I literally dreamt up this story while in bed with the ‘flu, and was startled to discover, once I was back on my feet (or at least, back in front of my computer) that Fernet Branca is actually a particular brand of amaro, an Italian herbal liqueur. Obviously I must have picked that up somewhere and it subsequently percolated to the front of my fever-raddled brain, but it wasn’t a deliberate homage.

It should be pretty obvious that the venerable sage in my story doesn’t have anything to do with the drink – although they are both a bit startling at first and only begin to make sense after you’ve drunk heavily of them – but just in case any lawyers are reading: the venerable sage in my story doesn’t have anything to do with the drink.

I’ve hated overtly inspirational literature (actually, I hate most overtly inspirational things) since encountering Carlos Casteneda’s The Teachings of Don Juan many years ago. Even as an impressionable pre-teen, I thought Castaneda’s book was, um, bollocks, and I’ve never felt the need to revisit that opinion. I prefer books that catalyse the imagination – science books, mythology books, hell, just good books – to those that force-feed the mind with lukewarm, pre-chewed pap.

But the grandaddy of all inspirational writers is, of course, Kahlil Gibran. I’ve never read any Gibran, but by another coincidence, I found this excellent article in my feedreader the morning after I wrote this story. Lines like this:

If you look closely, though, you will see that much of the time he is saying something specific; namely, that everything is everything else. Freedom is slavery; waking is dreaming; belief is doubt; joy is pain; death is life.

make it sound like Gibran’s narrator in The Prophet (and for that matter Gibran himself) is far more like Fernet Branca than I imagined.

That’s Fernet Branca the venerable sage in my story, of course. The one who doesn’t have anything to do with the drink.

good one!