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Another anecdote from that period, by painter and writer Wyndam Lewis,
Another anecdote from that period, by painter and writer Wyndam Lewis,
is typical of the uninformed accounts. Like Hemingway, Lewis was an ambitious
is typical of the uninformed accounts. Like Hemingway, Lewis was an ambitious
young writer and a member of the expatriate social circle living in
young writer and a member of the expatriate social circle living in young writer and a member of the expatriate social circle living in Paris in the 1920s. Other members of the group included Joan Miró, James Joyce, and Gertrude Stein. Lewis became a significant enough figure in Hemingway’s life to be mentioned in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway’s memoir of the Paris years written in the late 1950s. In his own writing, Lewis describes what he witnessed one day while visiting the studio of another expatriate, his friend, poet Ezra Pound.
A splendidly built young man, stripped to the waist, and with a
torso of dazzling white, was standing not far from me. He was
tall, handsome and serene, and was repelling with his boxing
gloves—I thought without undue exertion—a hectic assault of
Ezra’s. After a final swing at the dazzling solar plexus (parried effortlessly
by the trousered statue) Pound fell back upon the settee.
The young man was Hemingway. (“Hemingway in Paris”)
From this glowing, almost awe-stricken account, we see that Hemingway
apparently made short work of Pound. However, Ezra Pound has never been
on any boxing writer’s list of “Authors Who Could Have Been a Contender.”
A more accurate title for the list might be “Writers Who Wanted Others to
Believe They Could Have Been a Contender.” Hemingway and Mailer both
belong at the top of this list and their quest to wear the championship belt
deserves additional inquiry beyond this essay.
Mailer was by far the more modest of the two writers in terms of promoting
his own boxing talent. “Never made a cent from it,” he once replied
to an overenthusiastic interviewer who tried to puff up his boxing achievements
(Mailer, “Living a Literary Life”). Mailer may have also done more
actual boxing than Hemingway, though never in any sanctioned amateur or
professional venue. Mailer’s son, Michael, did compete in several Golden
Gloves tournaments and other amateur boxing competitions.
The idea of any writer on the level of Hemingway or Mailer having what
it takes to excel in the professional boxing ring is as absurd as the idea of any
heavyweight champion winning the Pulitzer Prize or the Nobel Prize for Literature.
Gene Tunney and Muhammad Ali are two champions who immediately come to mind as “thinking men’s fighters.” Both studied the style of their opponents and adjusted their strategy accordingly—especially Ali— most brilliantly in his against-the-odds triumph over George Foreman in Zaire. While Ali and Tunney displayed remarkable intelligence in the ring, Ali’s literary output was limited to his sometimes-clever but otherwise childlike poetry. Tunney is given credit for authoring three books: Boxing and
Training, A Man Must Fight, and Arms for Living, although it is unknown
whether they were ghostwritten, as is the case with many books by athletes
(Belfiore).
Tunney, who was the heavyweight champion from 1926 to 1928, actually
did box—briefly—with Hemingway. According to Tunney’s son, some years
after retirement the former heavyweight champion visited the author at his
estate in Cuba. Hemingway cajoled him into sparring, bare-fisted, in
the living room. Through a combination of clumsiness, ineptitude, and alcohol, Hemingway struck Tunney with a low blow, and it hurt. Tunney answered with a punch that would have knocked out and possibly killed Hemingway had Tunney not stopped it just short of the author’s face. “Don’t you ever do that again,” the champion warned, peering down the length of his arm into Hemingway’s eyes. The two remained friends, but in later years when Tunney returned to the finca, Hemingway never again asked
him to spar (Plimpton 65).
Tunney’s most famous nemesis, Jack Dempsey, wisely avoided putting on
the gloves with Hemingway—much to Hemingway’s benefit. During the
Roaring Twenties, for publicity purposes, celebrities such as Douglas Fairbanks
and Al Jolson often sparred a friendly round or two with the heavyweight
champion. The affairs usually ended in smiles, but not always.
Fairbanks apparently adhered to the social contract in his encounter with
the champ. Jolson, though, made the mistake of throwing a hard punch at
Dempsey and for his foolishness was knocked cold as the champion’s trained
reflexes automatically responded with a short effective counterpunch.
