I have a photograph in my childhood album: my uncle and I stand beside the winepress, hand in hand, squeezing grapes and sharing hearty laughter...

Not in the photo album, but in the storehouse of my memory there are plenty of pictures of the village house and the small vineyard that my grandmother tended. I spent the happiest days of my childhood in this house and vineyard. Later in life, we would always take all four grandchildren with us and have a great time there playing games, swimming in the river and reading books in the evenings.

My older sister and cousin are peers, and my younger cousin and I are peers. The older ones were smart and pliant, while we younger ones were mischievous and naughty.

We ran around the vineyard, climbed trees, scared and pestered our elders. Then, tired of running like crazy, we would throw ourselves on the ground and laugh at a thousand silly things.

Today there is a separation line demarcating the occupied territory near this village. Grandma has been gone for almost fifteen years. However, the memories of those days are all in me…

Not a single year of my childhood and adolescence passed without a harvest. I was cheerful, skillful at picking grapes, and was eagerly welcomed into the vineyard. I had the "privilege" of crushing grapes, granted to me by my uncle. Almost nobody else of my age was allowed to do so.

Sometimes I would silently watch my uncle work in the vineyard. There was always a sense of caution in his actions. He always treated the vines and the land with respect, and there was something sacred about the process.

Later, already in my adulthood, having visited different wineries and talked to their masters, I was finally confirmed in the intuitive feelings of my childhood and realized that one’s interaction with the vine and making wine is truly a sacred process.

A winemaker is indeed a creator.

Just as a writer nurtures an idea, shapes phrases, conjures visual imagery, hatches a plot, and develops characters before delving deeper to create something real and profound, a winemaker follows a similar process. Throughout this journey, they are as mindful and meticulous as an artist, crafting their final creation.

Much like artistic and literary works of different styles or genres, some wines are light, others heavy, some dry, others sweet to varying degrees, and even if they are of the same vintage, each wine still manifests its unique character.

My favorite is Kindzmarauli, as it has always been.

Its character has much in common with my own: calm, warm, finding delight in simple things, in life striving for balance rather than intensity.

I am moderate in my attitude to wine. I believe that in order to uncover its essence, to feel the grace of wine, one should approach it willingly and in a good mood, setting out to maximize the enjoyment of the moment.

For the past few years I have had a ritual: when I complete any of my projects, be it a book or a screenplay, I always uncork a treasured bottle of Kindzmarauli from my reserves, take it to the balcony to luxuriate there for a while, sipping the wine while gazing up at the sky. At this moment, a sense of gratitude washes over me—toward the world, my ancestors, and God for protecting and empowering me, for giving me inspiration at a particular moment, for awakening mystical experiences within me and granting the means to express them in words....

I love Tvishi as much as I love Kindzmarauli. They both boast similar qualities – rich, aromatic, and velvety wines.

Despite a fair amount of Twishi that night, I recall it vividly: we were out celebrating the presentation of my latest novel, The Invisible Game. “Let's unwind and have some fun tonight,” my girlfriends jubilantly proposed. And indeed, we embraced the night with jests and laughter. At some point someone suggested taking photos of ourselves and posting them on social media. We took plenty but could not choose any of them, dismissing each with reasons such as “Oh, I am so wasted here” and “Ah, I am laughing like crazy there”...

None of the pictures from that night are fit to post, but I cherish them all nonetheless: we are natural, in-the-moment, Tvishi-tipsy; bound by years of friendship, countless laughs, and shared moments of both joy and hardship. They remind us of our youth, the time when we were not quite Tvishi yet.

Have you ever wondered what it means? Tvishi means a wake-up moment, in a sense.

How many pathways and dead ends, triumphs and failures, how much pain and joy, and what kinds of transformations must a person go through before they wake up? Before transcending subjectivity, attaining inner wisdom, and achieving a more comprehensive and harmonious understanding of the world?

I have always had a deep fascination with words and symbols, as they often conceal profound knowledge beneath their surface. The sanctity of wine shines most brilliantly in the sacramental ritual, where it embodies the blood of Christ, elevating it to a sacred elixir.

Wine also has its god in Greek mythology – Dionysus.

The history of humanity and each individual is a continual reenactment of mythological narratives, where the play of ancient gods is transformed into enduring archetypes.

