Thunderball (James Bond, #9)

by Ian Fleming

Any man seeing No. 2, for that was the chairman’s number of the month, even for the first time would have looked at him with some degree of the same feelings, for he was one of those men – one meets perhaps only two or three in a lifetime – who seem almost to suck the eyes out of your head. These rare men are apt to possess three basic attributes – their physical appearance is extraordinary, they have a quality of relaxation, of inner certainty, and they exude a powerful animal magnetism. The herd has always recognized the other-worldliness of these phenomena and in primitive tribes you will find that any man singled out by nature in this fashion will also have been chosen by the tribe to be their chief. Certain great men of history, perhaps Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Napoleon, among the politicians, have had these qualities. Perhaps they even explain the hypnotic sway of an altogether more meagre individual, the otherwise inexplicable Adolf Hitler, over eighty million of the most gifted nation in Europe.

Trump?