Whiskey Quotes
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I live in New York City, and one day many years ago I was with a poet, Gregory Corso, walking through Greenwich Village. He pointed to a doorway in an alley that he said led to a tunnel under Manhattan, a tunnel he'd use to run from the cops. I started learning about old Prohibition-era speakeasy tunnels under the city, for running whiskey.
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Yes, honey...Just squeeze your rage up into a bitter little ball and release it at an appropriate time, like that day I hit the referee with the whiskey bottle.
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I used to like whiskey. But it's been a long time since I've been drunk.
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When the great jazz and blues clubs closed - joints where the cash register rang loudly and there wasn't ESPN on TV over the bandstand, and people smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey and hollered 'Play on!' - When those places closed, I was pretty much done.
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I was very lucky to be offered a lovely piece of property to build a career on. I started building a house on it, but it wasn't necessarily a house I would want to live in. So I ripped down that house, and I worked with these great lumberjacks to build a really cool cabin-a place I want to drink whiskey in and hang out until the sun rises.
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I love whiskey and haggis. I can't get enough of either.
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Religion is like an ice cold whiskey on a hot day.
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Look at the reputation they gave him. Giordano Bruno without the pyre is a whiskey priest laying waste to the maids of Umbria.
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My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.
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If you're going to be a writer you should sit down and write in the morning, and keep it up all day, every day. Charles Bukowski, no matter how drunk he got the night before or no matter how hungover he was, the next morning he was at his typewriter. Every morning. Holidays, too. He'd have a bottle of whiskey with him to wake up with, and that's what he believed. That's the way you became a writer: by writing. When you weren't writing, you weren't a writer.
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The advantages of whiskey over dogs are legion. Whiskey does not need to be periodically wormed, it does not need to be fed, it never requires a special kennel, it has no toenails to be clipped or coat to be stripped. Whiskey sits quietly in its special nook until you want it. True, whiskey has a nasty habit of running out, but then so does a dog.
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No man who drank or smoked could ever come nearer to me than the telephone. I'd say, I won't let you - you nicotine-soaked, beer-besmeared, whiskey-greased, red-eyed devil - talk to me face to face.
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There are battered husbands. Apparently this happens when the woman is real big, the man is very small, and they each drink a quart of whiskey a day.
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Whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation. You gaze first, then it's time to drink.
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I wish to live to 150 years old, but the day I die, I wish it to be with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other.
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I'm a simple man. All I want is enough sleep for two normal men, enough whiskey for three, and enough women for four.
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Americans are big boys. You can talk them into almost anything. Just sit with them for half an hour over a bottle of whiskey and be a nice guy.
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I must not mix champage, whiskey, and gin. (Repeated fifty times to fill column.)
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I read a little bit of nonfiction and a lot of poetry. I think of poetry as my shot of whiskey when I don't have time to savor a whole bottle of wine.
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You can handle just about anything that comes at you out on the road with a believable grin, common sense and whiskey.
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Jazz was born out of the whiskey bottle, was raised on marijana, and will expire on cocaine.
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Men are nicotine soaked, beer besmirched, whiskey greased, red-eyed devils.
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New York: Prison towers and modern posters for soap and whiskey. Pittsburgh: Abandon it.
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The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.