Afterward, Dempsey was extremely embarrassed and apologetic. The incident
made him reconsider boxing with amateurs. It may, in fact, have prevented
Hemingway from sustaining a serious injury. In Roger Kahn’s
biography, A Flame of Pure Fire, Dempsey recalls,
“There were a lot of Americans in Paris and I sparred with a couple,
just to be obliging,” Dempsey said. “But there was one fellow
I wouldn’t mix it with. That was Ernest Hemingway. He was
about twenty-five or so and in good shape, and I was getting so
I could read people, or anyway men, pretty well. I had this sense
that Hemingway, who really thought he could box, would come
out of the corner like a madman. To stop him, I would have to
hurt him badly. I didn’t want to do that to Hemingway. That’s
why I never sparred with him.” (qtd. in Gertz)
The most widely-told account of Hemingway in the boxing ring revolves
around his June 1929 Paris sparring match with his friend, fellow writer
Morely Callaghan. F. Scott Fitzgerald served as timekeeper. Several versions
of the story exist. The main details are consistent in both Carlos Baker’s
biography of Hemingway and Morely Callaghan’s memoir, That Summer in
Paris, from which the following summary has been written.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald picked up Callaghan at his apartment on the
way to the American Club, where Hemingway and Callaghan had sparred
several times previously. According to Callaghan, the afternoon began in a
relaxed attitude: before departing, Hemingway lounged for a time at the
apartment, reading a copy of the New York Times Book Review he spotted on
a table. Friction between Hemingway and Fitzgerald over the negative influence
Zelda Fitzgerald was having on Scott had been a source of conflict
between the two men for some time, but on this day Callaghan describes
them as very chummy (Callaghan 211).
Once at the club, Callaghan claims standard three-minute rounds were
agreed upon, along with a one minute rest period between rounds. Fitzgerald
was given the watch and the first round passed uneventfully, save for
Callaghan scoring easily on his bigger, yet slower opponent. Callaghan, four
inches shorter and forty pounds lighter, had trained for a year with good
collegiate boxers, and was able to hit Hemingway almost at will (Callaghan
212).
The second round continued as the first, with Callaghan landing
consistently, drawing a little blood from Hemingway’s nose and mouth.
According to Callaghan, because the two had sparred numerous times,
what was happening was of no surprise or consequence to either of them.
During the second round according to Callaghan and Baker, Hemingway, possibly embarrassed at his poor showing in front of Fitzgerald, made a careless lunge forward without protecting himself. Callaghan dropped him onto his back with a shot to the jaw (Callaghan 213). As Hemingway picked himself up from the canvas, Fitzgerald is reported to have cried, “Oh my God, I let the round go four minutes!” Hemingway
responded, “All right Scott. If you want to see me getting the shit knocked out
of me, just say so. Only don’t say you made a mistake” (Callaghan 214).
It was only then that Callaghan realized the degree of tension that had
been building between the other two writers. Fitzgerald immediately believed
Hemingway thought he had let the round go on deliberately. In reality,
as happens to many people who observe boxing up close for the first
time, Fitzgerald may simply have been mesmerized by the action and forgot
to keep time. Hemingway then left the ring to wash the blood off his face and
by the time he returned appeared to have regained his composure (Callaghan
214).
Callaghan’s version of subsequent events involves one more round of boxing,
followed by Hemingway administering a good-natured boxing lesson
to a bystander. Afterward, the men all adjourned to the Falstaff for drinks.
Callaghan remembers the three of them discussing his novel-in-progress in
a very professional and friendly way. Hemingway seemed in good spirits, but
as a result of this incident his friendship with Callaghan essentially ended
(Callaghan 219).
Hemingway’s version of the afternoon differs. In his letter to Maxwell
Perkins of August 28, a little more than a month after the match, he writes
that he had drunk “several bottles of white Burgundy” at lunch and also “had
a couple of whiskeys enroute” to the sparring session. Rounds were set at one
minute, with two minutes rest, “on account of my condition.” He admits to
Perkins that Callaghan “cut my mouth and mushed up my face in general.”
He credits Callaghan with being a good boxer, who, luckily, “can’t hit hard,
if he could he would have killed me” (Hemingway, Selected Letters 302).While
never admitting to being knocked to the canvas, Hemingway does concede,
“I slipped and went down once.” He later notes that in the last five rounds
he had sweated the alcohol out of his system and came back to out-point or
at least hold his own “with someone who had been beating me all over the
place” (303).
