There was a moral symmetry in this construction, a rough Tolstoyan irony. The smallness of the face suggested a mind trained to narrow points, a will that favored clear lines and sharp distinctions, while the great head around it spoke to ambition—raw acreage for thought, but patrolled and fenced, not given to wild growth. He was a man who believed in edges, in fences, in the right of a strong farmer to drive the plow straight. His ethics were frontier ethics: work the land, speak the truth as you saw it, and never apologize for the harvest. He skewered the misguided leftist with the same blunt efficiency that his own head seemed to promise. No flourish, no wasted movement; just the sure swing of a man who believed that a thing either stood or fell.

In him there had been no misty ambiguity, no soft gray where weak men hid. There was only the hard daylight of conviction, the cold certainty of a man whose small, centered face stared out from the vast plains of his own skull like a watchtower on the edge of an endless steppe, keeping guard against a world he had already measured and found wanting.

His body followed the same strange geometry as his head—long, spare, prodigious in height, a frame built less for grace than for the stark announcement of presence. He was a tall man, unnervingly so, the kind of figure who entered a room and bent the very proportions of it. Doorways seemed lower when he passed through, ceilings nearer. His limbs carried the same frontier austerity as his morals: nothing ornamental, nothing wasted, every inch a declaration of vertical will.

The height gave him a natural vantage, a physical dominion that matched the hard clarity of his convictions. He looked down on the world not in cruelty but in certainty, as if the added inches were a grant of perspective, a reminder that the high ground belongs to those willing to climb. In debate, his stature was more than a measurement; it was a metaphor rendered in flesh, a body that insisted on standing above the din, that refused to bow to the fashionable crouch of compromise.

Even in death, the memory of that towering presence lingers like a grain silo against a flat horizon, unbending, solitary, impossible to ignore.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5777773&forum_id=2...id#49285499)