It is intriguing that a significant number of creative individuals, whether poets, artists, or musicians, find themselves embodying the archetype of Dionysus. Within the artist, Bacchus thrives, guiding them through realms of light and shadow, the celestial and the abyss, as they accumulate mystical experiences. These experiences are then transformed into sounds, words, or colors—taking shape to render visible to others what the spirit of the world has declared within them.

To illustrate this point, we need look no further than the poignant examples of Galaktioni and Pirosmani, two singular artists who found their one true confidant in life: Wine.

Who can deny the hand of God in the creations of Gala and Niko?

Thus spoke Galaktioni:

Life, a vintage of the finest hue,
It gleams, then gently fades in time,
I've inherited the poet's name in it,
Without this, eternity means naught.

To underscore once more: words and symbols cradle profound wisdom.

And, of course: “There is truth in wine.”

It’s a room in the attic, so small it seems designed by writers for crafting invisible or half-seen characters, ones that are challenging to imagine. Should I attempt to describe it, words would fail to adequately depict the vivid tableau before me. I’ll be left with such useless words as “strange”, “slanted ceiling”... A solitary lightbulb dangling where the old chandelier once reigned and an old ladder serving as a pedestal to look out from the window – the crown jewels of my life. These and the stack of books, some already read, others forever in my to-read list.

When gifted a bottle of wine, I tuck it away where I won’t be able to see it, to avoid constant temptation by its allure. Uncorking it would summon an omnipotent spirit from within, spirit so powerful that can turn the whole universe upside down, placing me next to the person farthest from me. Uncorking it would transform my room into a sun-kissed meadow where we’d playfully run like long-tailed and red-backed foxes and the memory of our past life will fade like a hazy mirage.

My wine collection never exceeds three bottles. Some are offered as gifts and others are shared when friends arrive. As everyone, I too pour the last drops in my glass after the guests leave. This is the moment of pure joy, when even the echoes of doubt vanish and I trust the new, mysterious paths emerging through the mist. I dare to tread the narrowest, the most dizzying among them.

I remember one evening, strolling alone Machabeli and nearby streets with Sophie Merceron, a French writer and theatre actress. She was telling the stories of her childhood, parents, her time at Nantes Conservatoire. She did not want to miss anything important and enveloped me in the blizzard of words. I visualized a coastal village, a house with a garden where she used to play with her younger brother; a cellar where her father stores dusty bottles of Bordeaux wine; festive tables, brimming glasses, and the steam rising from freshly cooked dishes; white and red napkins, a salt shaker adorned with engraved decorations. I should tread this impromptu image carefully, so as not to damage it with ghosts and shadows of my Soviet childhood. We compared pastimes lost to the sands of time—our brothers' hobbies, old rituals, songs sung before the Christmas tree, even our parents' attitudes toward literature and theater.

“He's still the same,” Sophie said of her father. “Whenever he sees me, he goes straight to the cellar to bring a dusty bottle of wine.”

I smiled, thinking of my own 80-year-old father who still eagerly greets me at the bus station each time I return to my ancestral home.

The wind continued blowing. Sophie told me that she prefers white wine over the red. She acknowledges Bordeaux’s eminence but confesses that red wine makes her feel heavy and hampers her enjoyment of conversations with loved ones.

“What about you?” She asked and delighted in our shared preference. “I knew it!”

I confessed that I rarely drink and when I do, it’s in moderation, enough for only an A-side of a vinyl record or for selecting a book of some old poet and reciting three or four verses in a low voice. The last drops rest at the bottom of the bottle, but in such moments I’m never tempted to write even a brief note to the person I reach out for as my books and the five-step ladder bear witness, guardians of the silence.

“Why?” she asked, looked in my eyes. I couldn’t find the words to respond, so in the dimness of the next street I begin to recount a different story.

“We had a dog who despised even a slightly tipsy person, growling and barking at them...”

I wanted to steer the conversation back to wine.

Regardless of how investigating eyes one can have, nobody could find any blemish in our beautiful, charming, loving and extremely smart Caucasian shepherd. He played with us, joined us wherever we went, and tried to communicate in his canine language. He deified my dad — whenever he heard my father’s voice, all other sounds faded into insignificance.

But on that one night, when my dad, drunk and affectionate, returned from a long and joyful feast and stooped to pet him, our dog bit him mercilessly. As if my dad was a hostile stranger; as if their shared moments of love had never existed. I worried a lot and then followed a train of thought that emerged from the depths of thicket: It was nobody’s fault. My dad couldn’t contain his love when he saw a being he adored, while the dog’s instincts warned of a potential threat or enemy, even translating acts of kindness into something sinister. Both followed the dictates of their inner voices, voices they could never quell. Both were right, and this truth cast a long, imposing shadow that demanded diligent observation.

