Drunken Sailor Quotes

As gloom and doom have been creeping into their lives, many can’t feel anymore the freshness of their emotions that withered alongside the wearisome path of their expectations. ("Drunken sailor" )

If we don’t readjust our perception in time, the screeching hinges in our mind may break for want of oil and our viewing angle narrow unremittingly, thus inducing blurred vision, misinterpretation and incomprehension. ( "Drunken sailor" )

Life may be an arcane riddle, a play with many complementary acts or an unfinished chronicle with odd sequences. Still and all, whatever we might think or do, let us above all be attentive and expectant, since everyone is waiting for the pieces to fall into place, at one time or another. ("Drunken sailor" )

A song of despair The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with it.

People being incoherent might get on our nerves sometimes. We like coherence in actions and thoughts since we value clarity and structure in our lives. But at times, we are alarmed because we cannot help being incoherent when we want to challenge established norms and explore unconventional paths that lead to unexpected connections or new insights. Allowing ourselves some incoherence might open the door to new perspectives and surprising outcomes. ("Drunken sailor”)

German sailors sing a drunken song in the street, and a house spider over the stove spins a new web every night, and to Marie-Laure this is a double cruelty: that everything else keeps living, that the spinning earth does not pause for even an instant in its trip around the sun.

The ocean tosses up a thousand arms to embrace the storm that falls across her like a drunken sailor. His thunder slaps her thighs, his lighting piercing her waters. They pound me between the hips and I begin to panic, knowing their passion will destroy me.

One of the floral arrangements swayed like a drunken sailor, then toppled, clattering to the floor.

Statuettes of drunken sailors, velvet pictures of island maidens, plastic seashell lamps made in Taiwan. What contempt the people who think up souvenirs have for other people.

As I was walking past Tony Pastor's I saw Pat, the lesbian bouncer, throw a drunken young sailor out into the street. The sailor said, "That place is full of fucking queers." He swung at the air and nearly fell on his face, then he staggered away, muttering to himself.

O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

I give you back your heart. I give you permission – for the fuse inside her, throbbing angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her and the burying of her wound – for the burying of her small red wound alive – for the pale flickering flare under her ribs, for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,

I stumbled out into the street, hoping that I looked like a drunken sailor. Everything was all topsy-turvy because my eyes were filled with tears. I clutched my shoes to my chest as I went. I cried loudly, not even bothering to wipe the tears and snot off my face. I just let it all pour down, allowing everybody walking by to see what this world had done to me. If a kid my age walks down the street in her socks, crying her eyes out, then it makes it a bad neighborhood. I was glad I was making their world a shitty place to live.

As for learning to wear high heels, no need to worry. I've got no tolerance for those dreadful things. If God wanted us girls tottering around like a bunch of drunken sailors, we'd have been born wearing stilts!

Are you really going to give it up? The feeling of the sea, the dark, drunken feeling that unearthly rolling always brings? The thrill of saying goodbye? The sweet tears you weep for your song? Are you going to give up the life which has detached you from the world, kept you remote, impelled you toward the pinnacle of manliness? The secret yearning for death. The glory beyond and the death beyond. Everything was "beyond," wrong or right, had always been "beyond." Are you going to give that up?

He turned to look at me straight on, and I saw a kind of purplish fire in his eyes, a hint that this whiny, plump little man was only showing me the tiniest bit of his true nature. I saw visions of grape vines choking unbelievers to death, drunken warriors insane with battle lust, sailors screaming as their hands turned to flippers, their faces elongating into dolphin snouts. I knew that if I pushed him, Mr D would show me worse things. He would plant a disease in my brain that would leave me wearing a straitjacket in a rubber room for the rest of my life. ‘Would you like to test me, child?’ he said quietly. ‘No. No, sir.

Second driven nature I was always a mad drunken sailor. Once nature is denied, we were whispers over graveyards, operating on every level, more touched by destiny, left you a mess underneath higher poems, you tasted like mystery; and our role was to appreciate the relationship with the dying world you brought into calm waves, and her poems were stranger than I can suppose. Your hot pink mist rose, unrecognizable, and this world mutes the poetry waving through your pure hair, mathematics all in my mind deciding statements in your name. My eyes become the picture of life, not the shadow of my flesh your visible glance made drip endlessly against the golden California streets.

