And you know what the worst thing was?The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

They loved him, or loved the thought of him, what they thought he was: a man who could easily have had a good life who chose instead their life: spite and bitterness and age-fogged glasses...

These guys had names for every conceivable drinking situation. They liked to have a little eye-opener to get themselves going in the morning, a midmorning bracer before attempting anything serious, a few modest cocktails at...

It is not the wine that makes us drunk, but the one who brings it and fills the glass.

It drains the bars and cafes after hours, concentrates the wicked and the guilty along its chipped Formica counter, and thrums with the gossip of criminals, policemen, shtarkers,and schlemiels, whores and night owls … three...

To the poor memories of drunks,’ she said. ‘To all the lovely nights forever lost.