Dram Quotes

Willy, one of the guys at the distillery, comes up with what Oliver and I agree is the best definition of what a 'dram' actually is: 'A measure of whisky that is pleasing to both guest and host.

- Neden bu kadar kötümsersin? - Sen neden değilsin? Çevrene bakmıyor musun? En mutlu görünenlerine bile? Bütün bunlar üç oda, bir mutfak, iki çocuk ile başlıyor. Sonra? Haydi bayanlar, baylar! Bu fırsatı kaçırmayın. Siz de girin, siz de görün. Üç perdelik dram. Birinci kısım: Dağlar dümdüz. İkinci kısım: Ne çok tepe! Üçüncü kısım: Ova batak. Bugünlük bu kadar baylar. İyi geceler. Yarın gene bekleriz.

Lo!" cried the demon. "I am here! What dost thou seek of me? Why dost thou disturb my repose? Smite me no more with that dread rod!" He looked at Cabal. "Where's your dread rod?" "I left it at home," replied Cabal. "Didn't think I really needed it." "You can't summon me without a dread rod!" said Lucifuge, appalled. "You're here, aren't you?" "Well, yes, but under false pretences. You haven't got a goatskin or two vervain crowns or two candles of virgin wax made by a virgin girl and duly blessed. Have you got the stone called Ematille?" "I don't even know what Ematille is." Neither did the demon. He dropped the subject and moved on. "Four nails from the coffin of a dead child?" "Don't be fatuous." "Half a bottle of brandy?" "I don't drink brandy." "It's not for you." "I have a hip flask," said Cabal, and threw it to him. The demon caught it and took a dram. "Cheers," said Lucifuge, and threw it back. They regarded each other for a long moment. "This really is a shambles," the demon added finally. "What did you summon me for, anyway?

Sift the sand of every world and sort the dust of space between them, and you will find not one atom of fear, nor gram of love nor dram of hatred. Yet they are there, unseen and uncertain as the smallest quanta and just as real.

Willy's Definitive Dram Definition Willy, one of the guys at the distillery, comes up with what Oliver and I agree is the best definition of what a 'dram' actually is: 'A measure of whisky that is pleasing to both guest and host.

[...] one louing howre For many yeares of sorrow can dispence: A dram of sweet is worth a pound of sowre

Greater magics than mine are afoot in this chamber, where blade and cup and dram are met with love such as yours.

I suppose ye might give him a wee dram that would keep him quiet so ye could tell them he was gone. Or maybe lock him in a closet? Tied up wi’ a gag if it should be he’s got his voice back by then,” he added. Germain was a very logical, thorough-minded sort of person; he got it from Marsali.

Să telefonezi cuiva şi apoi, brusc, de teamă să nu-i auzi glasul, să închizi.-Aşa arată, pe scurt, relaţiile mele cu ceilalţi.O sihăstrie cu un dram de sociabilitate.

When you love someone, they become a part of who you are. They're in everything you do. They're in the air you breathe and the water you drink and the blood in your veins. Their touch stays on your skin and their voice stays in your ears and their thoughts stay in your mind. You know their dreams because their nightmares pierce your heart and their good dreams are your drams too. And you don't think they're perfect, but you know their flaws, the deep-down truth of them, and the shadows of all their secrets, and they don't frighten you away; in fact you love them more for it, because you don't want perfect. You want them.

Anger has ever been a failing of mine. When it surges, it sings in my veins like a dram of gin. Any action seems possible, reasonable. It is only afterwards, when the fire fades, that I see the dark soot-stain of what I have done.

There are several reasons why fans of BBC's Sherlock are utterly mad, incurably creative, and horny as hell. First and foremost, they are hungry. Devotees of American TV dramas get twenty-two episodes a year. Fans of most British drams enjoy six, eight, maybe a dozen. The Sherlock fandom gets three. The Sherlock fandom gets three television episodes every 18-24 months. The Sherlock fandom is deeply, abidingly, and very inventively starving.

Oh yes. To dram is the ultimate dare, is it not?

If it prove She's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where I lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her no further trust her; For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false, If she be.

Ha. If given a choice of dodging a bullet or stepping in its way, I'll choose dodging when I can. Anyway, to face death, you only need a dram of courage. To face life you need a good deal more.

What’s wrong with am-dram? What’s wrong with amateur musicians playing in the pub on the weekend? What’s wrong with people painting by numbers because painting gives them joy? Why is art only considered worthwhile if it brings in money? Why do you only get to call yourself an artist if you do it as your job?

I taste a liquor never brewed" I taste a liquor never brewed -- From Tankards scooped in Pearl -- Not all the Vats upon the Rhine Yield such an Alcohol! Inebriate of Air -- am I -- And Debauchee of Dew -- Reeling -- thro endless summer days -- From inns of Molten Blue -- When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove's door -- When Butterflies -- renounce their "drams" -- I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats -- And Saints -- to windows run -- To see the little Tippler Leaning against the -- Sun --

Like all people who have known rough times, light-heartedness seemed to her too irrational and inconsequent to be indulged in except as a reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit suddenly...Her triumph was tempered by circumspection, she had still that field-mouse fear of the coulter of destiny despite fair promise, which is common among the thoughtful who have suffered early from poverty and oppression.