It is well known the drunken sailor who staggers to the left or right with n independent random steps will, on the average, end up about √n steps from the origin. But if there is a pretty girl in one direction, then his steps will tend to go in that direction and he will go a distance proportional to n. In a lifetime of many, many independent choices, small and large, a career with a vision will get you a distance proportional to n, while no vision will get you only the distance √n. In a sense, the main difference between those who go far and those who do not is some people have a vision and the others do not and therefore can only react to the current events as they happen.

She stands alone in Madame Manec's room and smells peppermint, candle wax, six decades of loyalty. Housemaid, nurse, mother, confederate, counselor, chef—what ten thousand things was Madame Manec to Etienne? To them all? German sailors sing a drunken song in the street, and a house spider over the stove spins a new web every night, and to Marie-Laure this is a double cruelty; that everything else keeps living, that the spinning earth does not pause for even an instant in its trip around the sun.

It’s easy to see how disgruntled sailors might start to wonder if their rum had been diluted a little too much. They demanded proof that they were getting the rum they were entitled to. There were no hydrometers in those days (a hydrometer is an instrument that measures the density of a liquid as compared to water, thereby measuring alcohol content), so a method was developed using a material ships always had on board: gunpowder. A quantity of gunpowder, mixed with rum, would not ignite if the rum was watered down. It would have to contain about 57 percent alcohol to catch on fire. In the presence of the crew, the ship’s purser would mix the rum and gunpowder and light it on fire, offering “proof” of its potency.

I am speaking of the evenings when the sun sets early, of the fathers under the streetlamps in the back streets returning home carrying plastic bags. Of the old Bosphorus ferries moored to deserted stations in the middle of winter, where sleepy sailors scrub the decks, pail in hand and one eye on the black-and-white television in the distance; of the old booksellers who lurch from one ϧnancial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a customer to appear; of the barbers who complain that men don’t shave as much after an economic crisis; of the children who play ball between the cars on cobblestoned streets; of the covered women who stand at remote bus stops clutching plastic shopping bags and speak to no one as they wait for the bus that never arrives; of the empty boathouses of the old Bosphorus villas; of the teahouses packed to the rafters with unemployed men; of the patient pimps striding up and down the city’s greatest square on summer evenings in search of one last drunken tourist; of the broken seesaws in empty parks; of ship horns booming through the fog; of the wooden buildings whose every board creaked even when they were pashas’ mansions, all the more now that they have become municipal headquarters; of the women peeking through their curtains as they wait for husbands who never manage to come home in the evening; of the old men selling thin religious treatises, prayer beads, and pilgrimage oils in the courtyards of mosques; of the tens of thousands of identical apartment house entrances, their facades discolored by dirt, rust, soot, and dust; of the crowds rushing to catch ferries on winter evenings; of the city walls, ruins since the end of the Byzantine Empire; of the markets that empty in the evenings; of the dervish lodges, the tekkes, that have crumbled; of the seagulls perched on rusty barges caked with moss and mussels, unϩinching under the pelting rain; of the tiny ribbons of smoke rising from the single chimney of a hundred-yearold mansion on the coldest day of the year; of the crowds of men ϧshing from the sides of the Galata Bridge; of the cold reading rooms of libraries; of the street photographers; of the smell of exhaled breath in the movie theaters, once glittering aϱairs with gilded ceilings, now porn cinemas frequented by shamefaced men; of the avenues where you never see a woman alone after sunset; of the crowds gathering around the doors of the state-controlled brothels on one of those hot blustery days when the wind is coming from the south; of the young girls who queue at the doors of establishments selling cut-rate meat; of the holy messages spelled out in lights between the minarets of mosques on holidays that are missing letters where the bulbs have burned out; of the walls covered with frayed and blackened posters; of the tired old dolmuşes, ϧfties Chevrolets that would be museum pieces in any western city but serve here as shared taxis, huϫng and puϫng up the city’s narrow alleys and dirty thoroughfares; of the buses packed with passengers; of the mosques whose lead plates and rain gutters are forever being stolen; of the city cemeteries, which seem like gateways to a second world, and of their cypress trees; of the dim lights that you see of an evening on the boats crossing from Kadıköy to Karaköy; of the little children in the streets who try to sell the same packet of tissues to every passerby; of the clock towers no one ever notices; of the history books in which children read about the victories of the Ottoman Empire and of the beatings these same children receive at home; of the days when everyone has to stay home so the electoral roll can be compiled or the census can be taken; of the days when a sudden curfew is announced to facilitate the search for terrorists and everyone sits at home fearfully awaiting “the oϫcials”; CONTINUED IN SECOND PART OF THE QUOTE

