... the mere thought of going near a man who is not mellowly pickled, and whose breath reeks of his native fleshy self, is squeamishly unpalatable to me.

anybody who drinks seriously is poor: so poor, poor, extra poor, me.

If happiness comes at all: which is by no means prearranged; it comes by the way, while you are seeking for something else. Something outside yourself, beyond yourself: in a brief absorption of self-forgetfulness.

There is a great gulf between the really creative person and normal people. The totally creative person does not have the rest of his life in proper proportion.

There is a brotherliness about a drinking person, which is coldly lacking in the straight and narrow enemies of drink; the difference between the two is more marked than nationality or belief: it is an opposite species altogether. It is against the unwritten laws of congeniality for them to mix. For me, a man who does not drink is distinctly indecent.

There is, happily, no limit to the faith of human nature in believing what it wants to believe.

money ... is only important when you have none; and though it may not be everything, it goes a very long way towards blocking up the winter draft of age.