Sophie and I exchanged countless stories, navigating through the maze of newfound friendship, where all the coincidences made us happy and we endeavored to etch every detail into our memories.

If only I could remember why our conversation turned to wine.

I switch off the light and ignite a half-burned candle, it should make connection with spirits easier. The flickering shadows on the wall help bridge the gap between me and those I hold dear, including my parents to whom I promised, “I’ll be with you next New Year’s Eve, we’ll decorate the living room and I’ll cook foreign, delicious dishes.” There isn’t a single evening call when they don’t mention that promise.

But me, I yearn to be in three places at once, to experience three distinct forms of happiness: Holding my head on my father’s chest, hearing his heartbeat, and, after a moment’s pause, saying, “Go ahead, enjoy some wine tonight. OK, Ok, drink to your heart’s content.” Wandering the midnight streets of Nantes with Sophie, crossing bridges, streets, and riversides, gazing at the shimmering waters, watching the tiny islands vanishing into slumber, reading French inscriptions and savoring the words like candy-coated almonds... And then, there’s the third wish, an odd one, distant perhaps from a lifetime of reality – transforming into a red-backed fox, swishing my pretty tail as I ascend snowy hills. At the hill’s peak, I meet the friend whose longing face I sketch in the darkness. We’d frolic, blend our traces and footprints so that no one could ever distinguish them. We’d pierce the night sky with our jubilant songs and get drunk with the chill in the air and the pure moonlight.

When someone asked me to write about wine, I hesitated, thinking I shouldn't do it because I'm too lazy and blocked in my writing skills. But then it dawned on me that if a Boglitso-man like me can’t be bothered to write about wine, then there really something amiss in this world. Boglitso is a piece of bread dunked in red wine.

For more than thirty years, I’ve been unable to imagine my life without wine. This goes not just for me but also for most of my characters. People like Petre Zghenti (from Wine-Dark Sea), The False-Shaman (from Dagny, or a Love Feast), Shakro Karmeli (from Caucasian Foxtrot and Jazzmine), and Zeroturstra (from Untergang: Journey in Europe) all gulp their share of wine.

I can say that wine plays a significant role in my life, both existentially and intellectually. COGITO ERGO(V)SUM because IN VINO VERITAS! I drink therefore I am. Because in wine, there is truth.

Truth and Wine: what is the connection there? The cryptic connection known to the ancient Greeks – the Hellenes, who, from the cult of Dionysus, the god of wine, gave birth to music, and from the soul of music – Tragedy and Satire.

I don’t mean to offend anyone’s religious beliefs, but Christianity is also based on that cryptic connection of truth and wine. The enigma of Christianity is hidden in the Eucharist, a ritual of communion where the blood of the Messiah is enshrined as wine. Georgia is one of the oldest Christian countries and such constancy of this religion among such turbulent people can be explained by the mystical-ritualistic role of wine. Georgian culture is inseparable from wine; wine and the toasts spoken with it are the alpha and omega of our spiritual being. Yes, we Georgians have clay heads on our shoulders, where the wine ferments. The alchemy is still on, and the wine has not yet finished fermenting.

So it is not a surprise that on such a small territory, throughout thousands of years, hundreds of grape varieties have sprouted and blossomed, and twenty of them are still actively used in wine production. Where else can you find such a thing, huh?

I am a contradictory person, overly dualistic, constantly drawn to matching controversial things, and wine is no exception. I love both Kakhetian tannic amber-colored wines, matured in the womb of Qvevri, and light-bodied Kartli wines with their gentle sparkling nature – Goruli Mtsvane, Chinuri, Tavkveri...

I’m also fond of European and American wines: Pinot Grigio, Sauvignon Blanc, Grauburgunder, Chardonnay, Primitivo (known also as Zinfandel), and others. Once, I found a bottle of Martsemino wine in a supermarket in Nuremberg. It’s the very same wine Don Giovanni drinks before the arrival of the Commandore. I liked it, too. Yet, I favor Mozart’s opera more.

And now I will confess to a sin that is strongly condemned in Georgia: I prefer to drink wine alone rather than at large feasts. I take a particular pleasure in sipping wine while listening to music and savoring the mystic connection between the two.

