Certificate Of Deposit Quotes

In a society in which nearly everybody is dominated by somebody else's mind or by a disembodied mind, it becomes increasingly difficult to learn the truth about the activities of governments and corporations, about the quality or value of products, or about the health of one's own place and economy. In such a society, also, our private economies will depend less and less upon the private ownership of real, usable property, and more and more upon property that is institutional and abstract, beyond individual control, such as money, insurance policies, certificates of deposit, stocks, and shares. And as our private economies become more abstract, the mutual, free helps and pleasures of family and community life will be supplanted by a kind of displaced or placeless citizenship and by commerce with impersonal and self-interested suppliers... Thus, although we are not slaves in name, and cannot be carried to market and sold as somebody else's legal chattels, we are free only within narrow limits. For all our talk about liberation and personal autonomy, there are few choices that we are free to make. What would be the point, for example, if a majority of our people decided to be self-employed? The great enemy of freedom is the alignment of political power with wealth. This alignment destroys the commonwealth - that is, the natural wealth of localities and the local economies of household, neighborhood, and community - and so destroys democracy, of which the commonwealth is the foundation and practical means.

Likewise, investors were delighted to earn 11% on bank certificates of deposit (CDs) in 1980 and are bitterly disappointed to be earning only around 2% in 2003—even though they were losing money after inflation back then but are keeping up with inflation now.

The Noser and the Note The Head Rifler of an insolvent bank, learning that it was about to be visited by the official Noser into Things, placed his own personal note for a large amount among its resources, and, gaily touching his guitar, awaited the inspection.  When the Noser came to the note he asked, “What’s this?” “That,” said the Assistant Pocketer of Deposits, “is one of our liabilities.” “A liability?” exclaimed the Noser.  “Nay, nay, an asset.  That is what you mean, doubtless.” “Therein you err,” the Pocketer explained; “that note was written in the bank with our own pen, ink, and paper, and we have not paid a stationery bill for six months.” “Ah, I see,” the Noser said, thoughtfully; “it is a liability.  May I ask how you expect to meet it?” “With fortitude, please God,” answered the Assistant Pocketer, his eyes to Heaven raising—“with fortitude and a firm reliance on the laxity of the law.” “Enough, enough,” exclaimed the faithful servant of the State, choking with emotion; “here is a certificate of solvency.” “And here is a bottle of ink,” the grateful financier said, slipping it into the other’s pocket; “it is all that we have.

Andy smiled and tapped the side of my head. “Not bad. There’s more up there than marshmallows, I guess. But we took care of the possibility that Jim might die while I was in the slam. The box is in the Peter Stevens name, and once a year the firm of lawyers that served as Jim’s executors sends a check to the Casco to cover the rental of the Stevens box. “Peter Stevens is inside that box, just waiting to get out. His birth certificate, his Social Security card, and his driver’s license. The license is six years out of date because Jim died six years ago, true, but it’s still perfectly renewable for a five-dollar fee. His stock certificates are there, the tax-free municipals, and about eighteen bearer bonds in the amount of ten thousand dollars each.” I whistled. “Peter Stevens is locked in a safe deposit box at the Casco Bank in Portland and Andy Dufresne is locked in a safe deposit box at Shawshank,” he said.

Let’s take a look at the five major asset classes: Alternative assets, which are usually physical assets like fine watches, real estate, collectible cars, art, and jewelry Stocks, which represent ownership of a piece of a publicly traded company Fixed-income investments such as government bonds and deposit certificates Cash, such as dollar bills, and cash equivalents such as savings accounts, retirement accounts, and 401(k)s Futures and other derivatives, which are contracts between two parties agreeing to buy and sell assets, usually commodities like gold, corn, wheat, or cows, at a future date

She studied the airline’s frequent flier statement, detailing dates and points of departure and arrival far different from what she had been led to believe. She found certificates of deposit and money market accounts. For the most part, she was dispassionate,

FMPs usually invest in certificate of deposits (CDs), commercial papers (CPs), money market instruments, corporate bonds and sometimes even in bank fixed deposits. Sometimes

The highest-risk investments include: Futures Commodities Limited partnerships Collectibles Rental real estate Penny stocks (stocks that cost less than $5 per share) Speculative stocks (such as stock in new companies) Foreign stocks from volatile nations “Junk” (or high-yield corporate) bonds Moderate-risk investments include: Growth stocks (companies that reinvest most of their profits to grow the business) Corporate bonds with lower (but still investment-grade) ratings Mutual funds or exchange-traded funds (ETFs) Real estate investment trusts (REITs) Blue chip stocks Limited-risk investments include: Top-rated investment-grade corporate and municipal bonds The lowest-risk investments include: Treasury bills and bonds FDIC-insured bank CDs (certificates of deposit) Money market funds Practicing

The certificate of deposit was more difficult to trace than a check and was the instrument of choice for political bribery.

On a bright day in October 1996, a small, withered woman named Estelle Sapir testified before a US Senate committee investigating Swiss banks and the Holocaust. She had last seen her father through barbed wire in southern France shortly before he went to die in a Polish concentration camp, but before he died he had carefully explained where his assets were. After the war she visited several banks in Britain and France, where they traced the accounts and emptied them for her, without any kerfuffle. She then explained what happened when she went to Switzerland with a Credit Suisse deposit slip from 1938, which she had found among her father’s papers. ‘I saw a young man come out behind,’ she explained, ‘and the first thing he asked me, “Show me the death certificate for your father.” And I answer him, “How can I have a death certificate? I have to go find Himmler, Hitler, Eichmann and Mengele.” And I start to cry. I run out from the bank, into the street. The same day, I go back to the bank, but could not compose myself. Never went back to Switzerland. Never went back to Switzerland. Never.’ Credit Suisse offices around the world turned her away on twenty visits between 1946 and 1957.

