The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul and that I am sure is why he does it.

Roald Dahl
Boy: Tales of Childhood

My father could give me over to the comparative wholesomeness of American life, leaving himself free to sit in his darkened bedroom and drink whisky until his long sensitive nose floated hazily in front of his face…

Poppy Z. Brite
Calcutta, Lord of Nerves


September 16, 2015


We call it lively water for its burn of breath
Keeps winter awhile away
Even the sprinting halfhearted Australian winters
Which fade and bloom the same day.

It is Ossian’s ichor, Jameson’s god on wheels;
Can transform five o’clock
From the depths of the wobbly soul by leaping
Straight to the brain or cock.

We need not celebrate it with a champagne toast:
Two fingers of gold will do.
It swims around in the back of my eyes transforming
Every linoleum view.

It stains our veins telling today tomorrow
Has better things to do.

I’m yabbering away nineteen to the dozen,
Some of which may be true.

Chris Wallace-Crabbe

(Chris Wallace-Crabbe is an Australian poet with 24 collections of his work published. His Wikipedia page may be found HERE.)