — the official drink of emotionally confused women on a budget.

Il vino buono si beve solo d'estate, quando si deve fare molto lavoro: si porta sul campo per pranzo o quando si ha bisogno di energia. (la dieta di un contadino mantovano nel 1870)

I started with a wedge of triple-cream cheese because that seemed like a rich and elegant base that would need little embellishment. I cut a large slice of cheese and stripped off the skin, leaving only the voluptuous center, which I set into a clean bowl. I had noticed that wine went into the best dishes, so I added enough claret to thin the cheese to a mixable consistency. As I beat it together, I watched the pure white turn a murky shade of rose, and the sharp smell of wine overpowered the milky fragrance of cheese. Although such a dramatic change in color and aroma was unexpected, I decided it was not a fatal blow to the plan. The chef had once said that the cornerstones of culinary art were butter and garlic, so I cheerfully whipped in a knob of softened butter and pressed a large clove of garlic. I whisked it all until it was smooth, tested it with a fingertip, and judged it to be not bad. But not bad wasn't good enough for a grand gesture. I stood before the brick oven and pondered what might elevate this concoction from an oddly flavored cheese to something that would make the chef raise his eyebrows with appreciation. The brick oven reminded me of Enrico, who often bragged that his lightly sweetened breads and confections were everyone's favorite. He once said, "Meals are only an excuse to get to the dessert." I wasn't sure that was true, but I had noticed that people usually greeted the dessert course with smiles, even though they had already eaten their fill. Confections always found favor, and so I poured a golden stream of honey into my mélange. After it was well blended, it was rather pretty- smooth and thick, luscious looking, like pudding or custard.

I remember that summer we walked up the hill, sat atop on the rocks with time to kill; we let sweet red wine set us aglow, then four drunken eyes watched the sunset show I felt the colors enter my veins: warm light-pink shining golden rays; if there was a hue for happiness, I'm sure I saw it with you then

I shall drink no wine before its time. Okay, it’s time.

Is it that we pretend to a reformation? Truly, no: but it may be we are more addicted to Venus than our fathers were. They are two exercises that thwart and hinder one another in their vigor. Lechery weakens our stomach on the one side; and on the other sobriety renders us more spruce and amorous for the exercise of love.

I need COFFEE to help me change the things I can... and WINE to help me accept the things I can't!

In philosophy, phenomenology is the study of the structures of experience and consciousness. Wine blind tasting is the best phenomenology, phenomenology par excellence, returning us from our heads into the world, and, at the same time, teaching us the methods of the mind.

I suffer from CLAUSTROPHOBIA, a fear of closed spaces.For example, I’m petrified that the WINE store will be closed before I have time to get there!!!

I think I'm like wine. The older I get, the better I get.

The Vintner's Guide to Precisely Categorizing the Wines of France mentioned all sorts of incredibly nuanced aromas in very expensive wine: slate, bark, cherries, strange herbs, all of which she had to imagine, since cidre and local vin ordinaire were all they had in the village.

It is pure id. Freud would not approve. He regarded the obvious with the same contempt most of us reserve for wine spritzers.

It is better to die of drink then to die of thirst.

... it is not the taste considered in itself, that we hold to our lips, and you can no more understand the virtues of a wine through a blind tasting than you could understand the virtues of a woman through a blindfold kiss.

It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates. It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine. Parting, Evening and slanting, Downward goes my way. Yesterday in love still, "Don't forget" you prayed. Now there's only shepherds' Cry, and glancing winds, And the worried cedars Stand by clear springs.

It’s an unfair life you fail a thousand times and win just once

It was a quiet taunt...a poisoned glass of wine, meant to intoxicate and exsanguinate.

It was 2:00 p.m., too early for wine but not for chocolate.

It was baking hot in the square when we came out after lunch with our bags and the rod-case to go to Burguete. People were on top of the bus, and others were climbing up a ladder. Bill went up and Robert sat beside Bill to save a place for me, and I went back in the hotel to get a couple of bottles of wine to take with us. When I came out the bus was crowded. Men and women were sitting on all the baggage and boxes on top, and the women all had their fans going in the sun. It certainly was hot. Robert climbed down and fitted into the place he had saved on the one wooden seat that ran across the top. Robert Cohn stood in the shade of the arcade waiting for us to start. A Basque with a big leather wine-bag in his lap lay across the top of the bus in front of our seat, leaning back against our legs. He offered the wine-skin to Bill and to me, and when I tipped it up to drink he imitated the sound of a klaxon motor-horn so well and so suddenly that spilled some of the wine, and everybody laughed. He apologized and made me take another drink. He made the klaxon again a little later, and it fooled me the second time. He was very good at it. The Basques liked it. The man next to Bill was talking to him in Spanish and Bill was not getting it, so he offered the man one of the bottles of wine. The man waved it away. He said it was too hot and he had drunk too much at lunch. When Bill offered the bottle the second time he took a long drink, and then the bottle went all over that part of the bus. Every one took a drink very politely, and then they made us cork it up and put it away. They all wanted us to drink from their leather wine-bottles. They were peasants going up into the hills.