I distrust camels, and anyone else who can go a week without a

When Joe E. Lewis declared, “I distrust camels, and anyone else who can go a week without a drink,” his words were clothed in humor but veiled in deep human truth. On the surface, it is a jest — a comedian’s wink at the love of drink and merriment. Yet beneath the laughter lies a statement about trust, humanity, and the fragile thirst of the soul. Lewis, a man who had seen both the stage and the abyss, was not speaking only of liquor; he was speaking of those who pretend they do not thirst — for joy, for connection, for life itself. To “go without a drink” is, in his poetic jest, to deny one’s humanity — the need to feel, to celebrate, to weep, to partake in the feast of existence.

Joe E. Lewis lived through nights where laughter was a shield and liquor a companion. A famed nightclub performer of the early twentieth century, he survived an attack that left his throat slashed and his voice nearly gone — a brutal punishment for refusing to yield to mobsters. Yet he returned to the stage, reinvented himself as a comedian, and filled rooms with laughter once again. This was not the humor of the innocent; it was the humor of one who had walked through suffering and found that laughter, like wine, was a salve for the wounds of the world. His quip about distrust was not scorn — it was an invitation to authentic living, to partake in the emotional feast of life instead of pretending to be immune to its thirsts.

To distrust the camel is to distrust detachment — the creature that travels through the desert carrying its water within, untouched by thirst. In human form, such a being might appear serene, self-sufficient, above need. But Lewis warns against this illusion. A man who claims he never thirsts — for company, for laughter, for passion, for a moment of weakness — is not to be trusted. For to be human is to hunger and to thirst, to be shaken and stirred by life’s storms. To feel thirst is not weakness; it is proof that one’s spirit is still alive beneath the skin.

In this way, the quote speaks to the ancient rhythm of life itself — the eternal dance between indulgence and restraint, between passion and detachment. The ancients drank wine not merely for pleasure but for communion. The Greeks offered it to the gods; the Hebrews used it to sanctify the Sabbath; the Romans toasted the fallen and the living alike. The cup has always symbolized the pulse of existence — to drink is to join the world in its beauty and its sorrow. Thus, Lewis’s distrust is not toward temperance itself, but toward souls that claim they have transcended all desire, for such transcendence often hides a colder pride.

Consider the story of Ernest Hemingway, a man of great thirst — for adventure, for danger, for truth. He was flawed, reckless, and at times self-destructive, but he lived with a blazing hunger for experience. His drink was not just in the glass; it was in the ocean waves, in the bullring, in the act of writing itself. He drank deeply of life, and through that, he gave the world his immortal words. In contrast, the dry soul — the one who claims no need for warmth, for laughter, for tears — leaves behind no trace of passion, no mark of fire upon the earth.

The meaning of Lewis’s jest, then, is that a man who denies his thirst denies his humanity. To laugh, to drink, to feel — these are not sins but sacred acts when guided by awareness and joy. Life’s cup must be sipped with gratitude, not fear. Those who abstain from all feeling, who keep themselves untouched by longing, live half-lives, wandering through deserts of their own making. To live is to admit: I thirst.

The lesson, my friend, is not to worship the drink but to honor the thirst. Seek the wine that nourishes the soul — the friendship that revives you, the art that moves you, the laughter that frees you from despair. Distrust not those who err, who stumble, who weep — for they are the ones who truly live. Distrust instead the hollow perfection of the unthirsty, for in their stillness, there is no pulse, no flame, no song.

Practical actions for the seeker of fullness:

1. Do not fear your desires; understand and guide them, for they are signs of life.

2. Celebrate with moderation but with sincerity — honor both the feast and the hunger.

3. Surround yourself with those who feel deeply, laugh loudly, and live honestly.

4. When life feels arid, seek your “drink” — be it love, art, prayer, or music — and let it fill you again.

For as Joe E. Lewis jested — and as the wise before him knew — the desert belongs to the camel, but the earth belongs to those who thirst.