Dear Mr. Trump,
You don’t know me but I’m Terry Gou, the man who makes your iPhone.
Let me start by congratulating you on the election. Your victory made me consider running for office myself. Next time you talk with the president of Taiwan, it might be me on the other end of the line.
We have a lot in common, you and I. We’re both billionaires (although I am richer), we both like to build things, we’re both married to gorgeous younger women, and we both hate Wall Street.
Had you followed Captain Ahab down into his cabin after the squall that took place on the night succeeding that wild ratification of his purpose with his crew, you would have seen him go to a locker in the transom, and bringing out a large wrinkled roll of yellowish sea charts, spread them before him on his screwed-down table. Then seating himself before it, you would have seen him intently study the various lines and shadings which there met his eye; and with slow but steady pencil trace additional courses over spaces that before were blank. At intervals, he would refer to piles of old log-books beside him, wherein were set down the seasons and places in which, on various former voyages of various ships, sperm whales had been captured or seen.