Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. 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 plans, tragic loves, and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, everyone...a humble miracle

From a very young age my mother persuaded me that I could write for fun, but I had to have a proper job - very good advice.

Library-denigrators, pay heed:suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.

All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

I'm not sure I believe in the whole 'ghost-afterlife' thing, but I think places are marked by people who have been there.

I have an advanced degree in procrastination and another one in paranoia.

A thing named is a thing tamed.