Cît despre umilinţele proprii, oricînd le vei putea idealiza ori ascunde,luand un aer de stîrpitură distinsă, continuînd să fii, cu demnitate, ultimul om. Politeţea ― rutină a nenorocirii, prerogativă a celor care, născuţi fără speranţă, au început-o cu sfîrşitul! Să te ştii dintr-o sămînţă rea, ce n-a dat rod niciodată, e o amărăciune în care intră un dram de mîngîiere, ba chiar de voluptate.

I cannot understand the principle at all,' said Stephen. 'I should very much like to show it to Captain Aubrey, who is so very well versed in the mathematics and dynamics of sailing. Landlord, pray ask him whether he is willing to part with the instrument.' Not on your fucking life,' said the Aboriginal, snatching the boomerang and clasping it to his bosom. He says he does not choose to dispose of it, your honour,' said the landlord. 'But never fret. I have a dozen behind the bar that I sell to ingenious travelers for half a guinea. Choose any one that takes your fancy, sit, and Bennelong will throw it to prove it comes back, a true homing pigeon, as we say. Won't you?' This much louder, in the black man's ear. Won't I what?' Throw it for the gentleman.' Give um dram.' Sir, he says he will be happy to throw it for you; and hopes you will encourage him with a tot of rum. (pp. 353-354)

After a long chilly night's drive, straining our eyes in the darkness for unseen obstacles and pitfalls, we found that there was a lot to be said for a dram of whisky stirred into our porridge. It made a sustaining and stimulating mixture which I can warmly recommend as a breakfast dish to all engaged on similar enterprises.

nothing in the world of so good use, as the least dram of grace.

And to anyone who feels alone on their journey or in need of some company, come with me, I'll promise you'll not be walking alone. I'll buy you a dram at the end. Sláinte.

The whole world's a bottle, And life's but a dram, When the bottle gets empty, It sure ain't worth a damn.

But the Count hadn’t the temperament for revenge; he hadn’t the imagination for epics; and he certainly hadn’t the fanciful ego to dram of empires restored. No. His model for mastering his circumstances would be a different sort of captive altogether: an Anglican washed ashore. Like Robinson Crusoe stranded on the Isle of Despair, the count would maintain his resolve by committing to the business of practicalities. Having dispensed with dreams of quick discovery, the world’s Crusoes seek shelter and a source of fresh water; they teach themselves to make fire from flint; they study their island’s topography, it’s climate, its flora and fauna, all the while keeping their eyes trained for sails on the horizon and footprints in the sand.

Ved kvældsmaten skulde familjen ha en dram, det var gammel takst, og Rinaldus var den som skulde skjænke i glassene. Det var ham et høitidelig øieblik han skulde holde karaflen med de store malte roser i sine små hænder. Alles øine vogtet på ham... Maten var den reneste fremmedmat, det var både lefse og sirup og et ægg til hver. Man kunde se at det var jul, for det var atpå kjøpet smør til lefserne. (Jul i Åsen, Stridende liv)

Den lange jærnbanereise har rystet sammen alle de forskjellige dele i vore hoder, det danser mange løse ting omkring derinde, vi kjører endnu; selv har jeg desuten et lite tillæg av mathet, av ubehag, feber. Det der må nok kureres med en bitte liten dram, sier jeg. Og så ser jeg min leilighet til å hælde kognak i et ølglass.

For what was your gesture? An act of pure love for Jesus particularly. It was an act so completely focused upon the Christ that not a dram of worldly benefit was gained thereby. Nothing could justify the spillage of some three hundred days' wages, except love alone. [...] The disciples, in fact, were offended by an act that produced nothing, accomplished nothing, fed no poor, served no need. They reproached you as a wastrel. They were offended by the absurd, an act devoted absolutely to love, to love alone. But Jesus called it 'beautiful.

What is hope? Is it the ambition of discovering for the first time what the carnal definition of physical love is without understanding the concept of true passion? Or is it imagination running wild and free fueled by the dram that tonight will last forever and tomorrows will always come as you are blinded by the brilliance of another's smile? Is it a theory of inevitability that relies on fate or destiny bringing two souls together for their one shot at true and unbridled happiness? Or is it a plea to erase a past that used to hold the potential for limitless smiles and endless laughs? I define hope as a narcotic. It courses through our veins, igniting ideas and feelings and emotions that all work in collaboration to produce a better tomorrow, while leaving today, but a distant memory. The essence of its unknown and unseen promise is beautiful and addicting to those who are in need of its satiating grace. The dependence on the idea of possibility can become a crutch however; an excuse for ignoring the here and now. It can swiftly morph from a therapeutic escape to an addictive obsession that somewhere over the rainbow lies the answer that will make everything right again. I am thankful to call myself a true addict to hope's mind altering panacea. It's blissful nirvana can seem both inconceivably irrational yet entirely fathomable to anyone lost in a sea of uncertainty. Just as age brings wisdom, experience brings the understanding that no matter what pot of gold lies at the end of your hopeful rainbow, the relief it casts over tragedy and heartache is the power behind it's true magic. To the hope that resides in the depths of my being, thank you.......

After all, Christmastide is the time of year for warming brandies, for assertive burgundies and meaty Medoc wines, and for gladsome whiskies. And an Islay malt: well, this is the octave of St Andrew, and you will doubtless recall that he is not only the patron saint of Alba, of Scotland, but was also a fisherman. How better to toast my favorite apostle (he being all the things I personally am not, starting with humble and self-effacing) than with the sea-salty dram of an Islay whisky?

