Andrew Ryan Quotes

No Gods Or Kings. Only Man. -Andrew Ryan

A man chooses...a slave obeys.

We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us.

I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No!' says the man in Washington, 'It belongs to the poor.' 'No!' says the man in the Vatican, 'It belongs to God.' 'No!' says the man in Moscow, 'It belongs to everyone.' I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, Where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.

A man must make of his life a ladder that he never ceases to climb -- if you're not rising, you are slipping down the rungs, my friend.

There's two ways to deal with mystery: uncover it, or eliminate it.

I believe in no God, no invisible man in the sky. But there is something more powerful than each of us, a combination of our efforts, a Great Chain of industry that unites us. But it is only when we struggle in our own interest that the chain pulls society in the right direction. The chain is too powerful and too mysterious for any government to guide. Any man who tells you different either has his hand in your pocket, or a pistol to your neck. —Andrew Ryan

Andrew Carnegie famously put it. There’s nothing shameful about sweeping. It’s just another opportunity to excel—and to learn. But you, you’re so busy thinking about the future, you don’t take any pride in the tasks you’re given right now. You just phone it all in, cash your paycheck, and dream of some higher station in life. Or you think, This is just a job, it isn’t who I am, it doesn’t matter. Foolishness. Everything we do matters—whether it’s making smoothies while you save up money or studying for the bar—even after you already achieved the success you sought.

Even in a book of lies sometimes you find truth. There is indeed a season for all things and now that I see you flesh-to-flesh and blood-to-blood I know I cannot raise my hand against you. But know this, you are my greatest disappointment. Does your master hear me? Atlas! You can kill me, but you will never have my city. My strength is not in steel and fire, that is what the parasites will never understand. A season for all things! A time to live and a time to die, a time to build... and a time to destroy!

I’ve always been suspicious of the assumption that great intelligence would be an unqualified benefit— that the madness that so often accompanies it can be cavalierly dismissed. So I asked the question: Suppose there were an entire subpopulation of extreme geniuses, well beyond anything that would occur naturally. What would that really look like?

What?” Andrew asked with a laugh? Jill shook her head. “You always say things that make me feel so special. How do you do that? You know the right thing, just the right thing, to say all the time – even if I didn’t know what I needed to hear until after it was out of your mouth.

No one is going to force you to, but if you don't jump in, you'll always think back on this moment and wish that you had.

Before the final rat has eaten the last gram of you, Rapture will have returned. I will lead a parade. "Who was that," they'll say, as they point to the sad shape hanging on my wall, "who was that?

On the surface," said the deep voice of Andrew Ryan booming from hidden speakers, "The farmer tills the soil, trading the strength off his arm for a land of his own. But the parasites say, 'No! What is yours is ours! We are the state; we are God; we demand our share!

And I'm pretty sure that everyone in the Pacific Northwest heard Ryan Dean West shout, "YOUSTEPPEDONMYFUCKINGNUTSYOUSONOFABITCH!

You two will get along. He’s like you.” “How’s that?” “A big, mean sonovabitch that nobody wants.” Ryan realized what he’d blurted out. His face went white.

A man chooses, a slave obeys

361I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? 'No!' says the man in Washington, 'It belongs to the poor.' 'No!' says the man in the Vatican, 'It belongs to God.' 'No!' says the man in Moscow, 'It belongs to everyone.' I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, Where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.

A few years ago I started an online flirtation with a high school flame, Andy. Things got weird and I called it off and two months later...Versace was dead...dead.

Sometimes I wish I could join them... The fish, I mean. Really, could you imagine? How splendid it would be... to swim among the stars? Sigh.

In his book How God Changes Your Brain, neuroscientist Dr. Andrew B. Newberg documents the physical changes to the brain as a person contemplates God. Dr. Newberg conducted brain scans of people who practiced contemplative forms of focused prayer and meditation, revealing a marked decrease in parietal lobe activity. He observed that the decrease in activity “allows the mediator to feel at one with the object of contemplation: with God, the universe, peacefulness, or any other object upon which he or she focuses.”1

I am Andrew Ryan and I’m here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow? No, says the man in Washington. It belongs to the poor. No, says the man in the Vatican. It belongs to God. No, says the man in Moscow. It belongs to everyone. I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose … Rapture.

show, he’d left for the second hotel

West Street, but the sidewalks were

Growth Hacker Is the New VP [of] Marketing.” What? I was a VP of marketing. I quite liked my job. I was good at it, too. Self-taught, self-made, I was, at twenty-five, helping to lead the efforts of a publicly traded company with 250 stores in twenty countries and more than $600 million in revenue. But the writer, Andrew Chen, an influential technologist and entrepreneur, didn’t care about any of that. According to him, my colleagues and I would soon be out of a job—someone was waiting in the wings to replace us. The new job title of “Growth Hacker” is integrating itself into Silicon Valley’s culture, emphasizing that coding and technical chops are now an essential part

NEW MILFORD, CONNECTICUT

127. Craft a poem about sadness and darkness but using only positive words.

later.

