Charles Howard had the feel of a gigantic onrushing machine: You had to either climb on or leap out of the way. He would sweep into a room, working a cigarette in his fingers, and people would trail him like pilot fish. They couldn't help themselves. Fifty-eight years old in 1935, Howard was a tall, glowing man in a big suit and a very big Buick. But it wasn't his physical bearing that did it. He lived on a California ranch so huge that a man could take a wrong turn on it and be lost forever, but it wasn't his circumstances either. Nor was it that he spoke loud or long; the surprise of the man was his understatement. What drew people to him was something intangible, an air about him. There was a certain inevitability to Charles Howard, and urgency radiating from him that made people believe that the world was always going to bend to his wishes.
-Laura Hillenbrand, Seabiscuit: An American Legend
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