Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish-a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow-to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.

People," Geralt turned his head, "like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.

I hope to arrive at my death, late, in love, and a little drunk.?

"On the surface, I was calm: in secret, without really admitting it, I was waiting for something. Her return? How could I have been waiting for that? We all know that we are material creatures, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and not even the power of all our feelings combined can defeat those laws. All we can do is detest them. The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny. So must one be resigned to being a clock that measures the passage of time, now out of order, now repaired, and whose mechanism generates despair and love as soon as its maker sets it going? Are we to grow used to the idea that every man relives ancient torments, which are all the more profound because they grow comic with repetition? That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeat itself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into the jukebox...

"Ana?s, I don't know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. [...] This is a little drunken, Ana?s. I am saying to myself "here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere." I remember your saying - "you could fool me, I wouldn't know it." When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can't fool you - and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal - it's not in me. I love women, or life, too much - which it is, I don't know. But laugh, Ana?s, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance - no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. [...]

And in the end, we were all just humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.

NO. No no no. I don't want to screw you. I just love you. When did who you want to screw become the whole game? Since when is the person you want to screw the only person you get to love? It's so stupid, Tiny! I mean, Jesus, who even gives a fuck about sex?! People act like it's the most important thing humans do, but come on. How can our sentient fucking lives revolve around something slugs can do. I mean, who you want to screw and whether you screw them? Those are important questions, I guess. But they're not that important. You know what's important? Who would you die for? Who do you wake up at five forty-five in the morning for even though you don't even know why he needs you? Whose drunken nose would you pick?!

You can't trust a promise someone makes while they're drunk in love hungry or running for office.

Then not only an old man but also a drunkard becomes a second time a child.

My primary school teacher once poured a bottle of curdled school milk forcefully down my throat. Then I threw it up all over her suede shoes. I'd rather have drunk from the spittoon in Barney's barber shop.

If I had not some strength of will I would make a first class drunkard.

If I were sufficiently romantic I suppose I'd have killed myself long ago just to make people talk about me. I haven't even got the conviction to make a successful drunkard.

If the world were a bar America would currently be the angry drunk waving around a loaded gun. Yeah the other people in the bar may be afraid of him but they sure as hell don't respect him.

Often people display a curious respect for a man drunk rather like the respect of simple races for the insane... There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions.

Bill Clinton sitting on Air Force One getting his hair cut while people around the country cooled their heels and waited for him became a metaphor for a populist president who had gotten drunk with the perks of his own power and was sort of you know not sensitive to what people wanted.

My father had wanted to name me for Dylan Thomas. He had seen him speak on one of those drunken poetry tours he did.

It is the hour to be drunken! to escape being the martyred slaves of time be ceaselessly drunk. On wine on poetry or on virtue as you wish.

It is time to get drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of Time get drunk get drunk without stopping! On wine on poetry or on virtue as you wish.

Peace was declared but not all of us were drunk with joy or stricken blind.

Modern morality and manners suppress all natural instincts keep people ignorant of the facts of nature and make them fighting drunk on bogey tales.

Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.

I doing casual labor by the day. They wouldn't pay you until the next morning. There was a bar that would cash your check if you bought a beer first. A lot of guys never left until they'd drunk up all their money.

I may be drunk Miss but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.

A drunkard would not give money to sober people. He said they would only eat it and buy clothes and send their children to school with it.