Complicating matters and contributing to Fitzgerald’s upset, Paris journalist
Pierre Loving had secretly sent an embellished account of the incident
to the Denver Post. The Post story was subsequently reported by Isabel Patterson
in the November 24 edition of the New York Herald Tribune. In this
version, following an argument at the Café Dome, “Callaghan knocked Hemingway
out cold” (Meyers 163). Callaghan saw the story and immediately
wrote to Patterson, receiving assurance a correction would be printed. Then,
just prior to the publication of his letter, Callaghan received a cable that was sent
collect and read: “HAVE SEEN STORY IN HERALD TRIBUNE. ERNEST AND I AWAIT YOUR CORRECTION. SCOTT FITZGERALD” (Callaghan 243).
Hemingway initially attributed the story to Callaghan and was infuriated.
He pressured Fitzgerald into sending the cable. Hemingway later found out
that Loving and not Callaghan was the source. He cabled Loving, “Understand
you saw Morley Callaghan knock me cold answer Guaranty Trust
Paris." He received no answer (318).
The incident continued to trouble Fitzgerald. Hemingway wrote to him
about it at length in December of 1929, assuring Fitzgerald he had no ill feelings.
Hemingway repeatedly expressed his belief in Fitzgerald as a man and
writer and in their friendship, writing, “I know you are the soul of honor. I
mean that” (312). Referring to the long round of the previous summer, Hemingway
writes,
Besides if you had let the round go on deliberately—which I know
you did not—I would have not been sore. I knew when it had
gone by the time agreed. It is something that is done habitually
at amateur bouts often. When two boys are really socking each
other around the time keeper gives them an extra ten, fifteen or
thirty seconds, sometimes even a minute to see how things
come out. You seemed so upset that I thought you had done this
and regretted it. But the minute you said you had not I believed
you implicitly . . . You as I say are a man of the greatest honor.
(313)
Callaghan, while exonerated as the originator of the false story, fell forever
out of Hemingway’s circle of friends. According to Callaghan, in February of
1930,Hemingway wrote him a friendly letter stating he felt quite certain that
wearing small gloves he could knock Callaghan out in about five two minute
rounds. Callahan relates, “This belief of his however, wasn’t to be
taken as the unfriendly gesture of a man who was still sore.” Hemingway
qualified the remark as saying he knew he would have to absorb a lot of punishment.
He did want Callaghan to agree that he could knock him out. Callaghan wrote back a “good-humored” letter stating that while he had no objections to Hemingway thinking he could knock him out, since he had never been knocked out it was hard for him to imagine. He never heard from Hemingway again (Callaghan 251).
In subsequent letters to others, Hemingway makes several derisive references
to Callaghan. In 1930, while recovering from a broken arm in Billings
Montana, Hemingway writes to Archibald MacLeish that the surgeon used
kangaroo tendons to tie the bone together, “which ought to help me land
awfully hard on the jaw of Morely Callaghan some day” (Hemingway, Selected
Letters 329). In 1936, writing to poet and critic Ivan Kashkin, Hemingway
remarks that his story “Up in Michigan” had been “re-written by Morely
Callaghan many times in saleable terms” (430).
Writing to Fitzgerald’s biographer Arthur Mizener in 1951, Hemingway
recounts the match that took place twenty-two years earlier. He describes
the first round as going thirteen minutes, an obvious spoof, and recalls at
the end of the round saying to Scott, “You son of a bitch . . . Did you like
what you let happen to your best friend for eight full minutes when all you
had to do was be honest and call time?” He goes on to repeat that he is pretty
sure he could have knocked Callaghan out. “But I did not want to knock
him out,” he writes. “He boxed well He was a promising [sic] writer; and I
liked him” (Hemingway, Selected Letters 716–17). Regardless of the exact details
of the June afternoon in Paris in 1929, those few minutes made an indelible
mark on the lives of all three writers.
Many other stories of Hemingway as boxer have emerged over the years:
his backyard matches with all comers in Key West; his standing offer of $250
to any man on the island of Bimini who could last four rounds in the ring
with him; his claim to novelist and critic Josephine Herbst, among others,
that “My writing is nothing, My boxing is everything” (Callaghan 122). Such
stories—whether true or not—achieved an effect when repeated over the
years to fellow writers and people in publishing who knew nothing about
boxing.
