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Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
In my dreams I gorge on chocolates, I roll in chocolates, and their texture is not brittle but soft as flesh, like a thousand mouths on my body, devouring me in fluttering small bites. To die beneath their tender gluttony seems the culmination of every temptation I have ever known.
Wine talks. Everyone knows that. Look around you. Ask the oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It talks. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, rants, whispers, It speaks of great things, splendid plans, tragic loves and terrible betrayals. it screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It opens up summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places; every one, from the commonest Liebfraumilch to the imperious 1945 Veuve Clicquot, a humble miracle.... The transformation of base matter into the stuff of dreams. Layman's alchemy.
JOANNE HARRIS, Blackberry Wine
Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.
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