Epitaph On John Dove, Innkeeper Here lies Johnie Pigeon; What was his religion? Whae'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnie Pigeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution, Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full-flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.

Deep in the meadow, under the willow A bed of grass, a soft green pillow Lay down your head and close your sleepy eyes And when again they open, the sun will rise. Here it's safe, here it's warm Here the daisies guard you from every human Here your drams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true Here is the place where I love you.

The farmers of western Pennsylvania laid the foundation of the American whiskey industry.

I read a window advertisement for a tooth extraction—three shillings, including a complimentary dram of whiskey. I cringed,

The dram of evil doth all the noble substance of doubt, to his own scandal.

In the apothecaries’ system of weight units, a pound is divided into 12 ounces, which each consist of 8 drams. A dram is then 3 scruples, each made from 20 grains. I hope that made sense. A grain is one 5,760th of a pound. But not a normal pound: this is a troy pound. Which is different from a normal pound. And people wonder why the metric system was invented.

His supervisor sighed. "Agent Drams, no one knows who you are." "We're a black budget government agency. No one is supposed to know who we are." "To the general public yes, however, when your supervising agent and the promotion board have to ask 'who' at seeing your name and don't even recognize your picture, you need to show your admittedly somewhat generic face a bit more.

There’s a Chinese word that means “soul sister,” and that is the word I would use to address you in my heart. Listen to me, soul sister: Fate or luck or destiny already put you through hell once. Please don’t make it worse by condemning yourself. There is no choice that would have left you feeling no guilt. Every time I watch Adam struggle to speak, every time I see another child laugh and point at him, every time I watch his face fall as he realizes he is not going to be treated like the other kids, I feel wrenched by guilt just as you did when you heard my story. Life is hard. We make the best choices we can. Condemnation, whether it comes from around you or inside you, only robs the world of another dram of compassion. God knows, we need all the compassion we can get. If you promise to try to forgive yourself, I’ll try to forgive myself as well. I think, in my heart of hearts, that there is nothing for either one of us to forgive.

This is where stiff whisky really does make all the difference. No matter how fucked up the world may get, a good dram will make it at least slightly more bearable. And A-flippin-men to that.

They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust, Is always so to women; one sole bond Awaits them, treachery is all their trust; Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust Buys them in marriage—and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all ’s over. Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, Some mind their household, others dissipation, Some run away, and but exchange their cares, Losing the advantage of a virtuous station; Few changes e’er can better their affairs, Theirs being an unnatural situation, From the dull palace to the dirty hovel: Some play the devil, and then write a novel.

Solitude is dangerous to reason, without being favourable to virtue: pleasures of some sort are necessary to the intellectual as to the corporeal health; and those who resist gaiety, will be likely for the most part to fall a sacrifice to appetite; for the solicitations of sense are always at hand, and a dram to a vacant and solitary person is a speedy and seducing relief. Remember that the solitary mind is certainly luxurious, probably superstitious, and possibly mad: the mind stagnates for want of employment, grows morbid, and is extinguished like a candle in foul air.

Gavin meets us outside the cottage. I notice he’s carrying weapons, as if he’s been training for this. He glances at my sword and his lips quirk up. “Now this sight brings back fond memories. Though I admit, I miss the torn dresses. Trousers just don’t have the same touch of reckless insanity.” I roll my eyes. “Trust you to flirt with me right before a battle. What happened to Brooding Gavin?” “Brooding Gavin had a city to protect,” he says. “All I have now is my own arse. Oh, and this whisky.” He pulls open his coat and the bottle is right there in the inside pocket. He’s actually determined to save that shite single malt. “You’re ridiculous,” I tell him. Aithinne, however, brightens when she sees it. “Thank god,” she says. “Save a dram for me. I always like a spot of whisky after I murder things.” God help me. Or kill me now. Just put me out of my misery.

There is an amazing ignorance of Scripture among many, and a consequent want of established, solid religion. In no other way can I account for the ease with which people are, like children, “tossed to and fro, and carried about by every wind of doctrine.” (Eph. iv. 14.) There is an Athenian love of novelty abroad, and a morbid distaste for anything old and regular, and in the beaten path of our forefathers. Thousands will crowd to hear a new voice and a new doctrine, without considering for a moment whether what they hear is true.—There is an incessant craving after any teaching which is sensational, and exciting, and rousing to the feelings.—There is an unhealthy appetite for a sort of spasmodic and hysterical Christianity. The religious life of many is little better than spiritual dram-drinking, and the “meek and quiet spirit” which St. Peter commends is clean forgotten, (1 Peter iii. 4.)

With peace of mind came development, and with development beauty. Knowledge—the result of great natural insight—she did not lack; learning, accomplishment—those, alas, she had not; but as the winter and spring passed by her thin face and figure filled out in rounder and softer curves; the lines and contractions upon her young brow went away; the muddiness of skin which she had looked upon as her lot by nature departed with a change to abundance of good things, and a bloom came upon her cheek. Perhaps, too, her grey, thoughtful eyes revealed an arch gaiety sometimes; but this was infrequent; the sort of wisdom which looked from their pupils did not readily keep company with these lighter moods. Like all people who have known rough times, light-heartedness seemed to her too irrational and inconsequent to be indulged in except as a reckless dram now and then; for she had been too early habituated to anxious reasoning to drop the habit suddenly. She felt none of those ups and downs of spirit which beset so many people without cause; never—to paraphrase a recent poet—never a gloom in Elizabeth-Jane's soul but she well knew how it came there; and her present cheerfulness was fairly proportionate to her solid guarantees for the same.

