A beautifully written, evocative book
As a foodie living just across the river from a slew of up-and-coming Virginia wineries, how could I not be drawn to a book on an all-but-forgotten and all-American grape?
Little did I know that there would be much more to this book than a lively treatise on American wine history and culture. From the first chapter of Wild Vine, it was patently clear that I was being taken along on a personal quest, a quest that would take me back in time and into the company of mavericks and renegades. In short, this was a tale --one to unfold and develop; one to be savored like fine wine.
I won’t rehash here the essentials of the story, which the publisher’s blurb does quite nicely already, thank you very much. Instead, I’ll address what I found most satisfying about the book, hopefully without giving too much away. (And, dear reader, there is an unexpected surprise in store for you… and that’s ALL I’m going to tell you. Oh, perhaps just a little hint later on… Goodness, I sound like a schoolgirl. Too bad!)
I very much liked Todd Kliman’s style. Let it speak for itself:
“Throughout his twenties and even into his thirties, Daniel Norton had waited in vain for his life to start, and now everything he had worked for and wished for arrived in a rush -- as though Fortune had decided to repay him, all at once, for all it had taken from him, all at once. Lucy bore him five children. A new life, a new wife, and now a boisterous, bountiful household. The gloom was gone. The pallor that hung about the rooms, gone. The brooding, the anguish, the guilt - gone, all of them gone.”
What I like about this particular passage are its cadences. There’s a lushness of vocabulary, too, and a kind of poetic urgency. Some might find Kliman’s prose overwrought, but I find it stops shy of being overwritten. Instead, it’s bold and unafraid of sentiment. The part of me that appreciates the high-seas swashbuckling tales of Rafael Sabitini stood up and cheered.
And I have to say, too, that while I have often criticized authors for inserting themselves unnecessarily into the narrative, I very much enjoyed Kliman’s appearances in this one. There’s a reason he’s in the book – his tale is one of personal journeys, but on multiple levels.
Did I just say multiple levels? Hats off to handling a very complex narrative in a seamless way. There’s a lot of going back-and-forth in time here. (This is another thing that I confess often annoys me – the modern tendency to have multiple “threads” that are successively – and at times needlessly – interwoven. If there’s one thing I admire, it’s making me confront and squash a prejudice.)
But most of all, I enjoyed the people in Wild Vine, which begins with the author’s first visit to the central figure, Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis Vineyards in Virginia. (By the way, the name of that vineyard is the clue to the surprise I mentioned above. There’s another clue the author will give you later on, but I raced right over it with only a momentary furrow of the brow. Perhaps you’ll do better now that I’ve given you a heads-up.)
Almost every chapter introduces yet another link in the Norton chain, each person painted with vigor and dash. I especially liked Henry Vizetelly, “so singular…so flamboyant and unpredictable, given to regarding life as grand, improvisatory theater, that wherever he went, the air stirred in his wake - news was made, and controversy inevitably followed. He atomized a room. “ Poor Daniel Norton, if I may indulge in a slight criticism, pales in comparison. (One is ever so glad when Norton stops moping around Richmond and starts fiddling with grapes.)
In addition to these virtues, Wild Vine was educational. I’m not a wine snob, far from it, but neither am I a wine neophyte. Most people, however, are more intimidated by wine than they’d care to admit. Here Kliman sheds some light on a fascinating world, and he works in a good dollop of American history to boot. For example, did you know that in 1870 Missouri led the U.S. in wine production? Read, too, of how California got its start, quickly overtaking poor Missouri, and how California wines part ways with European tradition. It’s something to ponder next time you uncork a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.
It’s no coincidence – indeed, it’s clear that the author intentionally wrote a book that has multiple parallels to the cultivation and enjoyment of wine:
“To learn about wine, as I was doing, was to appreciate more than varietals and pairings, more than vintages and estates. It was to appreciate the process, the elemental, irreducible cycle that is at the heart of nature and of life. Before there is something to drink, a seed has to be planted, then nurtured. Then the ripening of the vine and the budding of the fruit. Pressing, extraction, barreling. Finally, fermentation, the mysterious transformation of something sweet and grapey into something fine and subtle."
That “mysterious transformation” is at the heart of the book. Oh dear, there’s another hint. And I said I wouldn’t. Don’t let my mendacious ways prejudice you. This is one hell of a book.