Great quotes about wine
in addition to these materials, the class will listen to a recording of Roald Dahl's short story Taste and discuss it.
WINE QUOTES
I like best the wine drunk at the cost of others.
Diogenes the Cynic (Greek philosopher c. 412 BC)
No poem was ever written by a drinker of water.
Horace (Roman poet & satirist 65BC - 8BC)
In wine there is truth.
Pliny the Elder (Roman Scholar 23 - 79)
Wine seems to have the power of attracting friendship, warming and fusing hearts together.
Masurius Athenaeus (The Diepnosophists c.185)
Wine readies hearts for love
Ovid
I wonder what the vintners buy one half so precious as the stuff they sell.
Omar Khayyam (Persian astronomer & poet 1048 - 1131)
And lately, by the tavern door agape, came stealing through the dusk an "angel shape," bearing a vessel on his shoulder; and bid me taste of it: and 'twas the Grape!
Omar Khayyam (Persian astronomer & poet 1048 - 1131)
Our poets of the thirteenth century never speak of piments but with rapture and as an exquisite luxury.
Le Grand (La Vie Privee des Francois)
Good wine praises itself.
Arab Proverb
Beer drinkin' don't do half the harm of love makin'. --Old New England proverb
But Catholic men that live upon wine
Are deep in the water, and frank and fine
Wherever I travel I find it so
Benedicamus Domino
Water separates the people of the world, wine unites them.
Anonymous
Never did a great man hate good wine.
Francois Rabelais (French writer 1483 - 1553)
BIRTH, n. The first and direst of all disasters. As to the nature of it there appears to be no uniformity. Castor and Pollux were born from the egg. Pallas came out of a skull. Galatea was once a block of stone. Peresilis, who wrote in the tenth century, avers that he grew up out of the ground where a priest had spilled holy water. It is known that Arimaxus was derived from a hole in the earth, made by a stroke of lightning. Leucomedon was the son of a cavern in Mount Aetna, and I have myself seen a man come out of a wine cellar. Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary, 1911. An English autumn, though it hath no vines, Blushing with Bacchant coronals along The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines The red grape in the sunny lands of song, Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the Madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar. Lord Byron, Don Juan. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits at one of the open windows, enjoying a bottle of old port. Though a hard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old wine with the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artful cellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When he dines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit of fish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, he descends with a candle to the echoing regions below the deserted mansion, and, heralded by the remote reverberation of thundering doors, comes gravely back, encircled by an earthy atmosphere and carrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two score and ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself so famous, and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southern grapes. Charles Dickens, Bleak House. I’m not worried about you! But sneezing in a [wine] cellar risks half the bottles turning out corked. So they say, at any rate…. I both believe and disbelieve, but with an investment like this I can’t afford to take chances. Michael Dibdin: Michael Dibdin, A Long Finish; An Aurelio Zen Mystery, Pantheon Books, New York,1998, ISBN 0-375-40429-5. This is the wine-cellar, the place for the produce of the vine is in it. One is merry in it. And the heart of him who goes forth from it rejoices. Egyptian Wine Cellar in Esna (c.2500 B.C.), quoted in In Praise of Wine, Joni G. McNutt, 1993. My God, he’s an impudent fella! -- That girl that he showed round the cellar Lost her status quo ante Between the Chianti And the magnums of Valpolicella. (Which reminds me of Asti Spumante, A wine that I’m more pro than anti – The only thing is That this fizz aphrodis- iac leads to delicto flagrante.) Lickerish Limericks, Cyril Ray, illustrated by Charles Mozley, 1979. A typical wine writer was once described as someone with a typewriter who was looking for his name in print, a free lunch and a way to write off his wine cellar. It's a dated view. Wine writers now use computers. Frank Prial, NYTimes, January 21, 1998. I don’t want to manage my cellar. I want to drink it. Jancis Robinson, Tasting Pleasure: Confessions of a Wine Lover, 1997. Her stories about [the German composer Johannes] Brahms’s rudeness and wit amused me in particular. For instance, I loved the one about how a great wine connoisseur invited the composer to dinner. This is the Brahms of my cellar, he said to his guests, producing a dust-covered bottle and pouring some into the master s glass. Brahms looked first at the color of the wine, then sniffed its bouquet, finally took a sip, and put the glass down without saying a word. Don t you like it? asked the host. Hmm, Brahms muttered. Better bring your Beethoven! Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years. A film executive's Malibu house was threatened by raging fires. Forced to evacuate, he despaired for the contents of his wine cellar. And then he had the bright idea to take all the bottles and put them in the swimming pool. The fire destroyed the house, and a few days later the executive returned to check on his wine. He pulled the bottles from the water and found them cool to the touch. The wine was fine, but all the labels had come off and floated to the top. That was a few years ago, and he's still having blind tastings. Bob Shaye, Wine Spectator, November 30, 1997. [Schramsburg] is the picture of prosperity; stuffed birds in the veranda, cellars far dug into the hillside, and resting on pillars like a bandit's cave--all trimness, varnish, flowers, and sunshine, among the tangled wild wood. The Silverado Squatters, Robert Louis Stevenson, 1988.
Let us acknowledge the evils of alcohol and strive to eliminate the wine cellar – one glass at a time. Bottled Wisdom, compiled and edited by Mark Pollman, 1998.
