Europe’s dead. Even the death of Europe’s dead. There’s no sign of it: the death of Europe. The new Europe doesn’t mark its grave.
But the old vines remember it. The oldest vines know the truth: the death of Europe.
These vines – the last old wines. The last of old Europe.
They’ve actually gone off.
Yeah, but it’s a good off. A honest off. Anyway, a very very good wine is actually indistinguishable from a very very bad one.
Is that right?
I made it up. It’s the sort of thing Cicero would have said.
Can we just pour away the wine – do we have to drink it?
We have to. Something will happen.
Work in Progress 