Welcome to Wine Jar Press

Wine Jar Press is a small new imprint, actually just myself and my first novel, although I hope that others will follow. The name Wine Jar Press is inspired by Horace’s famous Ode to a Wine Jar, [titled O Nata Mecum, O Born with Me], where the Roman poet addresses himself to a jar of wine which shares its year of vintage with his own year of birth. Horace, the wine lover, was, as it were, speaking to himself in the shape and content of the terracotta vessel, but he was also acknowledging the entwinement of wine poetry and creativity, which shared the same god. Wine meant friendship, but it also signified something else, the liminal border places where new ideas are born, the mystery of fermentation, the opening into new worlds—dangerous, unpredictable, magical, original.

A Sense of Ancient Gods – a novel by Anthony Pacitto

1919 — The Great War is finally over. D. H. Lawrence had not been called up, his health too frail for military service. But for Lawrence and his German wife Frieda, the war years had brought trials and hardships of their own. At a time of great patriotism, Lawrence’s anti-war rhetoric had made him unpopular, his new novel, The Rainbow, had been banned for obscenity, and he and Frieda had been expelled from Cornwall, (where they had gone to live), on the absurd suspicion of spying.

Poor, embittered and physically exhausted, in November 1919, Lawrence left England for his beloved Italy, where Frieda joined him. After a few days sightseeing in Florence, they headed south for Rome — and it was at this point that they made a little-known excursion out into the wilds of the snow-capped Abruzzo mountains to stay with a strange old character who had been an artist’s model in late Victorian London, one Orazio Cervi…It is unlike anything they had expected, as if they have crossed a hidden frontier into a land of myth, the unearthly paean of ancient bagpipes, the men, like brigands, with conical hats, skin sandals, and white swathed legs, the women, dark eyed, and with something of the hex in them – It was another world, its own world – beautiful, ugly, harsh, cunning, threatening – all this he could see…

The icy harsh mountain conditions should make them move on. But something holds them there, something almost spectral, the mysterious influence of the mountains themselves. Digging deep into their already depleted physical and emotional reserves, they settle in, and wait…

From the brooding pagan mountain valleys, the snow and isolation, the pervading sense of fatalism, the coarse hard peasant existence, Lawrence would weave some of his most ecstatic narrative – the finale of his new novel, The Lost Girl (1920).