We shouldn't confuse the pleasure of being articulate about wine, of being able to describe the distinctive features of a wine, with the non-verbal ability of remembering what they are like, or of appreciating them without being able to say why
The wine itself has aesthetic value; but what it is for a wine to have aesthetic value cannot be understood without making reference to the experience to tasting it
Unlike art which contains a message, wine conveys nothing, it has no intellectual or cognitive content
Look not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; Speak not when the people listens
One man affirms that he has rode post a hundred miles in six hours; probably it is a lie; but supposing it to be true, what then? Why, he is a very good post-boy; that is all. Another asserts, and probably not without oaths, that he has drunk six or eight bottles of wine at a sitting; out of charity I will believe him a liar; for if I do not, I must think him a beast.
Remember, that when I speak of pleasures I always mean the elegant pleasures of a rational being, and not the brutal ones of a swine. I mean la bonne chère, short of gluttony; wine, infinitely short of drunkenness; play, without the least gaming; and gallantry, without debauchery.
A rake is a composition of all the lowest, most ignoble, degrading, and shameful vices; they all conspire to disgrace his character, and to ruin his fortune; while wine and the pox content which shall soonest and most effectually destroy his constitution.
Partake of love as a temperate man partakes of wine; do not become intoxicated.
Poetry is the Devil's wine.
A life of mere pleasure! A little while, in the spring-time of the senses, in the sunshine of prosperity, in the jubilee of health, it may seem well enough. But how insufficient, how mean, how terrible when age comes, and sorrow, and death! A life of pleasure! What does it look like when these great changes beat against it--when the realities of eternity stream in? It looks like the fragments of a feast, when the sun shines upon the withered garlands, and the tinsel, and the overturned tables, and the dead lees of wine.
Never economize on the small luxuries of life. Drinking fine wine and eating chocolate won't solve your problems - but they won't hurt either.
Wine has drowned more than the sea.
That's a horrible thought. I guess cheese or wine. I think I might be too depressed to eat if I had to eat only one thing for the rest of my life.
Some nights are like honey - and some like wine - and some like wormwood.
Our poets have sung of wine, the product of a foreign plant which commonly they never saw, as if our own plants had no juice in them more than the singers.
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape
During my drinking decades, I lived like a pig. My room was a hazardous pile of stilettos, tube tops, wine bottles, ashtrays, and old magazines. I valued nothing. Everything that came into my life was disposable: clothes, opportunities, people. My bedroom looked as if my insides had spilled out onto the floor.
Gin for executions, beer for birthdays, wine for weddings.
Frenchmen drink wine just like we used to drink water before Prohibition.
Earlier this week Donald Trump gave an interview with CNN at a winery he owns in Virginia. It turns out Trump's winery makes two different kinds of wine: white wine and not-white wine.
Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast where all hearts opened and all wines flowed.
What grape to keep its place in the sun, taught our ancestors to make wine?
Beer is prose. Wine is poetry.
If Dracula would be happy there, so will your wine.
Wine is for sharing. What's the fun of swirling, swishing, sloshing and yakking if my friends can't join in?
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