欧宝娱乐

“There is no such joy in the tavern as upon the road thereto.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West

“One sip of this wine
and you will go mad with drunkenness.
You will drop your masks
and tear your clothes 鈥� destroying
everything that separates you from the Lover.
Once you taste the fruit of this vine,
you will be kicked out of the city of yourself.
You will forget the world. You will forget yourself.
I tell you:
you will become a madman
who wanders the streets looking for the Lover
once you drink this Wine of Love.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“I left them to it, the pointing of fingers on maps, the tracing of mountain villages, the tracks and contours on maps of larger scale, and basked for the one evening allowed to me in the casual, happy atmosphere of the taverna where we dined. I enjoyed poking my finger in a pan and choosing my own piece of lamb. I liked the chatter and the laughter from neighbouring tables. The gay intensity of talk - none of which I could understand, naturally - reminded me of left-bank Paris. A man from one table would suddenly rise to his feet and stroll over to another, discussion would follow, argument at heat perhaps swiftly dissolving into laughter. This, I thought to myself, has been happening through the centuries under this same sky, in the warm air with a bite to it, the sap drink pungent as the sap running through the veins of these Greeks, witty and cynical as Aristophanes himself, in the shadow, unmoved, inviolate, of Athene's Parthenon. ("The Chamois")”
― Daphne du Maurier, Echoes from the Macabre: Selected Stories

“The lover drinks
and the cup-bearer pours.
The lover thinks
but the cup-bearer knows:
love begets love.
Since this wine is love,
then this cup is love,
then this tavern is love,
then this life is love.”
― Kamand Kojouri

“I asked him what he said, for there was such a mish-mash of Conversation around us that I could scarcely understand him - the frequenters of Taverns have Hearts of Curd and Souls of Milk Sop, but they have Mouths like Cannons which stink of Tobacco and their own foul Breath as they cry What News? What's a Clock? Methinks it's Cold to Day! Thus is it a Hospital For Fools”
― Peter Ackroyd, Hawksmoor

“One Autumn night, in Sudbury town,
Across the meadows bare and brown,
The windows of the wayside inn
Gleamed red with fire-light through the leaves
Of woodbine, hanging from the eaves
Their crimson curtains rent and thin.
As ancient is this hostelry
As any in the land may be,
Built in the old Colonial day,
When men lived in a grander way,
With ampler hospitality;
A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall,
Now somewhat fallen to decay,
With weather-stains upon the wall,
And stairways worn, and crazy doors,
And creaking and uneven floors,
And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall.
A region of repose it seems,
A place of slumber and of dreams,
Remote among the wooded hills!
For there no noisy railway speeds,
Its torch-race scattering smoke and gleeds;
But noon and night, the panting teams
Stop under the great oaks, that throw
Tangles of light and shade below,
On roofs and doors and window-sills.
Across the road the barns display
Their lines of stalls, their mows of hay,
Through the wide doors the breezes blow,
The wattled cocks strut to and fro,
And, half effaced by rain and shine,
The Red Horse prances on the sign.
Round this old-fashioned, quaint abode
Deep silence reigned, save when a gust
Went rushing down the county road,
And skeletons of leaves, and dust,
A moment quickened by its breath,
Shuddered and danced their dance of death,
And through the ancient oaks o'erhead
Mysterious voices moaned and fled.
These are the tales those merry guests
Told to each other, well or ill;
Like summer birds that lift their crests
Above the borders of their nests
And twitter, and again are still.
These are the tales, or new or old,
In idle moments idly told;
Flowers of the field with petals thin,
Lilies that neither toil nor spin,
And tufts of wayside weeds and gorse
Hung in the parlor of the inn
Beneath the sign of the Red Horse.
Uprose the sun; and every guest,
Uprisen, was soon equipped and dressed
For journeying home and city-ward;
The old stage-coach was at the door,
With horses harnessed,long before
The sunshine reached the withered sward
Beneath the oaks, whose branches hoar
Murmured: "Farewell forevermore.
Where are they now? What lands and skies
Paint pictures in their friendly eyes?
What hope deludes, what promise cheers,
What pleasant voices fill their ears?
Two are beyond the salt sea waves,
And three already in their graves.
Perchance the living still may look
Into the pages of this book,
And see the days of long ago
Floating and fleeting to and fro,
As in the well-remembered brook
They saw the inverted landscape gleam,
And their own faces like a dream
Look up upon them from below.”
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow "Tales of the Wayside Inn"

“i've had enough of this. if you'll excuse me, i'm going to find a tavern where i can pay an underdressed woman to sit it my lap and look very pleased with me while i drink heavily”
― Lisa Kleypas, Cold-Hearted Rake

“And because I found it in my youth, the bar was that much more sacred, its image clouded by that special reverence children accord those places where they feel safe. Others might feel this way about a classroom or playground, a theater or church, a laboratory or library or stadium. Even a home. But none of these places claimed me. We exalt what is at hand. Had I grown up beside a river or an ocean, some natural avenue of self-discovery and escape, I might have mythologized it. Instead I grew up 142 steps from a glorious old American tavern, and that has made all the difference.”
― J.R. Moehringer, The Tender Bar: A Memoir

“Need 'nother whiskey. Whiskey chaser. Gotta get two men drunk."