I once had a drinking contest with an artist on his yacht... It amused him as I took shot after shot, and I realized that this was the reason he'd invited us, his amusement. Looking back, I thought he didn't expect we'd have anything to say, that my questions about the artist's purpose, his existential quest for self in a communally-brutalized past, were not as amusing as they were thought-provoking, but I'll never know. As I swayed like a sailor in drunken bitterness, I felt something had been sacrificed to his art. He'd gone so far out on that boat there was no way for him to come back. I felt he no longer existed and was just the faded intention of color on canvas. His humanity had surely been washed away with the paint thinner.

A man reeled toward us on unsteady feet. He wore jeans and an old pin-striped vest that barely covered his sweaty, hairy beer belly; as he neared I noted the stench of alcohol and body odour. The man's rheumy eyes fixed on me and he gave me a moist leer. I leaned into Sailor. My self-appointed bodyguard looked down at me, amused. "How quickly the mighty change their tune," he said in a low voice. Still, he draped his arm around my shoulders and glowered at the drunken man. Then he urged me toward the hotel doors. "let's go, tiger.

She joined in a singsong in the sailors’ mess, playing “What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” after drinking from a can of beer. “We were all tickled pink,” recalls one sailor. One moonlit night they enjoyed a barbecue in a bay on the coast of Ithaca. It was organized by the yacht’s officers, who did all the cooking. After they had eaten a Royal Marine accordionist came ashore, song sheets were handed out, and the night air rang to the sound of Boy Scout songs and sea shanties. In its own way, the honeymoon finale was the highpoint of the trip. For days the officers and men had rehearsed a farewell concert. There were more than fourteen acts, from stand-up comics to bawdy singalongs. The royal couple returned to Britain looking fit, tanned and very much in love and flew to join the Queen and the rest of the royal family on the Balmoral estate.

Well, am I forgiven?' Butler sighed. On the chaise lounge, Juliet snored like a drunken sailor. He smiled suddenly. 'Yes, Artemis. All is forgiven. Just one thing…' 'Yes?' 'Never again. Fairies are too… human.

I had no idea who’d designed the buildings for the school, but they were blind, demented, crazy, and scatterbrained. The hallways meandered like a drunken, one-legged sailor. I admit that I’m terrible with directions, and by the time we reached the library, I was a hundred percent sure I’d be completely lost trying to find my way back to my own room. Maybe they would have a map of the building in the library.

Our forecastle, as usual after a liberty-day, was a scene of tumult all night long, from the drunken ones. They had just got to sleep toward morning, when they were turned up with the rest, and kept at work all day in the water, carrying hides, their heads aching so that they could hardly stand. This is sailor's pleasure.