Someone like Andrew Breitbart or Milo Yiannopolous or Charles Johnson doesn't care that you hate them, they like it. It's proof to their followers that they are doing something to talk about. It imbues the whole movement with a sense of urgency and action, it creates purpose and meaning.

I figure the only way we can make it back to the river and our lanterns is if we're a team. Maybe you'd rather be with the other guys from class, or, I don't know, maybe just by yourself—but for now—it's you and me.

Ryan said he’d get Paulson to contact him as soon as he could.

Ten minutes into Ryan’s presentation, Paulson walked in, looking slightly distracted.

Andrew will be here to take care of you,” he finishes. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, baby. I know you’ll be mad, but we’ll get past this. We’ve been through so much together.

Carter felt that pounding the table was pointless. Karin Ryan noticed that her boss had a quality of looking people in the eye and making them think he was their friend. “He can tell you to go to hell, and you think you’ll enjoy the trip,” Andrew Young recalled. “He has the ability to reach for the best in that person—an almost magical power to inspire someone by telling them, ‘You can make history.

We build our most sacred relationships on the battleground where evolved appetites clash with the romantic mythology of monogamous marriage. As Andrew J. Cherlin recounts in The Marriage-Go-Round, this unresolved conflict between what we are and what many wish we were results in “a great turbulence in American family life, a family flux, a coming and going of partners on a scale seen nowhere else.” Cherlin’s research shows that “[t]here are more partners in the personal lives of Americans than in the lives of people of any other Western country.

Mary Kay Andrews, Sunset Beach (St. Martin’s, 5/7)

Oh, you mean abusive? Violent? Psychopathic? Wow. I feel so flattered.” “No, I mean you must be special to him. He’s marrying you.” “We’re not engaged,” I auto-reply. Andrew’s brows bunch, and he tips his head toward my left hand. “Then what’s that on your finger?” I glance down and notice for the first time, my gris-gris ring from MiMi is gone. In its place is the ten-carat diamond.

I…” Ryan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “It was a joke.” “A joke.” Cary stepped forward, backing him up against the closed door.

Machiavelli writes that a conspiracy without any coconspirators is not a conspiracy. It’s just a crime. This is also basic legal principle. If you kill someone by yourself, in the heat of the moment, it’s murder. If you meticulously plan it with someone else beforehand, that’s conspiracy. Lee Harvey Oswald almost certainly assassinated John F. Kennedy by himself. What he hoped would happen as a result is unclear. John Wilkes Booth conspired not only to assassinate Abraham Lincoln, but working with Lewis Powell and George Atzerodt also aimed to assassinate Andrew Johnson and William Seward. It was a coordinated attempt by Confederate sympathizers to usurp the United States government. It’s not simply a single crime, but a crazed, desperate effort to turn back the tide of a lost war. In his definitive book on the subject of strategy, Lawrence Freedman writes that “combining with others often constitutes the most strategic move.” By definition, the first move in the act of a conspiracy is the assemblage of allies and operators: your coconspirators. Someone to do your bidding, to work with you, someone you can trust, who agrees with you that there’s a problem, or is willing to be paid to agree with the sentiment that it’s about time someone, somebody did something about this. Each hand doesn’t need to know what the other is doing, but there needs to be more than one set. Thus, Thiel’s vague idea to do something about Gawker is concretized into conspiracy on April 6, 2011. It began unremarkably, when Thiel traveled to Germany to speak at a conference and had dinner with a student he’d met on a tour of a university a few years before. Peter arrives, driven in a black S-class Mercedes, the same model he has idling outside with a driver, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, wherever he is in the world.

Hugh stared at him. Sweat broke out on Ryan’s forehead. His hands shook, his words tumbling out too fast. “You two will get along. He’s like you.” “How’s that?” “A big, mean sonovabitch that nobody wants.” Ryan realized what he’d blurted out. His face went white. A stunned silence claimed the porch. “I didn’t mean it…” Ryan said. A cold realization rolled over Hugh, smothering all anger. He would take this horse. He had no choice.

Sometimes, on the road to where we are going or where we want to be, we have to do things that we’d rather not do. Often when we are just starting out, our first jobs “introduce us to the broom,” as Andrew Carnegie famously put it. There’s nothing shameful about sweeping. It’s just another opportunity to excel—and to learn.