Usually, I start this ritual around 6 in the evening, unless I need to evade a prior afternoon hangover. If the writing flows smoothly on such days, I drink with greater joy and dedication; I don’t really know how to characterize the biochemical processes happening during writing, but apparently something compels me to drink more. I enjoy drinking while listening to music so much that I once hosted a radio program called Jazz & Wine on Syndicate Radio.

I cannot imagine literature either without wine, the craft of great literature. For example, Omar Khayyam (though his choice was another divine elixir) and François Rabelais with his Gargantua and Pantagruel. However, I’ve never written while drunk. Perhaps it’s different for poetry, but for prose, sobriety is essential. None of my novels, short stories, or "Opuses" were penned while I was drunk.

Nevertheless, the characters in my books get drunk a lot, and quite often they slip into delirium, too. It's quite another thing to jot down notes while under the influence – working on character descriptions, metaphors, and themes; playing with the music of words, etc.

Of course, I've had my share of feasts and mind-numbing binges. What a gallery of vessels I’ve had! For example, a lamp glass (before we realized in the dark 90's how to use it properly), the glittering crystal bowl, a clay roof tile, or an enormous syringe. What could one do?! That’s what tipsiness led to in our carefree, infantile Soviet existence.

At times I took on the role of toastmaster, the Tamada, though it doesn’t truly content my heart. But what can I do?! Such is the challenge of being Georgian!

By the way, I find it easier to lead feasts with foreigners. Maybe that’s why I was specifically called upon for the Tamada role twice – once in Bordeaux, the citadel of wine, and another time in Tokyo, a city with way less acquaintance with wine. One hundred French people shared a table with me in Bordeaux, each contributing forty euros to enjoy the experience. How could I impress these grandi(n)ose French with wine and cuisine? It was through the oratory of toasts, enriched with expressive words, jokes, literary quotes, and cultural references that entertained the guests. The crescendo was reached with Georgian polyphonic singing and the diverse selection of our wines. In the end, the French were asking for more toasts, overwhelmed with their expressive gratitude in a chorus of merci beaucoup.

In Tokyo, the experience was less successful. I had an assembly of a hundred and twenty guests, mostly Japanese with a few Europeans. Japanese, as you might know, are not accustomed to strong alcohol. Their sake is quite a mild drink. In about thirty minutes, they got so drunk that the evening slipped beyond my control, although a brilliant Georgian translator was helping me bridge the linguistic gap from English to Japanese. In a few moments, everything descended into chaos as we were joined by two Goliaths – the sumo wrestlers Tochinoshin and Gagamaru. Sumo wrestlers in Japan are the subject of such enormous excitement as rock musicians are in the US. All attention turned to them, with everyone taking selfies and hugging. In short, I lost the crowd. At this point it would have been fitting to commit proper Japanese hara-kiri, but instead Tochinoshin and Gagamaru took me to one of the Roppongi nightclubs where I drowned my defeat.

Ah, with whom I have not shared a glass! Nobles, scholars or random plebs... I have found rapport through wine with alcoholics and hobos at Chicago’s train station. Once, I drank on the roof of the house where Raskolnikov lived and raved, albeit with a glass of whiskey in hand... I have encountered marvelous souls while drinking, but no one can be compared to Vakhushti Kotetishvili.

One day, I’ll dare to drink as the great Chinese poet Li Bo did, with the moon and his own shadow. He, too, met his end while drunk, embracing the moon in the Yellow River.

For the first and the next one hundred times the older men made me taste wine. They diligently taught me the rules of drinking. I must have been 12 or 13 the first time I tasted it. They instructed me to drink only one glass, so I sipped it before putting it down. They immediately scolded me, explaining that if my lips touch the glass, I can’t return it to the table until I finish the wine to the bottom. Furthermore, I should propose a toast.

“Cheers!” I mumbled and attempted to continue drinking.
“What’s with the shortcut? Are you Russian? Say a proper toast.”
“Russian? Why?”
“They do it that way, saying ’Budzem’ and drinking it like a shot. Savages!”
“What toast should I say?”
“Say whatever warms your heart, son.”

And then, another dilemma emerged; I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately, I recalled some toast templates I’d heard during dinners.