In 1949,Malcolm Cowley, whom Hemingway had deemed “the best critic
working in America” (Baker 464), opened a feature on Hemingway in Life
with the following sentence: “Having ‘liberated’ Paris, set records in boxing,
hunting, fishing, and matrimony, and written the most influential novels of
his time, Ernest Hemingway is finishing a new book and trying to be everybody’s
father.” It is a glorious, eye-catching opening sentence, as long as
the reader does not stop too long to think critically about it. At least Cowley
was gracious enough when referring to Paris to place “liberated” within
quotation marks. As for boxing, the reader might legitimately ask exactly to
which “records” Cowley refers. Not only did Hemingway never set any boxing
records, like Norman Mailer, he never fought in a sanctioned amateur or
professional bout. In other words, Hemingway never had a real fight with a
real fighter.
In addition to associating with many fighters, Hemingway also had a close
relationship with a veteran boxing trainer, George Brown. Based in New
York, Brown was a respected figure in boxing circles. He also reluctantly advised
author George Plimpton in his 1959 tongue-in-cheek challenge of light heavyweight
champion Archie Moore. Plimpton was a friend to both Hemingway and Mailer, but unlike them he harbored no illusions about his fistic talents. Brown, who often sparred with Hemingway, told Plimpton that Papa was a dirty fighter and that Plimpton should not “even fool with him.”
In his 1977 book, Shadow Box, Plimpton provides an entertaining account of
how he talked his way out of just such an encounter at Hemingway’s house
in Cuba. He also tells of the night Hemingway and Mailer almost met, but
did not (Plimpton 74–75). Hemingway visited Brown’s gym to box whenever he passed through New York City during the 1940s and 1950s. A.E. Hotchner, in his memoir Papa
Hemingway, provides the following anecdote, told in Hemingway’s own
words:
“Any time I was in New York I used to work out at George
Brown’s Gym,” he recalled. “I was working out there one time
with George when The New Yorker asked if they could send over
St. Clair McKelway to do a ‘Talk of the Town’ on Hemingway the
Boxer. Well, George and I talked it over and decided McKelway
ought to have some good authentic color for his piece. At the entrance
to George’s place there was a big photo blowup of an Abe
Atell fight, two faces like raw liver, so bloody you couldn’t see the
features. When McKelway shows up I say, ‘See those guys, Mr.
McKelway? They weren’t really trying.’
Then George and I start to work out in the ring. George kept
calling out, ‘Maurice!’ (The ring boy was named Morris.) ‘Maurice!
Mr. Hemingway wants to toughen his feet.’ (I didn’t own
boxing shoes, so boxed in my stocking feet.) ‘Bring down some
pebbles from the roof.’ Morris got some pebbles and sprinkled
them around the ring. McKelway took notes. We boxed a little,
then George yelled, ‘Maurice! Strew some broken glass.’McKelway
is writing a mile a minute. ‘Mr. Brown’ Morris says, ‘we aint’
got no broken glass.’ ‘Then break some,’ George says. Finally we
belted each other a few times for show. McKelway was very impressed.
Don’t know if The New Yorker ever published the piece.”
(Hotchner 92)
The author and the trainer became close friends. While visiting Hemingway
at his home in Cuba, in September of 1955, Brown served as one of three
witnesses when Hemingway hand wrote and signed his last will and testament.
Brown had been brought in to work with Hemingway in an attempt
to help deliver him through one of his increasingly frequent periods of depression.
Brown was one of the few men to whom Hemingway would entrust
his care (Baker 531).
At some time in the 1950s or early 1960s,Hemingway inscribed a 1935 first
edition of Boxing in Art and Literature to Brown, writing “For George from
his pal Ernie.” The anthology includes Hemingway’s most famous boxing
story, “Fifty Grand.” Currently the book is for sale by rare book dealer
Charles Agvent of Mertztown, Pennsylvania, for $20,000 (Agvent).
Brown’s attention and unwavering loyalty earned him the role of confidant
and caretaker in the final years of Hemingway’s life. In 1961,whenHemingway
was released from his second stay at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester
Minnesota, Mary Hemingway summoned George in New York City. Hemingway
had received a series of electroconvulsive treatments for his depression
and delusions and his doctors believed he was improving. Just prior to
discharge,Hemingway wrote an encouraging, articulate, and tender note to
his doctor’s nine-year-old son,who was hospitalized with a heart condition.
The writing seems to originate from a clear and caring mind, as evidenced
from the opening line: “Dear Fritz, I was terribly sorry to hear this morning
in a note from your father that you were laid up in Denver for a few days
more and sped off this note to tell you how much I hope you’ll be feeling
better” (Baker 562).
