Discussion » Nonsense » 酒精中毒! Am I an alcholic...?

  • Tookie
    Tookie wrote:

    I heard there's called "少量酒精中毒“, like some people drink little alchol every day, can't stop. Is that also alcholic? alchol addict, I mean...

    In western culture it seems a glass of beer / cocktail almost everyday is pretty common...but I guess if people do that in asia, many people would call it alcholic...

    are most of us alcholic then..?

    when we have difficulties or stresse in our life, the first thing popping up in most of our minds is alchol...at least some of us do...right....?

    and sometimes we just drink more than we need... how about you guys though...?u think...?

  • pommie
    pommie wrote:

    In China, it is normal to drink a bottle of beer at lunchtime. In my country, that would be a sign of alcoholism.

    I read somewhere that you have to be drinking more than 100 hundred units a week to get addicted to alcohol. However, it is very habit forming. So if you drink every day you may find you don't like to go to bed without a "nightcap". Or you might feel uncomfortable in social situations without a drink.

    Addiction is notoriously difficult to define but if you can easily stop drinking then you were not an alcoholic.

  • 随便叫兽
    随便叫兽 wrote:

    Sounds more like potential alcoholism than anything else.

    I guess I can relate somewhat. I am a social binge drinker. I never drink alone, but when I've got a beer in hand, it will be gone soon. Luckily, I don't enjoy drinking because it diminishes my appreciation for other, more sophisticated vices.

    Drinking a small amount every day is not alcoholism, particularly if they aren't getting intoxicated, their health isn't being affected, and it isn't interfering with other daily functions.

  • 随便叫兽
    随便叫兽 wrote:

    Five drinks a day sounds like alcoholism to me.

  • Pavoir Sponse
    Pavoir Sponse wrote:

    Personally I'm a drunkard, but not an alcoholic (yet).

    A very good friend of mine is an alcoholic, he drinks 6 pints every evening without fail or maybe be a bottle of wine or two instead, and has done so for about 15 years. He doesn't really get drunk, functions perfectly well, and is very successful at his job in finance.

    However, he looks bad, very bad; God knows, what would happen to his body if he had to or tried to stop drinking.

  • №❶ Passioη

    I don't drink at all... Am I strange?

  • №❶ Passioη

    I dont drink, I don't smoke... Am I weird?... BTW, once upon a time there was a Troll with that name "Black Passion", it wasn't me though...

  • pommie
    pommie wrote:

    DIPSOMANIACS are either born that way, or they just end up that way. Vastly distinguished in the sphere of dipsomania, Malcolm Lowry, it seems, actually planned to be that way, from childhood. The gift was not inherited. In an early short story the narrator records his (Methodist) father's disapproval of a local lawyer, who lacked 'self-discipline'. 'He did not know,' Lowry wrote, 'that secretly I had decided that I would be a drunkard when I grew up.' While most schoolboys dreamt of becoming engine-drivers or cattle-punchers, little Malcolm dreamt of becoming an alcoholic. And the dream came true. Excluding a few dry-outs, in hospitals and prisons, and the very occasional self-imposed prohibition, Malcolm Lowry was shitfaced for 35 years.


    How much do we need to know about a writer, personally? The answer is that it doesn't matter. Nothing or everything is equally satisfactory. Who cares, in the end? As Northrop Frye has said, the only evidence we have of Shakespeare's existence, apart from the poems and plays, is the portrait of a man who was clearly an idiot. Biography is there for the curious; and curiosity gives out where boredom begins. Certainly we think that scholarly investigation has gone too far when it starts offering us monographs on, say, the laundry lists of Shackerley Marmion or the tram tickets of Lascelles Abercrombie. But the author of Under the Volcano is a special case. His addiction becomes our addiction. Anyway, The Bar Tabs of Malcolm Lowry would tell most of the story, and it would be no shorter than Gordon Bowker's 600 pages. The biography is thorough, and thoroughly engaged; it is both gripped and gripping. It won't have to be done again.


    To make a real success of being an alcoholic, to go all the way with it, you need to be other things too: shifty, unfastidious, solipsistic, insecure and indefatigable. Lowry was additionally equipped with an extra-small penis, which really seemed to help. He was of course a prodigious self-mythologiser, or a braggart and a liar, if you prefer. A playground scar on his knee he passed off as a bullet-wound sustained in crossfire during the Chinese Civil War. Jailed for one of his solo riots in Mexico, he listed his torments in a letter to a friend: 'They tried to castrate me too, one fine night, unsuccessfully I regret (sometimes) to report.'


    That hardy 'one fine night' acts as a kind of semaphore of mendacity. In 1939 he used the outbreak of war, and his own entirely hollow vow of immediate enlistment, in a number of self-interested ways, including this bold strophe in a letter to his sweetheart: 'If you truly love me as I love you greet me as one come back from a long journey & who must go again, as I must'. That last heroic cadence bespeaks both congenital insincerity and a delighted self-loathing. Lowry was a world-class liar. Even his commas and colons were lies.