“Cheers to us! May God bless us, make us happy, and grant us everything inexhaustible – health, wealth, happiness, joy, and... I don’t know what else.”
“Oh-oh-oooh, here’s a real man! Good start. Now finish the wine! Until the last drop! Op-op-op-op! Bravo. Now have a bite too.”
“I don’t want.”
“You should. It’s the rule. First drink, then eat.”
“I really don’t want.”
“Good God, you’re such a shy boy. You can’t just drink. Eat something, or you’ll get drunk easily. Go ahead. Yes, like that!”

I took a bite of the snack and immediately started thinking about what I’d seen and observed before: They drink, they eat – and god knows they eat a lot – yet they get so drunk that once they start a senseless argument they never finish it, or even worse, it ends in a fistfight.

This is how it was, and I didn’t enjoy drinking wine or feasting with them. Nothing has flavor back then.

So, every time I was finding myself at such gatherings, I was trying my best to avoid the dry toasts but couldn’t always succeed. Slowly, I refined my toasts, making an effort to improve until the seniors could no longer patronize me with their lessons, and I stayed out of the center of attention as much as possible.

“Let’s drink to the peace in the world! Nothing is more important than peace,” Tamada would say. And I, afraid someone would beat me to it, quickly mumbled my chosen patter: “Glory to God, peace to us!”

I didn’t want to repeat others’ toasts, so I had to think of different versions like “May we have peace” or “Peace is the most important! Cheers!” or “Let peace surround us” or something like that.

If, during the time from clinking to drinking, I couldn’t be the first or think of something else (a.k.a. the moment of hopelessness) I would just quote, “Exactly! As Uncle Nukri said, Glory to God, peace to us!”

Then arrived the toast commemorating our departed ones, and I felt the safest; everyone was somber during that moment, not paying attention to what I’d say or how I’d say it.

“Long memory to those who await our pardon in heaven,” I muttered, drank, and immediately refilled the empty glasses because I knew ”We don’t dwell on the departed for long,” and the next toast should definitely be about ”Life goes on.”

The penultimate toast (if you were a guest) should be dedicated to the family, and the last one to sacred places.

And after that, new chapters began: To sleep or not to sleep, with a heavy head on the pillow, closing your eyes and the whole universe spiraling in your brain, opening your eyes, exhaling, feeling momentarily calm, then wishing to sleep again. Forcing myself to throw up, and only then, finally, falling asleep. An awful hangover in the morning; overcoming it is an art of its own. I would take Nimessil and have Anakom instant noodles – yeah, terrible hangover management.

So wine was not my beverage of choice. As a young adult, I preferred beer, a preference those older men often referred to as cocoa for monkeys, distinguishing it from wine or vodka.

Wine started calling me back with sweet nothings when my friend, Irakli Sirbilashvili, invited me to his vineyard. It wasn’t during the harvest season. It was just the two of us, armed with saws. Our mission was to prune specific vines to allow the rest to flourish. We were in Manavi, Kakheti.

“I won’t add sugar or anything after fermentation. It will be pure, virgin wine, and you’ll admit it was worth working on.”

It was indeed exhausting work, starting at dawn and finishing after sunset. I remember I followed a line from one end, and he followed from the other, cutting the marked vines. When we met in the middle, it meant we were done. We hugged and shouted hooray.

“What about the harvest season? Will you come?”
“Count me in, brother!”

I couldn’t attend the harvest, but as months passed, Irakli opened his qvevri. The wine was truly exceptional, the best I had ever tasted by then. Perhaps my rating was influenced by the work I had put into the vineyard that day, the sweat and effort. Or perhaps it was because I was savoring the wine without pressure for the first time, allowing me to truly understand it.

From that day on, I fell in love with wine, and so did my friends. Just a few days ago, while drinking, the Kharachokhels from the early footage of old Tbilisi inexplicably occupied my thoughts. I wanted to propose a toast in their style, but I held back.

When I returned home, intoxicated with never-ending hiccups, I opened my notebook and started writing toasts under the name “Neo-Tbilisi Mukhammas.” Here are some of them.

#7:06
Let’s say a toast
For random citizen
A Tbilisi man,
Who goes to sleep
very late
and is awake
earlier than sun.
That’s how life goes,
What can be done?

#28/15
Let’s raise a glass
To the real love;
The one
Which is damned
And cursed
And which asks
To express with a shout
To express with no doubt

And Tbilisi Man
Instantly
on time,
Snoozes this love like
A morning alarm clock,
Snoozes and snoozes
Never clicks the STOP.

#0
Toast from the heart
To every unlucky, going down
To bottom
and hate
But still love our damn town.