Reports from thirteen ships were included, listing a total of 802 offences that had resulted in the penalty of flogging. Transgressions ranged from “bad cooking” (twelve lashes) to “calling O’Brian a son of a bitch” (six lashes), urinating in a man’s face (five lashes) to attempting to “double the grog tub” — i.e., getting in line twice for the daily distribution of grog (six lashes). By far the most common offences were drunkenness, fighting and skulking. The

Whale songs groaned through the hull of the ship as Dr. Avery and the sailors played cards. The cabin reverberated to the sounds—long, tapering peals that stood hairs on end—and alchemical lanterns threw drunken green shadows against the walls. Sailors glanced around uneasily. Avery

It is not true that Congress spends money like a drunken sailor. Drunken sailors spend their own money. Congress spends our money.” - Dr. Art Laffer

A drunken man stumbled out of a door at the back of an inn and tripped over her. She bolted for the alleyway as the man looked around in a daze. Eventually, the notion entered his mind that perhaps it was due to the alcohol, and he wandered off in a more or less straight line. He broke into a sailor’s song about how difficult it was to stay standing on the deck in a storm, which he felt fit his situation quite poetically.

It made cleaning the toilets even worse. Drunken sailors have terrible aim.

At the end of her service Ruth sang “What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailo?

British sailors liked a drink. And then they liked another one. The Admiralty knew what to do with a drunken sailor, but was struggling to work out what to do with 60,000 of them. In 1740, it responded by diluting the daily rum ration with water, a mysterious liquid that the sailors viewed with great suspicion. The resulting mixture was known as grog. ... New South Wales was run by sailors, so the colony’s love affair with rum was inevitable. The colonists loved rum so much that they used the term to describe all liquor. Australians nurse an etymological hangover from the colony’s rum-obsessed early days, with “grog” still used as a generic Australian term for any alcoholic drink.

Whale songs groaned through the hull of the ship as Dr. Avery and the sailors played cards. The cabin reverberated to the sounds—long, tapering peals that stood hairs on end—and alchemical lanterns threw drunken green shadows against the walls. Sailors glanced around uneasily.

There is no “underground” community, no dark den of drunken sailors initiating themselves into manhood via cheap, ill-conceived exercises in bodily perforation; it’s just a group of people who delight in using their bodies as billboards.

Yes, all of this I thought about, all of this filled me with sorrow and a sense of helplessness, and if there was a world I turned to in my mind, it was that of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, with its enormous forests, its sailing ships and horse-drawn carts, its windmills and castles, its monasteries and small towns, its painters and thinkers, explorers and inventors, priests and aldrugstores. What would it have been like to live in a world where everything was made from the power of yours hands, the wind or the water? What would it have been like to live in a world where the American Indians still lived their lives in peace? Where that life was an actual possibility? Where Africa was unconquered? Where darkness came with the sunset and light with the sunrise? Where there were too few humans and their tools were too rudimentary to have any effect on animal stocks, let alone wipe them out? Where you could not travel from one place to another without exerting yourself, and a comfortable life was something only the rich could afford, where the sea was full of whales, the forests full of bears and wolves, and there were still countries that were so alien no adventure story could do them justice, such as China, to which a voyage not only took several months and was the prerogative of only a tiny minority of sailors and traders, but was also fraught with danger. Admittedly, that world was rough and wretched, filthy and ravaged with sickness, drunken and ignorant, full of pain, low life expectancy and rampant superstition, but it produced the greatest writer, Shakespeare, the greatest painter, Rembrandt, the greatest scientist, Newton, all still unsurpassed in their fields, and how can it be that this period achieved this wealth? Was it because death was closer and life was starker as a result?

When people look under the hood, we want them to be impressed with the neatness, consistency, and attention to detail that they perceive. We want them to be struck by the orderliness. We want their eyebrows to rise as they scroll through the modules. We want them to perceive that professionals have been at work. If instead they see a scrambled mass of code that looks like it was written by a bevy of drunken sailors, then they are likely to conclude that the same inattention to detail pervades every other aspect of the project.

Understandably, our Darwinian bodies and primitive brains are not going to catch up with this astonishing state of affairs. We live, in this new safety, in this new time of plenty, like drunken sailors freshly delivered from terrible peril.

We had partied all night yesterday like a bunch of drunken sailors that occasionally berthed at the shores to the north-eastern fringe of our community. While we danced and grunted along to the music; intoxicating fruits of all kinds seem to materialize from nowhere and the more we ate, the more intoxicated we got.