Even so, he did not cut a particularly striking figure. He rarely did. Early in his rise it was easy for those who met him for the first time to dismiss him as a nonentity. He came from plebeian roots and had failed to distinguish himself in any way, not in war, not in work, not in art, though in this last domain he believed himself to have great talent. He was sad to be indolent. He rose late, worked little, and surrounded himself with the lesser lights of the party with whom he felt most comfortable, an entourage of middle-brow souls ... consisting of bodyguards, adjutants, and a chauffeur. He loved movies - King Kong was a favorite - and he adored the music of Richard Wagner. He dressed badly. Apart from his mustache and his eyes, the features of his face were instinct and unimpressive, as if begun in clay but never fired. Recalling his first impression of Hitler, Hanfstaengl wrote, "Hitler looked like a suburban hairdresser on his day off."
Page one-hundred fifty-seven of Larson's In the Garden of Beasts