Aged under flor within breathing distance of the Atlantic, it tastes of sea spray and bread crust. Pour it cold for the long, salty digressions between whale sightings.
Madeira was the wine that rode the holds of 19th-century whaling and trading ships, cooked by tropical heat into something indestructible. Rich, burnt-caramel and nearly immortal, it suits Ahab's undying obsession.
An ocean-sized book about a single fixation, veering from sermon to encyclopedia to fever dream. Brine, whale oil and doom hang in every chapter.
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