His louely words her seemd due recompence Of all her passed paines: one louing howre For many yeares of sorrow can dispence: A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre: Shee has forgott, how many, a woeful stowre For him she late endurd; she speakes no more Of past . . . Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore.

Then, as if they were wind-blown clouds, all of the ideas in which we’ve felt life and all the ambitions and plans on which we’ve based our hopes for the future tear apart and scatter like ashes of fog, tatters of what wasn’t nor could ever be. And behind this disastrous rout, the black and implacable solitude of the desolate starry sky appears.

She

Sometimes you gotta do the small gigs to get the big gigs

She's alone, Inserted so deep in her blankets; I'm going to need a map to find her.

Bizler hayatın içindeki, herkesin gördüğü, ancak kimsenin gerçekten farkına varmadığı, yaşamın gölgesindeki insanlar değil miyiz.

İnsana üzərində xoşbəxt yaşamaq üçün bir qədər torpaq lazımdır, həmişəlik rahat olmaq üçün isə daha az torpaq gərək olur.

The fog made things seem hollow and unattached. He tried not to think about Ted Lavender, but then he was thinking how fast it was, no dram, down and dead, and how it was hard to feel anything except surprise. It seemed unchristian. He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive.

-Neden bu kadar kötümsersin? -Sen neden değilsin? Çevrene bakmıyor musun ?En mutlu görünenlerine bile? Bütün bunlar üç oda,bir mutfak,iki çocuk düşü ile başlıyor.Sonra ?Haydi bayanlar,baylar!Bu fırsatı kaçırmayın.Siz de girin,siz de görün.Üç perdelik dram.Birinci kısım:Dağlar dümdüz.İkinci kısım:Ne çok tepe! Üçüncü kısım:Ova batak.Bugünlük bu kadar baylar.İyi geceler.Yarın gene bekleriz.

Certain scholiasts teach that each experience is only the sum of its parts. That our lives may be reduced to a set of equations, that they may be factored, weighed, balanced, and understood. They believe the universe is one of objects and that we are only objects among objects. That even our emotions are no more than electrochemical processes carried out in our brains, accessories to the pressures of Bloody-Handed Evolution. This is why they struggle for apatheia, the freedom from emotion. This is their great failing. Human beings do not inhabit a world of objects, nor did our consciousness evolve to live in such a place. We live in stories, and in stories, we are subject to phenomena beyond the mechanisms of space and time. Fear and love, death and wrath and wisdom—these are as much parts of our universe as light and gravity. The ancients called them gods, for we are their creatures, shaped by their winds. Sift the sands of every world and sort the dust of space between them, and you will find not one atom of fear, nor gram of love nor dram of hatred. Yet they are there, unseen and uncertain as the smallest quanta and just as real. And like the smallest quanta, they are governed by principles beyond our control.

Zihnim buna bütünüyle karşıydı. Acı çekmek yararsızdır, diyordu zihnim bana tekrar tekrar, fakat kendi isteğimle acı çekmeye devam ettim. Acı çekmek bana hiçbir şey öğretmedi; başkaları için hâlâ bir gereksinim olabilir, fakat benim için ruhani uyumsuzluğun matematiksel kanıtından başka bir şey değil. Günümüz insanının acı çekme yöntemiyle sahnelemekte olduğu dram benim için geçerli değil, hiçbir zaman olmadı.

Edebiyattan nasıl konuşabiliriz? Onun yerine sana bir resim çizdim. Bazı insanlar mekanik olarak yatağa uzanmaktan hiçbir keyif almıyorlar çünkü bu durum onlara bir gün yaşlanacaklarını ve öleceklerini hatırlatıyor. Bu tür insanlar yazar olarak adlandırılıyor. Bir dram hayal ediyorlar ve bunu hikaye gibi anlatmanın bir yolunu arıyorlar. Aralarında en kötüleri şairler. Sarhoş gibi hece hece okuyorlar, sesli harften sessiz harfe, diftonglardan üç heceli seslere geçiyorlar

Pretension is a question of optics. The pessimist sees pretension as a sham. The optimist views it as innocent, tragicomic, an excess of effort. Like watching amateur actors in a local village play, a wooden or overambitious performance might not be deliberate, It could be deeply sincere; the am-dram troupe putting everything they’ve got into their production. Pretentiousness resides in someone’s lack of awareness that their ambition might exceed their capability, or inability to laugh about one’s own limitations.