"Another glass, Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay. The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table, pushed forward his glass with some eagerness. "It is a good wine, Holmes." "A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window for chloroform vapor does not help the palate." Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Letter from George Washington to William Thornton, October 28, 1798, Mount Vernon: If you have determined, to build a house or houses of similar elevation with those I am contracting for, you shall be extremely welcome to avail yourself of my end wall and to run up your Chimneys accordingly, without any allowance being made therefor (which I cannot accept) as the kindnesses I have received from you greatly overpays any little convenience or benefit you can derive from my Wall.…Upon conversing more fully with Mr. Blagden upon the frontispiece of the Doors, and considering that to make them of Stone instead of Wood, will add durability to the work, I have agreed to allow the difference, viz $150 that they may be executed with the latter. And as he represented in strong terms, the wishes of Mr. Francis that a part of the Cellars should be vaulted, for the benefit of Wine, I have agreed to this also. He thinks the additional cost may amount to $100 dollars more; but having made no estimate thereof it shall be charged at what it really stands him.
Now when he had disembarked he was master of the country, laid waste the land, which was most beautifully cultivated and planted, and destroyed magnificent dwellings and wine-cellars with which the farms were furnished; the result was, it was said, that his soldiers became so luxurious that they would not drink any wine unless it had a fine bouquet. Xenophon, Hellenica, 6.2.6. http://hydra.perseus.tufts.edu/ A man, fallen on hard times, sold his art collection but kept his wine cellar. When asked why he did not sell his wine, he said, 'A man can live without art, but not without culture.’ Anonymous, source not recorded. [My mother] would not suffer them, though parched with thirst, to drink even water; preventing an evil custom, and adding this wholesome advice: "Ye drink water now, because you have not wine in your power; but when you come to be married, and be made mistresses of cellars and cupboards, you will scorn water, but the custom of drinking will abide." By this method of instruction, and the authority she had, she refrained the greediness of childhood, and moulded their very thirst to such an excellent moderation that what they should not, that they would not. Saint Augustine, Confessions, Book 9. E.B. Pusey translation.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Médoc. We had passed through long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The niter!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Médoc." I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amontillado, 1846. Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, "It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than to be selfish and worry about my liver." -- Jack Handy
I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day. -- Frank Sinatra
An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools. -- Ernest Hemingway
Time is never wasted when you're wasted all the time. -- Catherine Zandonella
Reality is an illusion that occurs due to lack of alcohol. -- Anonymous
A woman drove me to drink and I didn't even have the decency to thank her. -- W.C. Fields
What contemptible scoundrel has stolen the cork to my lunch? -- W.C Fields
When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading. -- Henny Youngman
Life is a waste of time, time is a waste of life, so get wasted all of the time and have the time of your life. - Michelle Mastrolacasa
24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? -- Stephen Wright
When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. So, let's all get drunk and go to heaven! -- Brian O'Rourke
Always remember that I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.-- Winston Churchill
Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy. -- Benjamin Franklin
Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza. -- Dave Barry
The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind.-- Humphrey Bogart
Give me a woman who loves beer and I will conquer the world. -- Kaiser Wilhelm
All right, Brain, I don't like you and you don't like me -- so let's just do this and I'll get back to killing you with beer. -- Homer Simpson
A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine.-- anonymous
Pablo Neruda's Ode to Wine and Roald Dahl's Taste are the greatest short works on wine...
Ode to Wine by Pablo Neruda
Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth, wine, smooth as a golden sword, soft as lascivious velvet, wine, spiral-seashelled and full of wonder, amorous, marine; never has one goblet contained you, one song, one man, you are choral, gregarious, at the least, you must be shared. At times you feed on mortal memories; your wave carries us from tomb to tomb, stonecutter of icy sepulchers, and we weep transitory tears; your glorious spring dress is different, blood rises through the shoots, wind incites the day, nothing is left of your immutable soul. Wine stirs the spring, happiness bursts through the earth like a plant, walls crumble, and rocky cliffs, chasms close, as song is born. A jug of wine, and thou beside me in the wilderness, sang the ancient poet. Let the wine pitcher add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly the line of your hip becomes the brimming curve of the wine goblet, your breast is the grape cluster, your nipples are the grapes, the gleam of spirits lights your hair, and your navel is a chaste seal stamped on the vessel of your belly, your love an inexhaustible cascade of wine, light that illuminates my senses, the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love, the fiery kiss, the heat of fire, more than the wine of life; you are the community of man, translucency, chorus of discipline, abundance of flowers. I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine. Drink it, and remember in every drop of gold, in every topaz glass, in every purple ladle, that autumn labored to fill the vessel with wine; and in the ritual of his office, let the simple man remember to think of the soil and of his duty, to propagate the canticle of the wine.
The Cask of Amontillado by Edgar Allen Poe
A Cask of Amontillado--Edgar Allen Poe
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. AT LENGTH I would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled -- but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile NOW was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point -- this Fortunato -- although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian MILLIONAIRES. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , was a quack, but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially; I was skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him -- "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he, "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible ? And in the middle of the carnival?"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me" --
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement Luchesi" --
"I have no engagement; come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted . The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon; and as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance , one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white webwork which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication .
"Nitre?" he asked, at length
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough!"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh! -- ugh! ugh! ugh!
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi" --
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True -- true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily -- but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
"Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said: see it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough" --
"It is nothing" he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement -- a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said "yes! yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains piled to the vault overhead , in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner.
From the fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depths of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi" --
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered . A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain. from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist . Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is VERY damp. Once more let me IMPLORE you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was NOT the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated -- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs , and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I reechoed -- I aided -- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said --
"Ha! ha! ha! -- he! he! -- a very good joke indeed -- an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo -- he! he! he! -- over our wine -- he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he! -- he! he! he! -- yes, the Amontillado . But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said "let us be gone."
"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud --
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again --
"Fortunato!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick -- on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I reerected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them.
In pace requiescat!
We'll do an additional quick lecture of scenes from famous films if we have time...
Comments