Whose wine is it, anyway?

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” asked the elderly gentleman as he surveyed me from behind a pile of books. I looked up and into his dull grey eyes. William James had died at the age of 68. He looked much older though and very tired. I had called upon him at an unearthly or rather deathly hour for some assistance and after a bit of resistance and plenty of hesitation, he had agreed to help. “I have to do this. It's the only way”, I said. He shut the book before him with a thud that sent dust into the air. He coughed slowly and strenuously while I waited for him to say something. “It’s not the only way. But it is a way! The toughest, if I may add.” He drew out a piece of paper from his coat, scribbled across it and handed it to me. “People have journeyed to continents afar" “Also to the moon and Mars”, I added. “So I’ve heard,” he said with a look of disbelief, “but very few embark upon a journey to the center of their mind.” “You did”, I said. "“I tried!”...