The Famous Literary Group

Disclosure:
This website is written by diverse community of people.

We are

one of the very few literary groups who cares more of a bottle of Jack than of you. Yet, you are here going through the work of such people. And the sights are heavy on you; and it is not sights of understanding. But you do not look away for that you believe in the correctness of your doing; the attention is merely surreal - and the response is indifference; and y are famous - sippin’ Jack with us.

...

We are building the literary castle out of wood. Wood is a lovely malleable material that suffers from humanly imperfections. Every single three shines with the spirit and every burnt log turns the spirit into pile of ash.

The tendency to explore, the desire to understand, and the need to sound, predestines you to wonder, to contemplate, and to accept the feeling, for a glass of a whiskey., It is not the glass that makes the whiskey, it is the journey from the field to the bottle., You prepare a fermentation set, out of the nicest and strongest wood, you throw in grounded corn; rye and malted barley, then add some yeast, brown sugar and hot water., The fermentation gives off a strong odour, but you love it., You keep it in the basement, away from the sun., You keep it at 34 C, To favour the yeast., After three days of the fermentation, you separate the pulp from the juice., You assemble your distillation set, distillation flask; burner; condensation pipe, thermometer; collection flask., you got 100 litres of fermented corn; rye; malted barley, you got same sized whiskey barrel, but the volume of the distillation flask, is 2 litres., The distilling is a slow process., The thermometer shows 80 C, ethanol is sliding down the condensation pipe, you watch every drip., First batch is ready, your chest is tingling., You pick the shiniest glass, give it the unnecessary wipe, include a few ice cubes, and pour it in., You feel the connection with the glass, with the basement, and yourself., You are in a sacred place, your whiskey is on the table, you take it in your palm, you smell it., It is the finest drink, thirty seconds old., It tastes like distilled port wine, just super strong, emphasized with a subtle flavour of the brown sugar., The Drink with The Journey., ** The End **


Foreword


Corn and Happy Calves

-
by Charles The Man

A few months ago, I drove a thousand miles through the European greenery and saw the environment changing as I was approaching the Czech Republic from the west.

Closer to the English Channel, the woodland was scarce and the grass grew short. The views were opened as the land was mostly flat.

On the approach to the Czech Republic the flat land started to rise and fall opening up green sceneries and areas covered with trees. Deciduous or coniferous; tall and thick. The grass grew tall and fields were populated with corn or happy calves.

It was a journey from Edinburgh to Karlovy Vary, the place of my origins. A kind of time travel from the present moment a decade into the past.

Karlovy Vary is a spa city known for its thermal springs, beautiful well taken care buildings with good architecture and a river going right through it. The city lies among hills. The hills are full of greenery pushing some of the trees high above the level of the buildings' roofs; and in the midst of that me grabbing a beer - nice and foamy, Czech and golden - enjoying the greenery that was kind of dominating the city with its colour and its fertility.

Then the covid caught me up in the middle of planning my next move, the restrictions were put in place which as a result simplified the process of my decision making by eliminating most of the options I had which was a good opportunity to grab more beer [1] and enjoy all the perks of being back home.

It was a very fruitful time filled with new encounters and old relationships revived. It was great to see people I used to work with and to chit chat about how their lives had evolved and to celebrate again with my old palls or to see my school mates I used to purposelessly fight with in the back of the class.

[1] Charles Bukowski