Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix...
Irwin Allen Ginsberg (June 3, 1926 – April 5, 1997) was an American poet and one of the leading figures of the Beat Generation in the 1950s.

... ngelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the 
starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the
supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of
cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels
staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkan-
sas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes
on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in
wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt
of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or
purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and
endless balls ...

 Bob Donlon, Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, Robert La Vigne and Lawrence Ferlinghetti in San Francisco, 1956

Venice, 1957

Chase, Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs in Morningside Heights, NY, 1945

with MichaelMcClure and Bruce Conner chanting

with Gary Snyder, New York, May 18, 1988

Mikhail Bulgakov

Mikhaíl Afanasyevich Bulgakov (Михаи́л Афана́сьевич Булга́ков) May 15, 1891 – March 10, 1940, was a  Russian writer and playwright active in the first half of the 20th century. He is best known for his novel The Master and Margarita, which The Times of London has called one of the masterpieces of the 20th century. My favourite writer and the Master of my favourite book. 
"— Это водка? — слабо спросила Маргарита.
Кот подпрыгнул на стуле от обиды.
— Помилуйте, королева, — прохрипел он, — разве я позволил бы себе налить даме водки? Это чистый спирт!"

Everything in Woland's bedroom was as it had been before the ball. Woland was sitting in his nightshirt on the bed, only this time Hella was not rubbing his knee, and a meal was laid on the table in place of the chessboard. Koroviev and Azazello had removed their tailcoats and were sitting at table, alongside them the cat, who still refused to be parted from his bow-tie even though it was by now reduced to a grubby shred. Tottering, Margarita walked up to the table and leaned on it. Woland beckoned her, as before, to sit beside him on the bed. ' Well, was it very exhausting? ' enquired Woland. ' Oh no, messire,' replied Margarita in a scarcely audible voice. ' Noblesse oblige,' remarked the cat, pouring out a glassful of clear liquid for Margarita.

'Is that vodka? ' Margarita asked weakly. The cat jumped up from its chair in indignation. ' Excuse me, your majesty,' he squeaked, ' do you think I would give vodka to a lady? That is pure spirit!' Margarita smiled and tried to push away the glass. ' Drink it up,' said Woland and Margarita at once picked up the glass.

'Sit down, Hella,' ordered Woland, and explained to Margarita : ' The night of the full moon is a night of celebration, and I dine in the company of my close friends and my servants. Well, how do you feel? How did you find that exhausting ball? '

'Shattering! ' quavered Koroviev. ' They were all charmed, they all fell in love with her, they were all crushed! Such tact, such savoir-faire, such fascination, such charm! '

Woland silently raised his glass and clinked it with Margarita's. She drank obediently, expecting the spirit to knock her out. It had no ill effect, however. The reviving warmth flowed through her body, she felt a mild shock in the back of her neck, her strength returned as if she had just woken from a long refreshing sleep and she felt ravenously hungry. Remembering that she had not eaten since the morning of the day before, her hunger increased and she began wolfing down caviar.

Behemoth cut himself a slice of pineapple, salted and peppered it, ate it and chased it down with a second glass of spirit with a flourish that earned a round of applause.

After Margarita's second glassful the light in the candelabra burned brighter and the coals in the fireplace glowed hotter, yet she did not feel the least drunk. As her white teeth bit into the meat Margarita savoured the delicious juice that poured from it and watched Behemoth smearing an oyster with mustard.