Năzuinţa omului spre „liberul arbitru“, în înţelesul superlativ şi metafizic care din păcate mai domneşte încă în creierele semidocte, vrerea de a purta întreaga şi ultima responsabilitate pentru actele sale, descărcând-o din spinarea lui Dumnezeu, a lumii, a eredităţii, a întâmplării, a societăţii, este nici mai mult, nici mai puţin decât dorinţa de a fi însăşi causa sui. Cu o cutezanţă mai mare decât aceea a baronului de Munchhausen, omul încearcă, trăgându-se de păr, să se smulgă din mlaştina neantului, pentru a se înălţa în existentă. Iar de s-ar hotărî vreunul să-i facă vânt neroziei rustice a acestei noţiuni faimoase a „liberului arbitru“ şi să şi-o scoată din cap l-aş ruga să mai facă un pas pe calea „iluminării“ sale şi să procedeze aşijderea şi în privinţa contrariului acestei pseudonoţiuni a „liberului arbitru“: mă refer la „vrerea încătuşată“ care conduce la un abuz al noţiunilor de cauză şi efect. „Cauza“ şi „efectul“ nu trebuie concretizate, precum o fac în mod greşit naturaliştii (şi toţi cei care naturalizează azi în gândire, asemenea lor), care se conformează neroziei mecaniciste dominante ce îşi imaginează cauza drept ceva care trage şi împinge până în momentul în care este obţinut efectul: trebuie să ne folosim de „cauză“ şi de „efect" doar ca de nişte noţiuni pure, adică în chip de ficţiuni convenţionale în scopul desemnării, al comunicării, şi nu pentru cel al explicaţiei. Noţiunea de „în sine“ nu conţine nici un dram de „legătură cauzală“, de „necesitate“, de „determinism psihologic“, în cazul ei efectul nu este urmarea cauzei, în cadrul ei nu domneşte nici o „lege“. Noi singuri am fost cei care am inventat cauzele, succesiunea, reciprocitatea, relativitatea, obligativitatea, numărul, legea, libertatea, temeiul, ţinta; iar când introducem şi amestecăm în lucruri această lume de semne născocite de noi înşine, în chip de lucruri „în sine“, procedăm iarăşi precum am făcut întotdeauna, şi anume mitologic. „Voinţa încătuşată“ este un mit: în realitate, se poate vorbi doar despre voinţe puternice şi slabe. - Când un gânditor simte că a descoperit deodată în întreaga „înlănţuire cauzală" şi în întreaga „necesitate psihologică“ ceva ce seamănă a constrângere, a necesitate, a succesiune obligatorie, a presiune, a încătuşare - aceasta este mai întotdeauna semnul că în cazul lui ceva nu este în regulă: a simţi astfel e un simptom revelator, - respectivul se demască pe sine; şi, în general, în caz că observaţiile mele sunt exacte, problema determinismului este cercetată sub două aspecte diametral opuse, însă întotdeauna într-un mod profund personal: unii nu vor să cedeze cu niciun preţ din „responsabilitatea“ lor, din credinţa în sine, din dreptul personal asupra meritelor tor (acesta e cazul raselor vanitoase), ceilalţi, dimpotrivă, nu vor să-si asume responsabilitatea şi vinovăţia pentru nimic, dorind, dintr-un tăinuit dispreţ de sine, să poată da bir cu fugiţii, indiferent în ce direcţie, din faţa eului lor. Când scriu cărţi, aceştia din urmă obişnuiesc să ia apărarea în zilele noastre răufăcătorilor; deghizarea lor preferată este un fel de compătimire socialistă. Si, într-adevăr, fatalismul celor cu voinţa slabă se înfrumuseţează uimitor din momentul în care reuşeşte să se dea drept la religion de la souffrance humaine: este felul său de a-si demonstra „bunul gust“.

I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I would. I should only disgrace you. If you will know all,” said she, as he still seemed inclined to urge her, “I must have drink. Such as live like me could not bear life if they did not drink. It’s the only thing to keep us from suicide. If we did not drink, we could not stand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we are, for a day. If I go without food, and without shelter, I must have my dram. Oh! you don’t know the awful nights I have had in prison for want of it,” said she, shuddering, and glaring round with terrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with dim form, near her.

My own mother was evacuated at the age of five during World War Two and my father was a young man working as an ARP warden. This novel is purely fictitious, but I wanted to explore the traumas that many ordinary people of the war generation suffered, experiences which would be quite unimaginable to many of us today and then to contrast them with the issues we all face in the modern day.

His political and social speeches were cataracts of anecdotes and "loud laughter"; his bodily health was of a bursting sort; his ethics were all optimism; and he dealt with the Drink problem (his favourite topic) with that immortal or even monotonous gaiety which is so often a mark of the prosperous total abstainer. The established story of his conversion was familiar on the more puritanic platforms and pulpits, how he had been, when only a boy, drawn away from Scotch theology to Scotch whisky, and how he had risen out of both and become (as he modestly put it) what he was. Yet his wide white beard, cherubic face, and sparkling spectacles, at the numberless dinners and congresses where they appeared, made it hard to believe, somehow, that he had ever been anything so morbid as either a dram-drinker or a Calvinist. He was, one felt, the most seriously merry of all the sons of men.

Pentru că și cele mai trainice ziduri au fisurile lor. Fiecare dintre noi va fi fericit, atâta timp cât ne dorim și luptăm cu toată forță și ne agățăm de lucrul acela care ne-ar aduce fericire și împlinire sufletească, dar înainte viața ne va învăța pe toți să devenim puternici. Cunosc un copil care a învățat să fie puternic atunci când și-a pierdut frații la o vârstă prea fragedă și credea că nu îi va mai revedea niciodată, și a învățat să fie puternic atunci când dormea sub cerul liber sau când oamenii "binevoitori" îi făceau dușuri reci în miez de noapte. Cunosc un copil care a trecut prin toate astea și multe altele. Cunosc un copil care a fost forțat de împrejurări să se maturizeze mult prea devreme și a devenit puternic. Îndeajuns de puternic pentru a lupta, pentru a-și urmări visele. Îndeajuns de puternic pentru a rămâne cu picioarele pe pământ, dar cu un dram de naivitate și speranță pentru alți copii care se lovesc zilnic de nepăsare și răutate gratuită din partea adulților. Sunt puternic, dar sunt și naiv.

