“My life was writ in red, in blood and wine.”
“What is blood but the wine of life?”
“I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood.”
“And her sweet red lips on these lips of mineBurned like the ruby fire setIn the swinging lamp of a crimson shrine,Or the bleeding wounds of the pomegranate,Or the heart of the lotus drenched and wetWith the spilt-out blood of the rose-red wine.”
“My old love, my newUnlike wine, it's not betterFresh blood is so sweet”
“The first duty of wine is to be red. Don't talk to me of your white wines.”