John Thornton stood over Buck, struggling to control himself, too convulsed with rage to speak. “If you strike that dog again, I’ll kill you,” he at last managed to say in a choking voice

It looks like you managed to build your own pack, anyway, my dear. A parasol protectorate, perhaps one might say.

I no longer have a manager. I can’t be managed.

When I started out, I wanted to be the kind of artist who could play the CMA Music Festival and then turn around and play Bonnaroo, and I’ve managed to do both.

A well-managed plant, I soon learned, is a quiet place. A factory that is “dramatic,” a factory in which the “epic of industry” is unfolded before the visitor’s eyes, is poorly managed. A well-managed factory is boring. Nothing exciting happens in it because the crises have been anticipated and have been converted into routine.

The worker’s effectiveness is determined largely by the way he is being managed.

Time is the scarcest resource and unless it is managed nothing else can be managed.

It was exciting, the pressure was on, not knowing how quick Lewis was going to get you, we managed to hang on at the end.