A curious colony of mountaineers has long been enclosed within that small flat London district of Soho.  Swiss watchmakers, Swiss silver-chasers, Swiss jewellers, Swiss importers of Swiss musical boxes and Swiss toys of various kinds, draw close together there.  Swiss professors of music, painting, and languages; Swiss artificers in steady work; Swiss couriers, and other Swiss servants chronically out of place; industrious Swiss laundresses and clear-starchers; mysteriously existing Swiss of both sexes; Swiss creditable and Swiss discreditable; Swiss to be trusted by all means, and Swiss to be trusted by no means; these diverse Swiss particles are attracted to a centre in the district of Soho.  Shabby Swiss eating-houses, coffee-houses, and lodging-houses, Swiss drinks and dishes, Swiss service for Sundays, and Swiss schools for week-days, are all to be found there.  Even the native-born English taverns drive a sort of broken-English trade; announcing in their windows Swiss whets and drams, and sheltering in their bars Swiss skirmishes of love and animosity on most nights in the year.

Tim Finnegan’s Wake by Dr. Thom Dedalus When God reeled in good auld Tim Finnegan, And looked into his green Irish peepers, Said He, “Now, what was I thinkin’? Poor lad, he ain’t one of the keepers.” To hell Tim descended without any fear, To the devil, whom not much is lost on, Said he, “I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here, Among all your old friends from South Boston.” Tim’s jokes night and day caused Satan to swear, As migraines crept behind blood red eyelids, “An eternity with you is just too much to bear. You’re going home to your wife and your nine kids.” So up pops Tim at his wake from his casket. “It can’t be,” went a howl from his wife. When he belched the sea from his own breadbasket, Said she, “Someone, hand me a knife.” Now Tim’s fishing off George’s Banks Catching codfish, haddock and hake. The happiest folk in town to give thanks, Is John Hancock for Finnegan’s wake. Finn’s now a legend among life underwriters, In Beantown and all over the States. In him beats the heart of a fighter. Sad to hear how they increased his rates. Finn’s tale is best told with a dram of Jameson. You’re entitled to whatever sense you can make. Just cause you’re dead, it don’t mean you’re gone. You may take comfort in Finnegan’s wake.

The very first dram Ronan had ever been truly proud of, truly euphoric over, had been a copy. It had been in high school. Ronan wasn't good at surviving high school and he wasn't good at surviving friendship, and so while his friend Gansey's back was turned, he'd stolen Gansey's car. It was a beautiful car. A 1973 bright orange Camaro with stripes right up its hood and straight down its ass. Ronan had wanted to drive it for months, despite Gansey forbidding it. Maybe because of him forbidding it. Within hours of stealing it, Ronan had totaled it. Gansey hadn't wanted him to drive it because he thought he'd grind the clutch, or curb it, or burn out the tires, or maybe, maybe blow the engine. And here Ronan had totaled it. Ronan had loved Richard C. Gansey III far more than he loved himself at that point, and he hadn't known how he was ever going to face him when he returned from out of town. And then, Joseph Kavinsky had taught him to dream a copy. Before that, all of Ronan's dreams--that he knew about, Matthew didn't count--had been accidents and knickknacks, the bizarre and the useless. When he'd successfully copied a car, an entire car, he'd been out of his mind with glee. The dreamt car had been perfect down to the last detail. Exactly like the original. The pinnacle of dreaming. Now a copy was the least impressive thing to him. He could copy anything he put his mind to. That just made him a very ethereal photocopier. A one-man 3-D printer. The dreams he was proud of now were the dreams that were originals. Dreams that couldn't exist in any other way. Dreams that took full advantage of the impossibility of dreamspace in a way that was cunning or lovely or effective or all of the above. The sundogs. Lindenmere. Dreams that had to be dreams. In the past, all his good dreams like this were gifts from Lindenmere or accidents rather than things he had consciously constructed. He was beginning to realize, after listening to Bryde, that this was because he'd been thinking too small. His consciousness was slowly becoming the shape of the concrete, waking world, and it was shrinking all his dreams to the probable. He needed to start realizing that possible and impossible didn't mean the same thing for him as they did for other people. He needed to break himself of the habit of rules, of doubts, of physics. His "what if" had grown so tame. "You are made of dreams and this world is not for you." He would not let the nightwash take him and Matthew. He would not let this world kill him slowly. He deserved a place here, too. He woke.

You... you were telling me about your diet?" "Well, mostly I was raised on milk, potatoes, dulse, fish-" "I beg your pardon, did you say 'dulse'? What is that, exactly?" "A kind of seaweed," MacRae said. "As a lad, it was my job to go out at low tide before supper and cut handfuls of it from the rocks on shore." He opened a cupboard to view a small store of cooking supplies and utensils. "It goes in soup, or you can eat it raw." He glanced at her over his shoulder, amusement touching his lips as he saw her expression. "Seaweed is the secret to good health?" Merritt asked dubiously. "No, milady, that would be whisky. My men and I take a wee dram every day." Seeing her perplexed expression, her continued, "Whisky is the water of life. It warms the blood, keeps the spirits calm, and the heart strong." "I wish I liked whisky, but I'm afraid it's not to my taste." MacRae looked appalled. "Was it Scotch whisky?" "I'm not sure," she said. "Whatever it was, it set my tongue on fire." "It was no' Scotch, then, but rotgut. Islay whisky starts as hot as the devil's whisper... but then the flavors come through, and it might taste of cinnamon, or peat, or honeycomb fresh from the hive. It could taste of a long-ago walk on a winter's eve... or a kiss you once stole from your sweetheart in the hayloft. Whisky is yesterday's rain, distilled with barley into a vapor that rises like a will-o'-the-wisp, then set to bide its time in casks of good oak." His voice had turned as soft as a curl of smoke. "Someday we'll have a whisky, you and I. We'll toast health to our friends and peace to our foes... and we'll drink to the loves lost to time's perishing, as well as those yet to come.

