Bob: The Man and the Physician September 1978
Bill’s Wife Remembers When, by Lois W. December 1944
“Let’s Keep It Simple”–But How?, by Bill W. July 1960
Tradition Six August 1970
Services Make AA Tick, by Bill W. November 1951
Tradition Eight December 1970
Tradition Nine February 1971
Why Alcoholics Anonymous Is Anonymous, by Bill W. January 1955
The Preamble (a brief history)
This reissued book is presented as originally
created. It is a historical document.
It may contain outdated cultural depictions.
Foreword
Readers of the AA Grapevine magazine have called it their “meeting in print” since the first issue came off press in June 1944. In this The Best of the Grapevine, scores of those readers, along with the writers, artists, and editors who joined them in putting the book together, welcome you to a marathon meeting—a collection of articles selected by Grapevine enthusiasts as those that best nurtured their sobriety and developed their understanding of AA principles.
So sit back, relax, keep an open mind, and “listen” to AA friends from all over the world. Prepare to meet co-founders Bill W. and Dr. Bob; come to know the men and women who through trial and error forged AA’s Steps and Traditions; welcome some non-AA friends into your hearts and minds; and widen your circle of friends among the AAs new and old who keep our Fellowship, and therefore ourselves, alive and growing.
You are invited to enter the world of the Grapevine, a sober world filled with the love and laughter, the hard work and spiritual growth, that stand at the heart of the life-saving Fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Turn the pages, and let the meeting begin.
“Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other…”
ONE
That We May Solve Our Common Problem
You Don’t Know What Lonesome Is!
December 1947
You don’t know what lonesome is until you have taken your first slip after being exposed to the Alcoholics Anonymous program. You thought you were lonely beforeyou ever attended an AA meeting. Sure, the alcoholic is the loneliest person in the world—isolated, ignored, scorned. You can admit no one to your little twilight world.
Then you are exposed to AA. Dozens of friendly hands are extended to you, dozens of warm voices say, “Hello, pal. Have a cup of coffee.” You start to tell them your story and they say, “Sure, we know. We’ve been there, too. We know what you’re talking about.”
So you bask in the cheerful warmth of their friendship, you listen to their talk, you study the program and try to clear the fog out of your brain. Pretty soon things begin to look rosy. Why, say, this is peaches and cream; this is the life you’ve been looking for. Somebody gave you a dollar and a clean shirt. Maybe they even got you a job. The program is easy.
All you have to do is follow it, and that’s a simple matter when you’re traveling with people who are struggling toward the same goal you are. Life is a bed of roses, and someone has kindly removed all the thorns. That’s what youthink.
Then comes the first bump. The boss says something that hurts your feelings. Or you see a girl you want, but she doesn’t want you. Or maybe it rains, or the sun shines too much. Whatever the reason, the old despair comes into your heart, the old glaze dulls your eyes, and you head for the nearest tavern.
So you start pouring it down. You could quit after the first one. Then you remember that it doesn’t matter now; you’ve already taken the first one. There’s a meeting tonight, but you can’t go. You may be a heel, but you’re not that much of a heel. You’ve shut yourself away from those people, and you sit there crying in your beer, remembering how good they were to you, how they tried to help you.
So the sun goes down, and twilight comes on, and the tavern fills up, and you’re beginning to understand what lonesome is. That bleary blonde over there is watching you, and the look in her eye makes your stomach churn a little. The tavern is full of loud, hoarse voices, and there is no sense in what they are saying. And the juke box is playing “When You Were Sweet Sixteen” and you try to think back to a girl you knew who was sweet sixteen, but you can’t remember her name, and she’s probably dead anyway, and life is a pretty sad mess, so you cry a little more and call for another beer.
The meeting will be starting just about now, but you can’t go. Everybody is standing, someone is reading the Twelve Steps. “We admitted we were powerless over alcohol–that our lives had become unmanageable.” The words of those Steps are written on your heart, and the first thing you know you are repeating them out loud, and the guy next to you gives you a fishy look and goes over and whispers to the bartender.
Remember how you looked when you were drunk—like an old sick cat that has been left out in the rain too long? Remember how you felt—like the frazzled end of a misspent life? Remember what went through your mind—the bells and birds and bees, and the little slithering things that nobody could see but you? But you didn’t remember soon enough. You struck a blow at your last hope, you tried to tramp it to death in a senseless frenzy for one more drink. And those friends you had made—you struck a blow at their defense as well as your own.
And the great beacon light burns on, trying to light your way through the fog. And you know that it will always be there, burning bright when your eyes become clear enough to see it. But you’re sitting there, and at last you really know what lonesome is.
I.S., Portland, Ore.
Slips and Human Nature
by
