I learned long ago that being Lewis Carroll was infinitely more exciting than being Alice.

Her problem wasn't she was a dumb blonde, it was she wasn't a blonde and she wasn't dumb.

There are boxers possessed of such remarkable intuition, such uncanny prescience, one would think they were somehow recalling their fights, not fighting them as we watch.

I can entertain the proposition that life is a metaphor for boxing--for one of those bouts that go on and on, round following round, jabs, missed punches, clinches, nothing determined, again the bell and again and you and your opponent so evenly matched it's impossible not to see that your opponent is you.... Life is like boxing in many unsettling respects. But boxing is only like boxing.

On the elusive gift of blending austerity of craft with elasticity of allure.

Our enemy is by tradition our savior, in preventing us from superficiality.

God's blessing is not always to be distinguished from His wrath.