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PREFACE TO THE PAPERBACK EDITION

This book was completed a little over two years ago. It has its share of unfinished business, and that is partly by design, as one of its theses is that unfinished business is fun.

I have an abiding and evanescent concern about wines that show a strange force of gentleness that makes us grope for a language by which it may be described. Or so I have supposed. I've just finished a helpful book by Stanley Fish called How to Write a Sentence, and in the course of ruminating over transparency in language, Fish writes, “A lapidary style is polished and cut to the point of transparency. It doesn't seem to be doing much. It does not demand that attention be paid to it. It aspires to a self-effacement that allows the object to shine through.”

I have always admired this effect in writing, as in Bernhard Schlink's exquisitely careful, judicious prose in The Reader, or the recent poems of Robert Hass, which seem so plainly written as to cause us to question just what we think poetry is, or should be. And I've found—or imagine myself to have found—the same effect in certain wines, such as Helmut Dönnhoff's, or those of the Saahs family at Nikolaihof. I didn't have a word for it, and so I shot a pile of arrows toward it. Now there is this fine word lapidary that will shove all the other adjectives out of my quiver.

Still, even after I've gained a helpful new word, the old questions persist. How can these ostensibly demure wines convey such numinousness? And when I am caught in the web of this mystery, what is the nature of this place? Who, what lives here? Is it as still as it seems? Why do these wines affect me so keenly? How can they exist at all?

This book seeks to explore not how such questions may be answered but how they might best be framed. What is happening to us in the moment when we have formed the question but don't know the way to the answer? It's like the holding of a very small breath, a pause among the beats of living. There are worse things to preoccupy a fella.

I was on the Mosel, and it had rained for days. Good weather for working, people said. Dreary, though, and each morning I'd peer out at the still-sodden sky and wish there were a treadmill somewhere nearby.

But then it dried out one day, and there were even furtive bolts of sun, so I announced I was going to walk the seven kilometers through the vineyards from Zeltingen to Graach, and would try to be on time for my visit with Willi and Christoph Schaefer.

In the last few years a path system has been completed that carries the happy walker straight through the vineyards from village to village. You used to have to scramble in the Wehlener Sonnenuhr vineyard, but now you can tromp like the civilized gentleman you assuredly are. (That would be you, not me: I was schvitzing like a donkey and loving it.) It's a mid-slope path, well above the river, and you can look down into the lunatic steepness and up to the twittery woods. I got the lovely lostness you get when you walk awhile—no more thoughts, just a slow dissolve. Now and again there'd be a wan shaft of sunlight. The air smelled like wet slate.

So I walked and dreamed, and I dreamed about this book, which was finished but for the final proofs, and would be published later in the year. You dream all your life about such a thing, and then once it's done you do nothing but angst over it. I laid bare my heart, and feared looking foolish. Still, looking at this miraculous valley, washed in its pearly light, I hoped my little testament to a heart's love of wine would take its place, find a corner to curl up in.

Thus dreaming, I missed the path down. That's what I get for being blissed out. When I finally did descend into Graach, there was the little gasthaus on the corner where I once burned the roof of my mouth on a Schnitzel, and there was the house of the Kunsmanns, who had a B&B where I once slept in the attic under the eaves, and awoke one morning to the deliberate creeping of a huge spider and five smaller ones behind her, moving single file along a huge wooden beam toward the center of the ceiling.

That was thirty years ago. It was lovely how little had changed. I turned the corner and the Schaefer house appeared.

It was a momentous year for the family. The parents—now grandparents—were handing over the house to the next generation. “It's more space than we need,” Willi said, “and if Christoph's going to keep producing grandchildren”—here Christoph blushed becomingly—“they need room to play.” Schaefers senior would move to a little house on top of the hill—

“But I'll be down here at the winery every day”—and I enjoyed the thought of them having their breakfast and looking at the view over the valley. All of this was discussed as if it were merely pragmatic. But of course it isn't. Something the French might call a patrimoine was being handed down. You have arrived; it's yours now.

An hour later I was looking at a map I'd asked to see, a satellite view of the hillside, on which the Schaefers showed me each of their various parcels. They own roughly sixteen in the Domprobst vineyard, and several dozen in the Himmelreich, where the EU-wide land consolidation hasn't yet occurred. I wondered whether the organic purists would be brought up short at the logistical nightmare of trying to farm that way when your land consisted of thirty or forty postage-stamp-sized parcels scattered hither and yon over the hillside. But even more I wondered at the many wines the Schaefers bottle that are parcel-specific, and how these multiple bottlings of wines with the same name seem to annoy people; it's just those Germans being insufferably exact.

What they really are is a thing we should preserve as an endangered species. Look: a few people still exist who are willing to show you the intimacy of their accord with the land, and the beautiful detailing of nuance that results.

