David Remnick, Editor, The New Yorker – The Outsized Life of Muhammad Ali: “Ali, who died Friday, in Phoenix, at the age of seventy-four, was the most fantastical American figure of his era, a self-invented character of such physical wit, political defiance, global fame, and sheer originality that no novelist you might name would dare conceive him. Born Cassius Clay in Jim Crow-era Louisville, Kentucky, he was a skinny, quick-witted kid, the son of a sign painter and a house cleaner, who learned to box at the age of twelve to avenge the indignity of a stolen bicycle, a sixty-dollar red Schwinn that he could not bear to lose….Eventually, Ali became arguably the most famous person on the planet, known as a supreme athlete, an uncanny blend of power, improvisation, and velocity; a master of rhyming prediction and derision; an exemplar and symbol of racial pride; a fighter, a draft resister, an acolyte, a preacher, a separatist, an integrationist, a comedian, an actor, a dancer, a butterfly, a bee, a figure of immense courage.” I met him once, in a quiet area of an office at the law firm where I worked, some 27 years ago. We spoke, to be precise, I listened, carefully, closely, intently as the strength of his speech, although diminished, did not mask the intensity of his focus, the clarity of his beliefs, and the immense resolve he maintained in managing Parkinson’s, his way. I had experienced the impact of early onset Parkinson’s in a family member and it had been devastating. But at that moment, there were no glaring lights, crowds or retinue – just the calm, dignity and indefatigable character that granted me a memory I have recalled and reflected upon since then, often.