“Plato forbids children wine till eighteen years of age, and to get drunk till forty; but, after forty, gives them leave to please themselves, and to mix a little liberally in their feasts the influence of Dionysos, that good deity who restores to younger men their gaiety and to old men their youth; who mollifies the passions of the soul, as iron is softened by fire; and in his Lazes allows such merry meetings, provided they have a discreet chief to govern and keep them in order, as good and of great utility; drunkenness being, he says, a true and certain trial of every one’s nature, and, withal, fit to inspire old men with mettle to divert themselves in dancing and music; things of great use, and that they dare not attempt when sober. He, moreover, says that wine is able to supply the soul with temperance and the body with health. Nevertheless, these restrictions, in part borrowed from the Carthaginians, please him: that men forbear excesses in the expeditions of war; that every judge and magistrate abstain from it when about the administrations of his place or the consultations of the public affairs; that the day is not to be employed with it, that being a time due to other occupations […]”
“Tis said that the philosopher Stilpo, when oppressed with age, purposely hastened his end by drinking pure wine. The same thing, but not designed by him, despatched also the philosopher Arcesilaus.”
“Tis sufficient for a man to curb and moderate his inclinations, for totally to suppress them is not in him to do.”
Excerpt From
The Essays of Montaigne — Complete
Michel de Montaigne
No matter the logic – nor indeed even the devil be damned – I haven’t the ability by any strategy intellectual or otherwise to allow myself to visit the once frequent indulgence of alcohol. Like tobacco – which I exemplified in every possible manner including cigarettes, panetellas, briar pipes and a “Hard Day’s Chaw” – the moment I decided in the map between my ears that I was done, then that was it! The formula of repetition and performance was complete.
Often people ask, “Did you never trespass upon the forbidden territory?” I have not. The weight of my conviction and the strength of the rationality is imperturbable by any measure or inclination. Mine is a myopic determination albeit an unflattering assessment. It does nonetheless succeed to preserve what little flotation was inspired by the initial mooring. Over time – as the passage of unfolding events distance themselves from the past – the insinuation of the original sin looses its once gripping philter. Gradually the former habits are relaxed and replaced by new custom perhaps more consistent with a less violent expression of accomplishment or defeat, the much lauded unaltered state of mind.
I am not about to proclaim – like an evangelical convert – that this or the Via Media or any other prescription is the new imperative. I only know that it works for me. As an added incitement to prolong this resolve, I am satisfied that any invasion of that still glittering territory would be fraught with the abuse of excess. Perhaps obsession of any manner characterizes my psyche. Be that as it may, I know in my heart that one martini would never be enough. And then I am left wondering what was the point of it all? Surely battering oneself by any manner is futile. Nor have I the desire for the expediency of shrift or remorse or for sin itself. Mine is now a hardened intention, removed from the convenience and openness of irregularity.
I will say however that I suffer myself happily to recall the image of sitting in the drawing room, a fire roaring in the Vermont Casting, my French bulldog lying on the rich green leather couch, a novel by Jane Austin in hand, a martini dripping on the side table with a plate of oysters à côté. Normally through the nearby glass door to the outdoor balcony I witnessed a howling wind rustling the handsome trees. With each judicious sip from the frozen glass I was propelled to rising heights of euphoria. The fire gleamed upon the hardwood floor, the Oriental rug enriched its gem colours and the sound of Haydn or Brahms soothed the atmosphere. Another sip. Another elation. And not long afterwards, “Yes, I will have another, please!” Then more of the same. The dog moaned and rolled over to adjust his elongation upon the couch. The fire was nothing but blazing red embers. Fatigue had overtaken me. And it was then I realized that for the past hour I had read the identical paragraph about Elizabeth Bennett – though with increasing interest and interpretation.