Months beforehand I started focusing my Manhattanite efficiency on getting registered in Italy, Andrea leading me by the hand through the wilderness of Old World red tape. The first step was “getting my documents together,” an Italian ritual repeated before every encounter with officialdom. Sticking to a list kindly provided by the Italian Consulate, I collected my birth certificate, passport, high school diploma, college diploma, college transcript, medical school diploma, medical school transcript, certificates of internship and residency, National Board Examination certificates, American Board of Internal Medicine test results, and specialization diploma. Then I got them transfigured into Italian by the one person in New York authorized by the Italian Consulate to crown his translation with an imprimatur. We judiciously gave him a set of our own translations as crib notes, tailored by my husband to match the Rome medical school curriculum. I wrote a cover letter from Andrea’s dictation. It had to be in my own hand, on a folded sheet of double-sized pale yellow ruled Italian paper embossed with a State seal, and had to be addressed “To the Magnificent Rector of the University of Rome.” You have to live in Italy a while to appreciate the theatrical elegance of making every fiddler a Maestro and every teacher a Professoressa; even the most corrupt member of the Italian parliament is by definition Honorable, and every client of a parking lot is by default, for lack of any higher title, a Doctor (“Back up, Dotto’, turn the wheel hard to the left, Dotto’”). There came the proud day in June when I got to deposit the stack of documents in front of a smiling consular official in red nail polish and Armani. After expressing puzzlement that an American doctor would want to move to her country (“You medical people have it so good here”), she Xeroxed my certificates, transcripts, and diplomas, made squiggles on the back to certify the Xeroxes were “authentic copies,” gave me back the originals, and assured me that she’d get things processed zip zip in Italy so that by the time I left for Rome three months later I’d have my Italian license and be ready to get a job. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. When we were about to fly in September and I still hadn’t heard from her, I went to check. Found the Xeroxes piled up on Signora X’s desk right where I’d left them, and the Signora gone for a month’s vacation. Slightly put out, I snatched up the stack to hand-carry over (re-inventing a common expatriate method for avoiding challenges to the efficiency of the Italian mails), prepared to do battle with the system on its own territory.

In Rome, the person in charge of equipollenza, or training equivalency, was located at the Foreign Ministry. I got into that mass of marble by depositing my passport at the front desk, and was escorted through dimly-lit halls wearing a temporary ID badge on my lapel and clutching my little pile of documents. The diminutive official took a glance at my grimy Xeroxes and harrumphed a little laugh through his moustache. The colleague at the New York Consulate had unfortunately gotten several things wrong, he said. First a procedural error: the “authenticating” squiggles on the back of the copies were meaningless. They didn’t even vouch for the accuracy of the photocopying, much less prove the validity of the originals. All the documents would have to be sent back and scattered around the USA for proper authentication, by local Italian consulates. For example, the Italian Consul in Boston had to testify that Harvard was a degree-granting university. Second, the Consular list had omitted a crucial document, the Certificate of Existence in Life. No, the mere observation of me stamping my foot and tearing my hair was not, for the Italian government, sufficient proof that I existed. Yes, a nonexistent person was unlikely to be asking for an Italian medical license, but rules were rules. The Consulate’s final error was a bit of misinformation, bred, perhaps, of tenderheartedness. All these documents couldn’t possibly get me an Italian license. They would merely get me a toehold in the University where they might, at best, be alchemized into an Italian medical degree, but an actual license would be another and rather more difficult question. This was my first lesson in Italian bureaucracy. The Consular official in New York clearly hadn’t had the faintest idea what she was doing and no intention of trying to find out, but she had found me too simpatica to disappoint—a sentiment not strong enough to keep her from abandoning my application to gather dust. By this time various shady sources such as Italian medical professors and representatives of international foundations had suggested an alternative to my quest for the holy grail of doctorly legitimacy: just hang out a shingle and to hell with the license. Unfortunately, I’m such a coward that climbing on a bus without a ticket gives me palpitations, so practicing without a license would be a degree of “transgression” (as the Italians call it) far beyond my talents.

Bankers, not just rouge bankers but all bankers, even the best, the most honourable and the most honest, do things which would land the rest of us in jail. Near my house in France is a large grain silo. After the harvest, farmers deposit grain in it. The silo gives them a certificate for every tonne of grain that they deposit. They can withdraw that amount of grain whenever they want by presenting that certificate. If the silo owner issued more certificates than the grain he kept in the silo, he would go to jail. But that is effectively what bankers do. They keep as reserves only a fraction of the money deposited with them, which is why we call the system the fractional reserve banking system.

Here is an example of a posthypnotic suggestion that has helped hundreds of our trainees excel in cross-over selling additional financial products and services at banks and savings and loans: “Mrs. Jordan, you’ve been able to buy a beautiful home with the mortgage we have provided you. Now, as you run your errands later today, you may be able to think of some other ways our other financial services, such as checking and savings accounts, credit cards, and certificates of deposit, can help you. And, as you think of other ways we can help you, I want you to pick up the phone and call me. OK?

trust fund makes money or not depends on 1.(415-495-9478) (USA) OR (+31) 970 1021 0638 (EU) Europe. the type of asset that is held within that trust. If the trust holds collectables or real estate, it doesn't earn any interest. If the trust fund has assets such as 1.(415-495-9478) (USA) OR (+31) 970 1021 0638 (EU) Europe. CDs (certificates of deposits) or savings accounts, then it will earn interest.