“How many bottles since then? In how many glasses, how many bottles had he hidden himself, since then alone? Suddenly he saw them, the bottles of aguardiente, of anis, of jerez, of Highland Queen, the glasses, a babel of glasses — towering, like the smoke from the train that day — built to the sky, then dens, the bottles breaking, bottles of Oporto, tinto, blanco, bottles of Pernod, Oxygenee, absinthe, bottles smashing, bottles cast aside, falling with a thud on the ground in parks, under benches, beds, cinemas seats, hidden in drawers at Consulates, bottles of Calvadoes dropped and broken, or bursting into smithereens, tossed into garbage heaps, flung into the sea, the Mediterranean, the Caspian, the Caribbean, bottles floating in the ocean, dead Scotsman on the Atlantic highlands — and now he saw them, smelt them, all, from the very beginning — bottles, bottles, bottles, and glasses, glasses, glasses, of bitter, of Dubonnet, of Falstaff, Rye, Johnny Walker, Vieux Wiskey blanc Canadien, the aperitifs, the digestifs, thedemis, the dobles, the noch ein Herr Obers, the et glas Araks, the tusen taks, the bottles, the bottles, the beautiful bottles of tequila, and gourds, gourds, gourds, the millions of gourds of beautiful mescal...”

— Malcolm Lowry,  from Under the Volcano