Certain scholiasts teach that each experience is only the sum of its parts. That our lives may be reduced to a set of equations, that they may be factored, weighed, balanced, and understood. They believe that universe is one of objects and that we are only objects among objects. That even our emotions are no more than electrochemical processes carried out in our brains, accessories to the pressures of Bloody-Handed Evolution. This is why they struggle for apatheia, the freedom from emotion. This is their great failing. Human beings do not inhabit a world of objects, nor did our consciousness evolve to live in such a place. We live in stories, and in stories, we are subjects to phenomena beyond the mechanisms of space and time. Fear and love, death and wrath and wisdom--these are as much parts of our universe as light and gravity. The ancients called them gods, for we are their creatures, shaped by their winds. Sift the sands of every world and sort the dust of space between them, and you will find not one atom of fear, nor gram of love nor dram of hatred. Yet they are there, unseen and uncertain as the smallest quanta and just as real. And like the smallest quanta, they are governed by principles beyond our control. And what is our response to this chaos? We build an Empire greater than any in the known universe. We order that universe, shaping outward nature in accordance with inward law. We name our Emperor a god that he might keep us safe and command the chaos of nature. Civilization is a kind of prayer: that by right action we might bring to pass the peace and quiet that is the ardent desire of every decent heart. But nature resists, for even in the heart of so great a city as Meidua, on so civilized a world as Delos, a young man might simply take a wrong turn and be set upon by brigands. No prayer is perfect, nor any city. It was suddenly very, very cold.

Paradigma forței bărbătești a acționat în două sensuri, ambele negative pentru bărbat. Pe de o parte, i-a blocat cu neîndurare slăbiciunea înnăscută, de la natură, iar, pe de altă parte, a promovat și intensificat o serie de obiceiuri vădit exhibiționiste în folosul așa-zisei forțe. Atât în primul caz (reprimarea emoțiilor elementare), cât și în cel de-al doilea (dependența de aprobarea socială) consecințele sunt catastrofale. Dreptul la slăbiciune înseamnă capacitatea de a accepta, fără urmă de remușcare, orice manifestare a blândeței, desigur, nu a aceleia de ordin patologic. Dreptul de a simți teamă, de a eșua, de a greși, de a nu ști cum să reacționezi, de a profita de desfătătorul timp liber nu ne îndepărtează de virilitate, ci mai curând ne apropie de dimensiunea umană a acesteia. În această latură atât de specială se odihnește androginul din fiecare dintre noi, care a fost înlăturat cu cruzime de tiparul bărbatului robust și grosolan. Noul bărbat nu disprețuiește curajul: îl asumă, dar nu devine obsedat de acesta. Exercitarea dreptului la slăbiciune nu implică abordarea inversă, adică proclamarea slăbiciunii ca virtute recomandabilă. Redobândirea delicateței nu presupune „travestirea” bărbăției ori preamărirea bărbatului molâu, nesigur și pasiv, rușinat de propriul sex și denaturat, imitator al valorilor feminine. Siguranța de sine, capacitatea de a împiedica exploatarea personală, temeinicia în atingerea scopurilor și spiritul combativ sunt valori râvnite de orice persoană, fie ea bărbat ori femeie. Ceea ce trebuie blamat este frica irațională de slăbiciune și stupidul obicei de a etala puterea cât este ziua de lungă numai pentru a „câștiga puncte” și a fi iubit. Bărbatul este înzestrat cu o forță particulară, specifică genului său, de care nu poate și nici nu trebuie să se lipsească. Însă deține și o slăbiciune seducătoare și tandră, care nu este nici rahitism, nici infirmitate, ci manifestarea acelui dram de feminitate care sălășluiește în constituția fiecăruia dintre noi.

I would advise your resorting to gentler and less disagreeable or painful modes of opening the Eustachian tube, and restoring air to the dram cavity;

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Auld Reekie's sons blyth faces wear, September's merry month is near, That brings in Neptune's caller chere, New oysters fresh; The halesomest and nicest gear Of fish or flesh. Whan big as burns the gutters rin, Gin ye hae catcht a drookit skin, To Luckie Middlemist's loup in, And sit fair snug O'er oysters and a dram o' gin, Or haddock lug.

Hiç bir yerde hayatın kolay olduğunu görmedim. Fakat hiç bir yerde hayat bir dram da değildir.

Hiçbir yerde hayatın kolay olduğunu görmedim. Fakat hiç bir yerde hayat bir dram da değildir.

Hiçbir yerde hayatın kolay olduğunu görmedim. Fakat hiçbir yerde hayat bir dram da değildir.

Seaweed is the secret to good health?” Merritt asked dubiously. “No, milady, that would be whisky. My men and I take a wee dram every day.” Seeing her perplexed expression, he continued, “Whisky is the water of life. It warms the blood, keeps the spirits calm, and the heart strong.

