Best 1158 quotes in «alcohol quotes» category

If you didn't do anything that wasn't good for you it would be a very dull life. What are you gonna do? Everything that is pleasant in life is dangerous. Have you noticed that? I'd like to find the bastard that thought that one up.

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.

If you don’t fix the problems of your past and future, you may lose the joy of the present. You may become susceptible to falling for alcohol, drugs or other forms of intoxicants to calm your mind and to be able to live in the present.

If you drink anymore, you're going to be positively flammable.

Ignorance is a lot like alcohol: the more you have of it, the less you are able to see its effect on you.

I get that. For you, it’s more than following a bunch of rules—no sex, no booze, no swear words, pray every night and twice on Sunday.

If you want to keep your dignity intact, stay away from tequila.

I had never been a dresser. My shirts were all faded and shrunken, 5 or 6 years old, threadbare. My pants the same. I hated department stores, I hated the clerks, they acted so superior, they seemed to know the secret of life, they had a confidence I didn't possess. My shoes were always broken down and old, I disliked shoe stores too. I never purchased anything until it was completely unusable, and that included automobiles. It wasn't a matter of thrift, I just couldn't bear to be a buyer needing a seller, seller being so handsome and aloof and superior. Besides, it all took time, time when you could just be laying around and drinking.

I had finally begun to understand Seth’s relationship with his flask, how some days, the memories grew too heavy to bear.

I had drunk myself to oblivion, Stepped from the room into a dreamless slumber, My consciousness had parted ways, Taking a well-earned vacation.

I have a question. Is it okay to drink while you're pregnant...if you're planning on giving the baby up for adoption?

I—I don’t drink,” said Shina. The Captain clicked her tongue. “Well, I don’t know your life,” she said, “but that might be part of your greater overall problem.

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 have never seen anyone drink like he did. To say he drank with a vengeance is almost understating it: it was almost as if there was a thirst there, a deep and insatiable craving that made the man keep going back for more and more until he sat down in one corner with a bottle.

I have, he went on, betrayed myself with belief, deluded myself with love tricked myself with sex. the bottle is damned faithful, he said, the bottle will not lie

I lay in bed that night, a first-time drunkard at seven years of age, pondering the punishment I knew would arrive on callused palms. In the forest, as if sensing my plight, wolves howled nocturnal laments. The magnificent lunar lullabies of my lupine brethren wooed me into a deep and cleansing sleep.

I mean, that's at least in part why I ingested chemical waste - it was a kind of desire to abbreviate myself. To present the CliffNotes of the emotional me, as opposed to the twelve-column read. I used to refer to my drug use as putting the monster in the box. I wanted to be less, so I took more - simple as that. Anyway, I eventually decided that the reason Dr. Stone had told me I was hypomanic was that he wanted to put me on medication instead of actually treating me. So I did the only rational thing I could do in the face of such as insult - I stopped talking to Stone, flew back to New York, and married Paul Simon a week later.

I looked at mother with adoration in my own eyes, and when she had taken the kerosene lamp and had gone away, and when we boys were all again curled quietly like sleeping puppies in the bed, I cried a little, as I am sure father must have cried sometimes when there was no one about. Perhaps his getting drunk, as he did on all possible occasions, was a way of crying too.

Imbattersi un bel giorno, per caso, in un’oca disorientata rompeva la monotonia della zuppa fredda, della carne in scatola e del pane del giorno prima – il vino, invece, non era più un problema giacché ora veniva generosamente distribuito dall’intendenza insieme all’acquavite nella convinzione, tenacemente alimentato dallo Stato maggiore, che ubriacare il soldato contribuisca ad accrescerne il coraggio e, soprattutto, offuschi in lui la consapevolezza della sua condizione.

I'm Irish yet I don't drink as I refuse to be a stereotype and live down to the expectations of others.

I'm more than a few neurons shy of a synapse right now, and it feels absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.

I mostly drink clear booze because the rest of it looks it's already been through a gentleman.

In the grief that comes with recognizing what happened to us, we often feel there is nowhere to turn for solace…We do things to keep it away, such as becoming overly busy or using drugs or alcohol to numb our feelings. When we are caught up in resistance, we do not feel hope, but when we surrender to our sadness fully, hope trickles in.

I need a drink. Now.” After tossing—fine, throwing—my purse and keys on the couch, I march straight into the kitchen. No more delays; it's time to forget tonight. It’s been yet another night like all the other first dates that never meet a second one. When you begin to lose count, that's when it's really time for a drink. Adrian stands there, leaning against the counter in an unbuttoned dress shirt and dark wash jeans. He glances at me as I walk in. “How was your date?” he asks, taking a swig of his scotch. I brush past him on my mission, opening the cupboard and moving a couple bottles around. I reiterate, “I need alcohol.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him hiding a smile before he says, “That bad?” My face twitches as I ignore his line of questioning. It is more like a statement he wants me to clarify, even though he already knows the answer. Instead, I ask, “I have vodka left, don't I?” I stand on my tiptoes in hopes of spotting something in the very back. Nothing. He waltzes over and looks with me, his chin almost touching my shoulder. “I think you polished that one off after last week's date.” His voice is low right next to my ear, very nearly causing a shiver.

