Burgundy, France. Pinot noir. 13%. Cork. Half Bottle.My twenty three year old Milan Kundera paperback has seen better days. The glue is weak and the pages dusty, brown and growing frail. I was curious to see if the staccato chapters laden with existential angst would still appeal. While it resonates less, it still manages to make me stop and think.
There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always like a sketch. No, "sketch" is not quite the word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the ground-work for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture.
The stones I'm less clear on. I'd guess they are pieces of granite. I found them on one of the many beaches of Margaret River, washed smooth by time, tide and company*. I normally associate smooth stones and pebbles with Chablis and the fast running water of a mountain stream, so I was pleased to find these. I've so far resisted the urge to place them in my mouth. . .
Tasting note - Showing more age than I would expect, it's turning brown and stinky, though in time it's more distinguished and classical in form, becoming earthy and autumnal. Finely structured but unremarkable, I had hoped for more. Now. 89.
* There is a Zen saying - that, like pebbles in a bag, monks polish each other.
2 comments:
A bad bottle you think Ed?
Andrew,
I'm sure there are probably better examples of this around. The bottle I had was a half bottle, purchased from a good retailer, but even so I think it had probably seen a few too many summers. The cork was mostly stained on one side too. . .
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