It’s the long weekend in Canada, so revisiting an old post on libations, seems appropriate. Happy Canada Day weekend!
It’s a well-documented fact that many revered authors were drinkers. Not teetotalers, but hardcore, slam-them-back, liver abusers. And aside from the moderation argument, is there anything outwardly wrong with that? The love of libation is not reserved for the creative elite, far from it, but the fascination with prominent figures, especially their quirks and idiosyncrasies, accentuates their vices, and often defines them.
The list of authors who drank reads like a who’s who of the literary world. As far back as Absinthe or ‘green fairy’ drinkers like Oscar Wilde, to more recent day spirituous writers like Kerouac, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Chandler, and Hemingway to name a few, all indulged. In common they were masters of their craft, lovers of the drink. But did they also share a mutual belief in the inspirational power of the cocktail?
Let’s first consider a few select quotes from the masters themselves, perhaps revealing a glimmer…
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Self-deprecation is a personal trait I hold in high regard.
Despite society’s infatuation with self-assured confidence peddlers, self-deprecation—in metered doses, emits an aura of genuineness. It becomes a calling card of modesty, denoting an individual grounded in reality, unobtrusive and approachable. Self-deprecators, like insatiable introverts, prefer the solitude of shadow, avoiding the spotlight, until the stars align and the time is right. Then step back, and watch the magic unravel.
We’re all familiar with the phrase ‘kicking the bucket’, a euphemism, presumably derived during an era where staging one’s own demise was accomplished by standing on a bucket, securing a noose, and kicking away. Goodbye cruel world.