Mary Hemingway knew otherwise. She had witnessed her husband’s manipulative
behavior many times and knew that Ernest was nowhere near recovery.
He was, in fact, in grave danger. She telephoned Brown in New York
City and he immediately flew to Rochester to drive Ernest and Mary back to
Ketchum, Idaho. Throughout the five-day, 1700-mile drive, Hemingway suffered
from paranoid delusions. He believed the state police were going to
arrest him for having alcohol in the car. He was frightened as to where they
would spend each night. During what must have been a very tense journey,
Brown was instrumental in helping to calm Hemingway’s fears. Finally, they
arrived home in Ketchum. It was a Friday. That Sunday morning, arising at
dawn, before everyone else in the house, Hemingway shot himself in the
front hallway. Brown served as a pallbearer at the funeral (Baker 563).
What did Mailer, who both admired Hemingway and sought to challenge
him as the figurative “Heavyweight Champion of Literature,” think of Hemingway
as a boxer? In “Boxing with Hemingway,” an essay also published
under the title “Punching Papa,”Mailer reveals his impressions. The opening
of the essay leaves no doubt that Mailer immediately understood Hemingway
was a boxing poser. He recounts the naïve Fitzgerald telling Morely
Callaghan prior to the big fall-out that “while Hemingway was probably not
good enough to be heavyweight champion, he was undoubtedly as good as
Young Stribling, the light-heavyweight champion. ‘Look Scott,’ said
Callaghan, ‘Ernest is an amateur. I’m an amateur. All this talk is ridiculous’”
(Mailer, “Boxing” 3).
Mailer’s commentary on the Callaghan story then takes an interesting
turn. Rather than disparaging Hemingway’s bravado and self-mythologizing,
Mailer delivers an insight revealing an empathetic and plausible explanation
for Hemingway’s behavior. Mailer writes, “It is not likely that Hemingway was a brave
man who sought danger for the sake of the sensations it provided him. What is more likely the truth of his long odyssey is that he struggled with his cowardice and against a secret lust to suicide all his life, that his inner life was a nightmare, and he spent his nights wrestling with the gods.” At this point, the reader might think Mailer is poised to deliver the knockout punch. Instead, he concisely articulates the foundation for his immense respect for Hemingway by writing, “There are two kinds of brave men: those who are brave by the grace of nature, and those who are brave by
an act of will. It is the merit of Callaghan’s long anecdote that the second
condition is suggested to be Hemingway’s own” (Mailer, “Boxing” 4).
III. THE FIGHT REVISITED
For literati interested in Mailer’s personal boxing prowess and endeavors, an
obvious question would be how would Norman have fared in the ring
against his chief role model Ernie Hemingway? Let us, in the spirit of Mailer’s
mind, allow our imaginations to take over, making sure, as Mark Twain once
warned, to not let the facts stand in the way of a good story.
The Mailer-Hemingway match would be held at the old smoke-filled
Madison Square Garden. On the morning of the weigh-in, the principles
and their entourages arrive in full force, some swaggering, some staggering
from the previous night’s final training session. Mailer’s at Sugar Ray
Robinson’s bar in Harlem and Hemingway’s at Jack Dempsey’s watering hole
in Manhattan. During the traditional stare-down before stepping onto the
scale, Hemingway condescendingly growls, “Keep your chin down Sonny
Boy. Try not to lead with it like you usually do.” Mailer, undaunted, stares up
at his six-inch taller rival and responds, “Not only can you not hook off the
jab; you can’t even hook off a participle.” In keeping with tradition, both
fighters have to be briefly restrained by their seconds, and cooler heads soon
prevail.
Like Ali in Zaire, Mailer has been tagged a three-to-one underdog by odds
makers. An ugly rumor has been circulating whose source is attributed to the
Hemingway camp, that Mailer being behind on his alimony payments has, like
the protagonist in Hemingway’s classic boxing story Fifty Grand, bet fifty
thousand dollars on himself—to lose.
On the night of the fight, in Hemingway’s corner we find Stanley Ketchel,
the former world champion Ernie admired, chief second A.E. Hotchner, with
Maxwell Perkins serving as cut man. In Mailer’s corner we find
trainer and strategist, the former light heavyweight champion Jose Torres.
Also there, holding the spit bucket and sponge, in tuxedos with towels slung
around their necks, providing what might best be described as moral imperative
and motivation, are George Plimpton, William F. Buckley, Jr., and
Gore Vidal. Zack Clayton, who refereed the Ali-Foreman match Mailer wrote
about in The Fight, is the third man in the ring.