So we tasted, and then had some supper. We drank some old wine from Willi's cellar, but nothing extravagant. We laughed and were silly, as we often are together. Yet there's a happiness in this house that doesn't express as jollity. It has very little affect at all. You know, you try to be open-eyed, to convince yourself there are dark veils of shadow and thanatos even around these happy-looking lives. You don't want to sentimentalize them.

But you sit in the house with parents and children and look at pictures of the new babies, and you see everyone glowing just because—I mean, why wouldn't you glow? And you find yourself, your miserable skeptical self, thinking, “Life is supposed to be like this, and sometimes is.” And a sort of dopey desire visits you. Pare it down. It isn't that hard to be happy.

Families like this one are why I believe in terroir. It's neither a dogma nor a faith. It's just a simple fact. The wines themselves lead me to this belief. It's not only a rational empirical matter; it's also a question of Goodness. And this leads me to consider the schism between two groups of vintners and drinkers: those who feel wine is “made,” and those who feel it is grown. It is a fundamental split between two mutually exclusive approaches to both wine and life. If a grower believes from his everyday experience that flavors are inherent in his land, he will labor to preserve them. This means he does nothing to inhibit, obscure, or change them. He does not write his adorable agenda over his raw material. He respects the material. He is there to release it, to take this nascent being, slap it on the ass, and make it wail.

If, on the other hand, your work as a “winemaker” is all about the vision you have a priori, the wine you wish to “sculpt,” then your raw material is a challenge to surmount, almost an inconvenience. You learn to be expert at systems and procedures. You make wine as if you were piloting a plane, and there's nothing wrong with being a good pilot. But terroir-driven vintners make wine as if they were riding on the back of a bird.

This implies a modesty that we rarely understand, we worshippers at the altar of self-esteem. One effaces oneself without diminishing oneself—rather the opposite. And sometimes one's wines assume similar virtues, which we also misinterpret.

It is because of our thirst for wines that put on a show for us. But some wines are content to be the straight man and let the food get all the funny lines. One night I had a jar of some black truffle goop or other, and I wanted to use it. I thought of Daniel Boulud's notorious black truffle and foie gras hamburger, and I thought I too can be decadent, so my wife and I got some ground veal and made us some slutty patties with the truffle stuff, and just to totally gild the lily we stuffed a pat of D'artagnan black truffle butter in the middle of each patty to melt as the burgers cooked. Oh yeah, baby, it tasted as good as it sounds—but what do you drink with it?

We alighted upon a “basic” St. Laurent from Austria, from Erich Sattler. We might have also been happy with something like a modest Chorey-les-Beaune (assuming we wanted to pay triple the price), and though we had the option of upgrading to the “Reserve” quality wine, it would have had too much fruit, and maybe oak would show, and these wicked little burgers don't need all that mojo. They have their own. Our wine was so seamlessly perfect it was as if it too could taste those truffley burgers.

We're all insanely busy stretching toward the stellar; we've really got to RAWK the carafe. But if I stand for anything in this little wine-life of mine, it is to insist we learn to cherish wines of modesty and quiet. It will help us understand the beauty of the humble. Pssst! It'll also save us money.

I have a fantasy that somewhere up on a stage, some international wine megastar—Guigal comes to mind—is getting a big, ostentatious trophy for attaining an average “score” of 98.3 points for his over-$300 wines. Back in the big general tasting, they're cleaning up, and a guy approaches a Rhône grower whose $12 Côtes-du-Rhône gave him pleasure, and he says to the grower, “Thank you for this wine. It makes me happy.”

No question in my mind where I'd rather be, and who I'd rather be.

Things of noise lead us inexorably into greater and greater coarseness and sensual incoherence. Noisy wines are fun from time to time, but like most of the coarser pleasures, they are easy to abuse and very bad for us. I publish a wee manifesto in my sales catalogues, and I recently updated it with a deliberately ambiguous statement: Many wines, even good wines, let you taste the noise. But only the very best wines let you taste the silence. Few have commented to me about that thought. I suspect they're being polite because they find it silly. Who knows, perhaps it is. But I know what I mean by it.

First we need to understand this: silence isn't merely the absence of noise. It is the presence of eternity.

A wine that can offer such a thing to you is a wine that breaks bread with the angels. And yet I am aware that I've taken one ethereal statement and elaborated upon it with another. Let's try to get concrete. What do I want you to understand when I write about “tasting silence—? Is it just me indulging a taste for poetry, or is it palpable?

Think of the way a wine comes to greet you. Some tasters refer to it as “the attack,” the very first instant when the wine presents itself. It may be assertive, brash, massive, or it may be demure, flowing, bashful. But there is always that very moment with every new bottle, and I am aware that I anticipate it, as if I'm asking, “Who will this be?” It's like meeting a new person, before you know anything about him; you respond instinctually, chemically. There is something remarkably alive about us in that moment. Our receptors are buzzing, and we are alight with interest.

