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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #alcohol
Because when I read, I don't really read; I pop a beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol, infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root of each blood vessel. ↗
Dr. Jeff Herten’s book, The Sobering Truth, is a valuable and necessary addition to the thoughtful person’s library. Too often in today’s world, the perils of alcohol are overlooked, sneered at or dismissed. We are bombarded with the glossy, manufactured image of the drinker surrounded by alluring members of the opposite sex, expensive or exotic locales or deliriously happy sports fans. The message is clear: consume our product and you, too, can have all this. And, too often, the public buys into this image. What adult wouldn’t want to achieve all those unfulfilled pipe dreams hidden away since adolescence? These false illusions disguise the deadly aftermath of the consumption of booze. Binge drinking among college students has reached epidemic proportions, with several deaths by alcohol poisoning reported in the media. Ask those who live near off-campus housing or the local police about the problem. Carefully, logically and in clear language Dr. Herten explains the insidious effects of alcohol on the human body–all of it. He relates the specific damage that occurs when the functions of particular organs are attacked and eroded by liquor. Carefully avoiding impossible-to-pronounce medical terms, he presents a compelling case for the need for everyone to recognize these dangers. Jeff Herten brings two-fold expertise to the book: He is a highly respected dermatologist, dermatopathologist and medical school professor; and a former high-functioning alcoholic. His story of slipping into the hazy area of addiction is compelling and the reader can easily see danger hidden in the socially acceptable, even desirable, lure of the casual cocktail or beer. Herten never whines, but rather presents in an honest and straightforward manner the sequence of his casual drinking that led to the recognition of his problem. The reader clearly understands how his condition was hidden from colleagues, family and self. Alcoholism, he says, often lies hidden, and always is the subject of fierce denial. Dr. Herten not only presents the perils of drinking, but presents a path to recovery. His easy-to-read, The Sobering Truth, provides invaluable knowledge. It is an honest, courageous and well-written book. ↗
What was so painful about Amy’s death is that I know that there is something I could have done. I could have passed on to her the solution that was freely given to me. Don’t pick up a drink or drug, one day at a time. It sounds so simple; it actually is simple but it isn’t easy; it requires incredible support and fastidious structuring. ↗
A late arrival had the impression of lots of loud people unnecessarily grouped within a smoke-blue space between two mirrors gorged with reflections. Because, I suppose, Cynthia wished to be the youngest in the room, the women she used to invite, married or single, were, at the best, in their precarious forties; some of them would bring from their homes, in dark taxis, intact vestiges of good looks, which, however, they lost as the party progressed. It has always amazed me - the capacity sociable weekend revelers have of finding almost at once, by a purely empiric but very precise method, a common denominator of drunkenness, to which everybody loyally sticks before descending, all together, to the next level. The rich friendliness of the matrons was marked by tomboyish overtones, while the fixed inward look of amiably tight men was like a sacrilegious parody of pregnancy. Although some of the guests were connected in one way or another with the arts, there was no inspired talk, no wreathed, elbow-propped heads, and of course no flute girls. From some vantage point where she had been sitting in a stranded mermaid pose on the pale carpet with one or two younger fellows, Cynthia, her face varnished with a film of beaming sweat, would creep up on her knees, a proffered plate of nuts in one hand, and crisply tap with the other the athletic leg of Cochran or Corcoran, an art dealer, ensconced, on a pearl-grey sofa, between two flushed, happily disintegrating ladies. At a further stage there would come spurts of more riotous gaiety. Corcoran or Coransky would grab Cynthia or some other wandering woman by the shoulder and lead her into a corner to confront her with a grinning imbroglio of private jokes and rumors, whereupon, with a laugh and a toss of her head, he would break away. And still later there would be flurries of intersexual chumminess, jocular reconciliations, a bare fleshy arm flung around another woman's husband (he standing very upright in the midst of a swaying room), or a sudden rush of flirtatious anger, of clumsy pursuit-and the quiet half smile of Bob Wheeler picking up glasses that grew like mushrooms in the shade of chairs. ("The Vane Sisters") ↗
It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat. ↗
#drifting #jar #jars #noiselessness #pale