The following account borrows heavily from Mailer’s description of the
Ali-Foreman fight, in which the specter of Hemingway loomed large: one
morning at three a.m., after doing roadwork with Ali along the banks of the
Zaire River, Mailer fantasized about being eaten by the descendants of what
he called “Hemingway’s lions.” What better way to resolve the literary grudge
match than to transpose the writers into the principals of Mailer’s account
of the first round of the “Rumble in the Jungle”?
The bell! Through a long unheard sigh of collective release, Mailer
charged across the ring. He looked as big and determined as Hemingway, so
he held himself as if he posed the true threat. They collided without
meeting, their bodies still five feet apart. Each veered backward like similar
magnetic poles repelling one another forcibly. Then Mailer came forward
again, Hemingway came forward, they circled, they feinted, they moved in
an electric ring, Mailer threw the first punch, a tentative left. It came up
short. Then he drove a lightning-strong right straight as a pole into the
stunned center of Hemingway’s head, the unmistakable thwomp of a high powered
punch. A cry went up. Whatever else happened, Papa had been hit.
No opponent had cracked Ernie this hard in years and no sparring partner
had dared to (Mailer, The Fight 177–78).
The course of subsequent rounds and the outcome of the match are left
to the imagination of the reader. Hopefully the action will be resumed this
evening in a local bar, with friends over drinks, ending in a late-night split
decision or, possibly, a draw.
 
WORKS CITED
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Baker, Carlos. Ernest Hemingway: A Life Story. New York: Scribner’s, 1969. Print.
Belfiore, Michael. “Gene Tunney Biography.” Gene Tunney Biography. Jrank.org, n.d. Web. 5 June
2010.
Callaghan,Morely. That Summer in Paris. New York: Coward-McCann, 1963. Print.
Cetrano, Sal. Telephone interview. 25 May 2007.
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Duggin, Keith. “Two-Fisted Mailer Finally Counted Out.” The Irish Times 17 Nov. 2007: 12. Lexis-
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Gallo, Bill. “Norman Mailer was a True Heavyweight.” New York Daily News. NY Daily News, 19 Nov. 2007.Web. 25 Apr. 2009.
“Gene Tunney—Undefeated Until the End.” Famous Sports Stars. Sports.jrank.org, n.d. Web. 1 June 2010.
Gertz, Stephen J. “Ernest Hemingway: Down for the Count.” Book Patrol. Ed. Michael Lieberman.
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Hotchner, Aaron Edward. Papa Hemingway. New York: Random House, 1966. Print.
Kahn, Roger. A Flame of Pure Fire. San Diego: Harcourt, 2000. Print.
b i l l l o w e n b u r g • 121
Lennon,Michael. “Mailer Boxing Notes.”Message to the author. 10 Aug. 2009. E-mail.
Mailer, Norman. “The Best Move Lies Very Close to theWorst.” Esquire Oct. 1993: 60+. Print.
“Boxing with Hemingway.” The Time of Our Time. New York: Random House, 1998. 3–4.
Print. Rpt. of “Punching Papa: A Review of That Summer in Paris.” Cannibals and Christians.
New York: Dial, 1966. 156–9.
The Fight. Boston: Little, Brown, 1975. Print.
“Living a Literary Life.” Academy of Achievement. Academy of Achievement, 12 June 2004.
Web. 25 Mar. 2009.
“Ten Thousand Words A Minute.” The Presidential Papers. New York: Putnam, 1963. 213–67. Rpt. in
The Time Of Our Time. By Norman Mailer. New York: Random House, 1998. 456–69. Print.
The Time Of Our Time. New York: Random House, 1998. Print.
Meyers, Jeffrey. Hemingway: A Biography. New York: Harper and Row, 1985. Print.
Mills, Hilary.Mailer: A Biography. New York: Empire, 1982. Print.
Plimpton, George. Shadow Box. New York: Lyons & Burford, 1977. Print.
Syed, Matthew. “Heavyweight King of Ring Craft.” The London Times 13 Nov. 2007: 69. LexisNexis Academic. Web. 6 May 2009.
Walker, Bruce. “Stormin’ Norman Loses Last Fight.” Sunday Mail [London] 11 Nov. 2007: n. pag. LexisNexis Academic. Web. 7 May 2009.
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