Some wines announce themselves. They really push at you. They work the handshake, they're riffing right away, full of schtick, one-liners, they want you to like them, and they work to amuse you. But sometimes you feel a melancholy suspicion it isn't at all about you; they do it with everyone—they need to be liked and approved of. It's their act. And often it's fun to encounter such people. And sometimes there's even a genuine and substantive person, underneath the bluster.

In wine terms that's “tasting the noise.”

Other times you meet someone who seems oddly composed and at peace. She doesn't seem to care what impression she makes on you, because she has nothing she's driven to demonstrate. Yet often she directs a lovely beam of attention on you, as if you are a surprising delight, and you spend minutes talking with this compelling new person, and you come away feeling roused, glad, as if you'd been seen in some keenly approving way. Ye t she is still a blank. She didn't talk about herself. She seemed to be demure.

You become extremely curious about such a person. What is the source of her composure? How does she seem so sure and so stable? How graceful she is, and how effortless she makes it appear! While the high-affect fellow seems to spring into action when he feels the spotlight hit him, this lady seems to be lit from within.

In wine terms, that's “tasting the silence.” These introverted wines seem to draw some sheer curtain, and suddenly the world falls away. They banish preoccupation. They deliver repose.

They embody a calmness, they channel the daydreams. And they do it with no perceptible effort. They combine a serene diffidence with a strangely numinous beauty in a poignant and haunting way. And such wines are full of flavor, often the most searching and complex wines we'll ever know. But they hold you in their theta-dance, and some crust starts to dissolve in you, and you liquefy to your core, a place hardly anyone ever sees, and the wine seems to know you, like some strange angel.

Such wines are never noisy. They don't know how to be. They won't reward superficial attention. But the deeper you go, the greater the prize, for these aren't merely great wines, they are great moments of life. They show that a certain thing is possible, something you never saw and doubted existed—a mysterious miracle you didn't know you carried with you. You realize that hedonism washes away—it won't adhere; it's why we chase it so desperately. This, though, this stays. This actually changes your life. It might not be a huge change. It's not like getting your first degree or losing thirty pounds or having your first child. It's just a small glimpse of a possibility you can't fathom, tiny, delicate, impossible to forget.

If it moves you, and if you try to talk about it, you feel like a fool. You don't have the language you need, and so you fumble, and people think you've been hitting the bong pipe. For you it is entirely definite as feeling and spiritual sense, but in language it's nebulous. How do we delineate between wines that enact and wines that reveal?

Enacting wines can be brilliant and scintillating, but I sometimes feel them straining to ravish me, busy being amazing. Revealing wines just sit there being themselves, as if they were born knowing repose. Think of the way a person's face is most revealing when it isn't busy with gestures and expressions; while reading perhaps, or even sleeping. You look at the face and see the person behind the personality. That is what revealing wines reveal.

You can call it spiritual, but that poor word's been debased. It's easy to distrust spirituality or the life of the soul, because the words are wielded with what sounds like a rebuke, that we should live in spirit or that our souls should live our lives for us. Well, phooey. Yet very often we make the opposite mistake; we insist on banishing soul from our lives. Quite an effort, that is, to push away soul, to reassure ourselves and others that we're matter-of-fact, as if soul were a kind of spiritual elitism. Personally I think it's useless to pull soul in or to shove it away. Better to ignore it and go about your life, as long as you are alive, by which I mean attentive and available. Soul is pretty smart and will show up when it's warranted. And these aren't always the moments we think are exalted. Baseball season just started, and I can't wait for that first night game. I'll buy my soul some chicken fingers. My soul likes the fried stuff.

When you taste silence in a wine, you sense a peace that lives on the far shores of all the urging and pushing. It's like making up after a fight: I love her; why are we fighting? It's a strange and stirring peace that seems to come only this way, to take us to this place where everything belongs and everything's all right. These wines that seem so quiet only whisper to you so that you will quiet down and listen, and listening, be finally able to hear not only their own psalms of flavor but the tenderness and serenity around us always.

I happily confess I was touched and amazed at the way people responded when this book came out in September 2010. I knew that the people who'd like it would like it a lot. I figured there'd be a few of them, and what the hell, I stuck my neck out and risked seeming mawkish. But I started to get the impression that the book talked to some forbidden place in some of us, somewhere we felt ashamed, as if wine were too ephemeral to cause such emotion, or as though there were no greater values in play.

But as this paperback edition of Reading between the Wines appears, I want to reassure you that none of what follows is a command. It is merely a proposal. It's all right to think of wine like this, and it's all right not to. A range of possible experiences exist, and we take the ones we like. Wine is a tactful invitation, not a summons. But let us be available, when it asks, to go quietly soaring, because the earthbound life is finally too small.