Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher’s stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. A good vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used; but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, ‘tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health; hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul.
~ Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
Now that it’s cold again I take my pipe and whisky and sit on the porch to blow smoke in my children’s faces from the other side of the window. My enthusiasm for tobacco had stalled over the summer. I’ve taken it up again for the sake of my health on the mithridatic principle that deadly things in moderation make for strength. The king sips small doses of arsenic as a hedge against poisoning. The infant gets immunity by exposure to a weakened virus. If only life (the deadliest thing of all) could be taken in small amounts, I might live forever.