    Like Isherwood and others, Lowry was the kind of Englishman who had to get out of England, and sooner rather than later. His parents were ordinary products of their time and place but it was their very ovinity that haunted him. When imagination comes up against no-imagination, then no-imagination wins every time. So you have to get out. At 17 he sailed east to China, as a dockhand; a year later he sailed west to America, as a passenger, on a literary pilgrimage. North and south, though, turned out to be the significant points on his personal compass. The south meant Mexico, the scene of his most shameful rampages. The north st

  • pommie
    pommie wrote:

    The north started out meaning Scandinavia but ended up meaning Vancouver and a two-room shack in the frozen wilds; here, and here only, he could write; everywhere else he just went on word-binges, or word-blinders. Lowry was the kind of man the Russians call a walrus: he responded to the asceticism of long winters, sub-zero swims, the cobalt-blue skies. He tried very hard, but he couldn't make it as one of nature's geckoes, able to wallow in the ooze and booze beneath Popocatepetl.

    Before his long exile could begin (nothing would tempt him back to England except free health care) Lowry had to lurch and barf his way through university and then spend a couple of years crashing around Fitzrovia with a succession of manque poets and brawling book-reviewers. His erotic interests, like his literary interests, were vital to his sense of himself - to the internal romance - but nothing deflected him from his dedication to alcohol. Of a make-out session with a famous Cambridge vamp, Lowry wrote: 'Charlotte . . . has offered me her body . . . I drank a lot of whisky . . . and was nearly sick into her mouth when I was kissing her. She says she loves me.'

    His talent was a precocious one: even in his early twenties, not content with the usual debauches and disappearances, he was already experimenting with paranoid hallucinations involving salamanders and male nurses. By the time he got to Mexico (aged 26) he was downing any liquid that came his way on the off-chance that it might contain alcohol: he once drank 'a whole bottle of olive oil thinking it was hair tonic'.

    So the years of Lowry's maturity unfold: binnings, bannings, arrests, ejections, screams in the night, expired visas and lost passports, together with a lengthening rap sheet of domestic arson, larceny and GBH. In 1938 his first wife Jan 'rationed' him to a quart of liquor a day, but he hoarded his allowance to buy 'fortified wines costing only fifty cents a gallon'. In 1947 his second wife, Margerie, noticed that Lowry, after a period of abstinence, had started enjoying a cocktail before lunch - 'and pre-dinner cocktails started as early as 3pm'. In 1949 he was averaging three litres of red wine per day topped up by two litres of rum. His varicose veins stretched from groin to ankle. One morning he collapsed and started 'vomiting black blood'. We then duly witness the straitjacket, the padded cell, and the serious discussion, with wife and doctors present, on the pros and cons of lobotomy.

    Towards the end, even Lowry's freak accidents and cluster catastrophes are assuming an air of the dankest monotony. An average hour, it seems, would include a jeroboam of Windowlene or Optrex, a sanguinary mishap with a chainsaw or a cement-mixer, and a routinely bungled attempt to guillotine his wife. Around Malcolm and Margerie, everything that could go wrong would go wrong. He falls in the bath and breaks a blood-vessel: 'She tried calling the hospital but the phone was out of order; she rushed out into the elevator and got stuck between floors.' He falls on a country path and shatters his leg: she runs to the local store and is 'severely mauled' by the neighbour's dog. Certain friends of theirs always kept packed suitcases by the front door so that they could claim to be off on vacation if the Lowrys horribly appeared, hoping to stay. Her psychology was one of self-immolation in the dread face of genius ('I feared he'd hurt me badly and feel so awful the next day'). As for Malcolm, he was plain incorrigible, resolved - unto death - on making the same old mistakes.

    The biographical context, as usual, turns o

  • A豆腐
    A豆腐 wrote:

    when drink a Bloody Mary, becomes a necessary.
    when there is a feeling of you need it to deal with your normal life and problems...
    when each time you try to let it, a deep feeling of suffering comes together...

  • Pavoir Sponse
    Pavoir Sponse wrote:

    Interesting stuff Pomegranate, but can't help thinking you'd be better getting a little mag to pay you for an article on Boozing and Lowry , or have it  published somewhwere...

  • Pavoir Sponse
    Pavoir Sponse wrote:

    Oh, and while we are on that delightful topic of booze, I thoroughly recommend Yanjing Lemon Juice Beer and, to a leser extent, the Pineapple version.

    At just over 2 kwai a pop, and coming in under a cool 2.5% (no need to worry about alcoholism) they are awesome summer beers.  A bit like your classic shandy...

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