Welcome to The Whisky Masters, where we invite you to explore the extraordinary world of whisky. Our curated selection showcases the pinnacle of craftsmanship, offering a unique opportunity to savour the finest drams from around the globe. Whether you're a seasoned connoisseur or a newcomer, our collection promises to excite your palate and elevate your tasting experience. From limited-edition releases to hidden gems waiting to be discovered, each sip tells a story of time-honoured traditions and impeccable ageing. Join us on a journey to discover the treasures of whisky, cherished by collectors and enthusiasts alike.

I am a dram of endless hope and a nightmare of bottomless fear.

None of us have ever known why we do what we do. We only have the illusion of knowing, the illusion of choice.

People can, too, help each other,” said Rosemary. She was sitting on his lap yet turned in facing him. “And I’m the living proof. You helped me because you wanted to, Kenneth. There wasn’t any other reason.

mother-faxing elf,' Max breathed/ 'Goad-Dram mother faxing elf.

Having injected him with one more dram of poisonous worry—

Leave me to my repose,’ is the motto of the sleeping and the dead. You might as well ask the paralytic to leap from his chair and throw away his crutch, or, without a miracle, to ‘take up his bed and walk,’ as expect the learned reader to throw down his book and think for himself. He clings to it for his intellectual support; and his dread of being left to himself is like the horror of a vacuum. He can only breathe a learned atmosphere, as other men breathe common air. He is a borrower of sense. He has no ideas of his own, and must live on those of other people. The habit of supplying our ideas from foreign sources ‘enfeebles all internal strength of thought,’ as a course of dram-drinking destroys the tone of the stomach.

There are two things that a woman from Kentucky knows. The first is horses. The second, how to drink bourbon.

So oft it chances in particular men That for some vicious mole of nature in them— As in their birth (wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin), By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by some habit that too much o'erleavens The form of plausive manners—that these men, Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery or fortune’s star, Their virtues else (be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo) Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault. The dram of evil Doth all the noble substance of a doubt To his own scandal.

Aralarında hatırı sayılır bir mesafe olmasına rağmen; gökyüzü ikisini kuşatan bir şemsiyeydi adamın gözünde. O mavi, bulutlu örtü; yüreklerini kuşatan, bir arada olduklarını anımsatan bir çatıydı.

People write books because of injustices.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?” Most Americans adults have heard the Miranda rights from countless television and movie crime drams. The first statement of the Miranda rights is a simple but powerful declarative sentence. “You have the right to remain silent.” Not speaking will not be held against you, but the suspect is told that any words spoken “can and will be used against you in a court of law.” U.S. law provides the opportunity for reflection and protection against self-incrimination with the last sentence asking, “Do you wish to speak to me?” Reflect and ask yourself, it is wise to post or send an email containing that information?

O bună analiză raţională a stărilor de lucruri, un sever examen de conştiinţă, o încercare de a înţelege pe dinăuntru pe celălalt sau pe ceilalţi, resemnarea la ceea ce suntem cu toţii, nici unul desăvârşit, un dram de îngăduinţă şi de iertare, multă delicateţe, putere de a alege din toate împrejurările şi din toţi oamenii partea cea bună, care întotdeauna există, respectarea şi încurajarea oricărei dorinţe de îndreptare, desistarea de la tendinţa de a face din bunul tău plac legea tuturor şi, de ce nu, compromisul inteligent şi generos, toate acestea pot face minuni. Dar pentru asta este nevoie de predispoziţia de a nu recurge la violenţă: este nevoie de blândeţe.

In spite of high technology, race hate and age hate are well practiced in a public school setting...

This drama was based on the true story of Constance Jeanne Sammarco, who, in 2012, was a 62-year-old, senior Caucasian teacher who was employed at Fairmont Heights High School, a 99% African American public school. She was charged with teacher incompetence by her Principal, Nakia Nicholson, who was an African American, and took leadership of the school when she was 35- years- old. In 2014, the 99% African American School Board of Prince George’s County in Maryland, officially fired Constance Jeanne Sammarco, an advanced placement teacher, and declared her an incompetent teacher.

Cheap beer, Rachel, and there is almost always a fight you can watch in that Wetherspoons – it’s where everybody goes.

Bourbons sell their southern heritage. Scotches sell their dominance and their place as market leaders. Irish whiskeys seem charming and an exotic alternative to the dominant Scotch whiskey. What does Canadian whiskey have?

Whiskey is many things to many people, but at the very root of its popularity lies the story.

And oh, what a distillery! It was cold, full of cobwebs, with small pockets of activity taking place, as limited production was ongoing. It was more of an archaeological site than a place of business. In other words, it was fantastic.

Each day we trudge through factory gates and lean into our traces and forget. Death and worse are easily dismissed over dram and darts while the lamp shines warm and cozy.

Whiskey is made from water, a grain, and yeast.

It’s not a coincidence that whiskey most often comes from countries with a strong beer/ale culture.

Drinking whiskey is not about impressing others. It’s about enjoying yourself. And while an educated palate may help increase one’s exploration of whiskey, it is not a requirement.

Often when legends are written, the rowdy and rebellious get better press.

Compact code was inherently good since it consumed less internal memory. Consisting of slivers of silicon chips called DRAM (“dynamic-random-access-memories”), internal memory was like a gas tank. The larger the tank, the farther the car would go. The smaller the operating program, the more gas was left for all other programs. Because