In the eleventh century obese English king William the Conqueror took to bed and consumed nothing but alcohol to shed pounds, a practice many of his countrymen seem to continue to this day.

In the remote towns of the west there are few of the amenities of civilization; there is no sewerage, there are no hospitals, rarely a doctor; the food is dreary and flavourless from long carrying, the water is bad; electricity is for the few who can afford their own plant, roads are mostly non-existent; there are no theatres, no picture shows and few dance halls; and the people are saved from stark insanity by the one strong principle of progress that is ingrained for a thousand miles east, north, south and west of the Dead Heart - the beer is always cold.

In wine was truth, perhaps, but in whisky, the way Hoffman sluiced it down, was an army of imaginary rats climbing your legs.

Intoxication, like sexual euphoria, is the privilege of the human animal.

Intoxication, like sexual euphoria, is the privilege of the human animal. Sexual frenzy is our compensation for the tedious moments we must suffer in the passage of life. “Nothing in excess” professed the ancient Greeks. Why, if I spend half the month in healthy scholarship and pleasant sleep, shouldn’t I be allowed the other half to howl at the moon and pillage the groins of Europe’s great beauties?

I order six shots. I drink the first shot with lemon and salt and talk about Isha for 120 seconds. I drink the second shot with lemon and salt and talk about Isha and our love for 90 seconds. I drink the third shot with lemon and talk about future plans with wedding for 60 seconds. I drink the fourth and blabber for 30 seconds. I drink the fifth, I speak in a language no one can understand for ten seconds or less. I fall down. When I open my eyes, I see Diwa helping me sit in the car and put on the seat belt. I am knocked out.

I shall always attribute my uncertain start in New Zealand to the fact that I was introduced too early to what is knows as the 'five o'clock swill'. The phrase has, when you consider it, a wonderful pastoral - one might almost say idyllic - ring to it. It conjures up a picture of fat but hungry porcines, all freshly scrubbed, eagerly and gratefully partaking of their warm mash from the horny but kindly hands of the jovial farmer, a twinkling eyed son of the soil. Nothing could be further from the truth. The five o'clock swill is the direct result of New Zealand's imbecilic licensing laws. In order to prevent people getting drunk the pubs close at six, just after the workers leave work. This means they have to leave their place of employment, rush frantically to the nearest pub, and make a desperate attempt to drink as much beer as they can in the shortest possible time. As a means of cutting down drunkenness, this is quite one of the most illogical deterrents I have come across.

I soaked up the drink and it, in return, absorbed me.

I started smoking cannabis and drinking alcohol for the same reason I would sometimes tell self aggrandizing lies; I was wanting in courage. The only intimacy I could find was through drinking, smoking, lying and taking short cuts. A good brain needs the courage to maintain it's health, and if you don't have courage, you fall prey to a type of intimacy that gradually degrades not only the brain, but it degrades the meaning of friendship.

Isn't it obvious in in today's world from people's preoccupation with self-medication, drug and alcohol use, rationalization and avoidance distraction that the truth doesn't just hurt, it's extremely painful.

Issues are like tissues. You pull one out and another appears!

I started to drink heavily, comfortably caught in the tentacle-like clutches of alcohol.

I stopped rowing for a moment to glug down some water, but it was warm, tasted of plastic, and failed to refresh. I yearned for an ice-cold drink—preferably one with bubbles and alcohol in it.

It is sad that people need alcohol to make them happy.

It almost never takes a pleasant state of mind to desire to be high or drunk.

it does seem the more we drink the better the words go.

I think fear neutralizes alcohol, weakens its anesthetic power. It's good for small fears; your boss, your wife, your bills, your dentist; all right then to take a drink. But for big ones it doesn't do any good. Like water on blazing gasoline, it will only quicken and compound it. It takes sand, in the literal and the slang sense, to smother the bonfire that is fear. And if you're out of sand, then you must burn up. ("New York Blues")

It is ethanol that everyone is after when they drink alcoholic beverages. That is what gives us the euphoric feeling, and that is what all vendors of alcoholic drinks are selling.

It is only after the intellect collapses that any true communication exists.

It is the return of a dog to his vomit.

It began to falter not when the book publishers who loved books gave way to those who preferred profits to reading. It happened when publishers and editors cut back on their drinking. If there is one national flower in book publishing, it is the martini.

I think that it is a great tragedy that a child can lose their mother, father, sister or brother, because you and I made a decision that getting loaded was more important than they are.

It might be in a saloon with jingled townsmen, or with a genial railroad man well lighted up and armed with pocket flasks, or with a bunch of alki stiffs in a hang-out. Yes; and it might be in a prohibition state...

I took another draught and my mouth was awash again in a riptide of bitter, bubbly, CO2 eruptions and the fruity splash of malted barley. What a sensation! I wasn't sure if I liked it at first, but by bottle's end I was a dedicated fan.

I took a breath. Pictured the bed waiting for me upstairs. Then retreated to the lobby bar alone and ordered an ice-cold gin martini, a small signal to myself that my work was done. I held the glass, its inverted construction an insult to gravity and the order of things. Just like our Movement, from the outside the balance of power seems all wrong. But hold a martini glass in your hand and you know instinctively that it is just right.

It's meant I will act like less of an asshole, but feel much more like one.