I am a stubborn yet ineffectual nighttime reader. I get geared up for my latest wine book, prop my pillows, turn on lots of light, fill a glass of water—which I often spill on myself, more on that later— and read a few paragraphs. At this point I begin to nod. Carey watches me breathlessly, like I’m about to step into a trap, hoping my water glass will tip over in my lap.
Last night, pen in hand, I found a paragraph about vines that I intended to share:
A vine lacks self-criticism. Moreover, it does not realize that its job is to produce wine grapes. The vine is a plant which needs to be bullied from the point of view of circulation of the sap. If the branches aren’t pruned back now, the sap will always go to the extremities, the trunk is going to die while the shoots continue to push outward.
For the next 2 hours my pen worked its way down the page, stopping occasionally to bleed into a little furry dot, but continuing on nonetheless.
My water glass stayed upright, though. But this was about the only time.