Mr. Cohan placed both hands on the bar. "Mr. Walsh," he said severely, "in Gavagan's we will serve a man a drink to wet his whistle, or even because his old woman has pasted him with a dornick, but a drink to get drunk with I do not sell. Now I'm telling you you've had enough for tonight, and in the morning you'll be thanking me..." ("My Brother's Keeper")”
― Fletcher Pratt, Tales from Gavagan's Bar

“La Historia (que, a semejanza de cierto director cinematogr谩fico, procede por im谩genes discontinuas) propone ahora la de una arriesgada taberna, que est谩 en el todopoderoso desierto igual que en alta mar.”
― Jorge Luis Borges, Cuentos completos

“If we should meet again I hope there will be something in the way of a wateringhole where I can stand you a round. Perhaps show you about the place. Look for a tall and somewhat raffish looking chap in a tailored robe.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

“At the Saleve, the stove is drawing badly. This and the stale tobacco, rough wine and a perpetual acrid pungency (disinfectant or vomit, or both) are almost intolerable. But there鈥檚 that tingling you鈥檝e only got to register once: within two seconds it gets you at the back of your throat, and then immediately diffuses like a drop of oil. A sudden and surprising sweetness. Breathe in through your mouth, out through your nose. That鈥檚 it. You鈥檙e hooked.

Someone here is smoking hashish.”
― Jacques Yonnet, Paris Noir: The Secret History of a City

“The 鈥極berge des Mailletz鈥� is by far the oldest tavern of which any record can found in the City archives. In 1292, Adam des Mailletz, inn-keeper, paid a tithe of 18 sous and 6 deniers.This we learn from the Tax Register of the period. At the time it was founded, the Trois-Mailletz was the meeting place of masons, who under the supervision of Jehan de Chelles, carved out of white stone the biblical characters destined to grace the north and south choirs of Notre-Dame. Underneath the building, there are two floors of superimposed cellars: the deeper ones date from the Gallo-Roman period. What remains of the instruments of torture found in the cellars of the Petit-Ch芒telet have been housed here, along with some other restored objects.

A modest bar counter, a long-haired patron who bizarrely manages never to be freshly shaven or downright bearded. A stove in the middle of the shabby room; simple straightforward folk, less drunk than at Rue de Bi猫vre, and less dirty. Just what we needed.”
― Jacques Yonnet, Paris Noir: The Secret History of a City

“螠蠉蟻喂味蔚 尾伪蟻蔚位委蟽喂慰 魏蟻伪蟽委 伪蟺' 苇尉蠅 伪魏蠈渭伪. 螠蔚 蟿慰 蟺慰蠀 苇渭蟺伪喂谓蔚蟼, 苇蟽渭喂纬伪谓 魏喂 维位位蔚蟼 慰蟽渭苇蟼 渭蔚 蟿畏谓 魏蠀蟻委伪蟻蠂畏, 蠈蟺蠅蟼 蔚魏蔚委谓畏 伪蟺' 蟿伪 蠈蟽蟺蟻喂伪 蟺慰蠀 苇尾蟻伪味伪谓 蟽蟿慰 尾维胃慰蟼, 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蔚 蠁慰蠀蠁慰蠉未蔚蟼, 伪蟺蠈 蠁蟻蔚蟽魏慰魏慰渭渭苇谓慰 魏蟻蔚渭渭蠉未喂, 魏喂 伪魏蠈渭畏 伪蟺蝿蟿畏谓 未蠀谓伪蟿萎 蠀纬蟻伪蟽委伪 蟺慰蠀 苇尾纬伪喂谓蔚 伪蟺' 蟿慰 蠂蠅渭维蟿喂谓慰 未维蟺蔚未慰 - 蔚蠀蠂维蟻喂蟽蟿畏 伪谓 未蔚谓 萎蟿伪谓 蠂蔚喂渭蠋谓伪蟼.
螒蟺委胃伪谓伪 伪谓蟿喂魏蔚委渭蔚谓伪 未喂伪魏慰蟽渭慰蠉蟽伪谓 蟿慰蠀蟼 蟿慰委蠂慰蠀蟼 - 伪谓维渭蔚蟽伪 蟿慰蠀蟼 苇谓伪蟼 维蠄蠀蠂慰蟼 伪蔚蟿蠈蟼 蟺维谓蠅 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 蟽伪谓委未伪, 蟿慰 魏蔚蠁维位喂 蔚谓蠈蟼 伪纬蟻喂慰纬慰蠉蟻慰蠀谓慰蠀 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 维位位畏, 魏伪喂 蠂伪渭畏位维 蟽蔚 渭喂伪 纬蠅谓委伪, 渭苇蟽伪 蟽蔚 蟺慰蠀蟻谓维蟻喂伪 魏伪喂 尉蔚蟻伪渭苇谓伪 维谓胃畏, 渭喂伪 慰位蠈魏位畏蟻畏 伪位蔚蟺慰蠉 蟽蔚 蟽蟿维蟽畏 蔚蠁蠈未慰蠀 渭蔚 渭维蟿喂伪 纬蠀维位喂谓伪 纬伪位伪谓维!”
― 螙蠀蟻维谓谓伪 螙伪蟿苇位畏, 螝伪喂 渭蔚 蟿慰 蠁蠅蟼 蟿慰蠀 位蠉魏慰蠀 蔚蟺伪谓苇蟻蠂慰谓蟿伪喂

“That place, Tavern, was evil.”
― Ardin Patterson, Feral

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