Closest To Winning Quotes

The closest we can get to “winning” at life is to never give up.

The closest I’d ever got to seeing a naked woman before was black and white cleavage, and then Rosie tossed her clothes in a corner just like they were getting in the way and spun around in the dim light of Number 16, palms up, luminous, laughing, almost close enough to touch. The thought still knocks the wind out of me. I was too young even to know what I wanted to do about her, I just knew nothing in the World, not the Mona Lisa walking through the Grand Canyon with the Holy Grail in one hand and a winning lotto ticket in the other, was ever going to be that beautiful.

When your life is all taking, what need to learn courtship? Carcharos’s passion for Jassi Belnarak deepened and darkened with every sleepless night, but it did not keep him from understanding that neither beneficence nor meek wistfulness would win her honestly. Power would have to do, after all; and I think that for the only time in that bad life, Carcharos may truly have regretted the necessity of forcing his will on another person. The moment can't have lasted long, but I think further that it may have been the closest Carcharos ever came to knowing love.

Conversion of sales Queries is never based on the questions they raise, higher conversion is based on keeping the answer closest to the client’s expectations. Cost is one of the factors, but the winning touch is understanding the vision behind the question and keeping the answer as close as possible.

When it was Jim Jordan’s turn to speak, the Ohio congressman—perhaps Trump’s closest ally in the House—was dismissive of the discussion about the legal process for challenges and recounts. Jordan was not interested in understanding or discussing the rules. He didn’t seem to think the rules mattered. “The only thing that matters,” Jordan said, “is winning.

It wasn’t until Clay felt the sand under his talons and heard the roaring of the dragons in the stands that he realized he hadn’t quite thought this plan through. He had no idea what his fighting skills would be like against an unknown dragon. His mind went blank as the SkyWing guards dropped a hissing IceWing onto the ground opposite him. Did he know anything about IceWings? The sun was high in the sky, and it was much warmer in the arena than up on their prison spires. Clay could see beads of silvery liquid dripping through the IceWing’s glacier-blue scales. Above them, Queen Scarlet smirked from her balcony, with Glory sleeping serenely beside her. The same SkyWing announcer from the day before strutted to the center of the arena and bellowed at the crowd. “After last month’s battle with Blaze’s army, our queen’s dungeons were stuffed with IceWing prisoners of war. Only nine have survived. After two wins, I give you — Fjord of the IceWings!” Fjord lashed his tail and snarled at Clay. “And in this corner, an unusual case — a MudWing, but not one of our allies. No, this dragonet was found hiding under our mountains, protected by the Talons of Peace. Is he one of the dragonets of destiny? Not if he loses this battle!” A murmur of laughter rippled around the seats, but in the closest faces Clay could see expressions of uneasiness and, he thought, concern. He spotted a large MudWing in one of the balconies, frowning down at him. Try to stop this, Clay thought at him, praying hard. Do something! I’m one of you! But the MudWing shifted his gaze away, as if he didn’t want to watch but couldn’t afford to leave. The SkyWing announcer went on. “If these prophesied dragonets are as wonderful and legendary as they’re supposed to be, this should be a showdown to remember. I hope you’re prepared to impress us, dragon of the mud. I present to you … Clay of the MudWings! Claws up, teeth ready! Fight!” Clay

Where all authority has vanished, only a man of the people can establish authority… The deeper the dictator was originally rooted in the broad masses, the better he understands how to treat them psychologically, the less the workers will distrust him, the more supporters he will win among these most energetic ranks of the people. He himself has nothing in common with the mass; like every great man he is all personality… When necessity commands, he does not shrink before bloodshed. Great questions are always decided by blood and iron… In order to reach his goal, he is prepared to trample on his closest friends… The lawgiver proceeds with terrible hardness… As the need arises, he can trample them [the people] with the boots of a grenadier…

truth hit me in that moment. All my life, I’ve been running. Running to the next greatest thing. An adventurer. A thrill seeker. Hungry for more. If things got hard, fight or flight. I would kick and scream for a while, and when that didn’t yield the proper results, I would take flight. It happened in my closest relationships. Including my arguments with Gabe. If I was not able to win or be understood, I’d grow silent and escape. Far away. To a place that allowed me to maintain control. But the silent treatment and hibernation never brought relief; instead, I felt abandoned by my own doing. All alone. By my own choosing. This defense of self-preservation left me on the altar of self-destruction. My greatest fear is feeling trapped—it has followed me all my life.

Amid the wreckage of their relationship there are still friends who feel that the rage and jealousy Diana feels towards her husband is reflection of her innermost desire to win him back. Those observers are in a minority. Most are deeply pessimistic about the future. Oonagh Toffolo notes: “I had great hopes until a year ago, now I have no hope at all. It would need a miracle. It is a great pity that these two people with so much to give to the world can’t give it together.” A similar conclusion has been reached by a friend, who has discussed Diana’s troubles with her at length. She says: “If he had done the work in the early days and forgotten about Camilla, they would have so much more going for them. However they have now reached a point of no return.” The words “there is no hope” are often repeated when friends talk about the Wales’s life together. As one of her closest friends says: “She has conquered all the challenges presented to her within the profession and got her public life down to a fine art. But the central issue is that she is not fulfilled as a woman because she doesn’t have a relationship with her husband.” The continual conflict and suspicion in their private life inevitably colours their public work. Nominally the Prince and Princess are a partnership, in reality they act independently, rather like the managing directors of rival companies. As one former member of the Wales’s Household said: “You very quickly learn to choose whose side you are on--his or hers. There is no middle course. There is a magic line that courtiers can cross once or twice. Cross it too often and you are out. That is not a basis for a stable career.

Suddenly he spotted Gran deep in conversation with Kitty’s closest friend, and relief coursed through him. Gran would squelch the tale at once. And once she tried to quash the gossip, he would win-because he could then threaten to send notice to the papers of his betrothal if she didn’t back down. She’d have no choice but to give up on her scheme. Except…she wasn’t acting as if she meant to squelch it. She was talking to the other woman with great animation. And when she met his gaze from across the room, beaming from ear to ear, he realized in a flash that he’d misunderstood everything. Everything. She hadn’t been bluffing him. All the rot about trying to buy Maria off, the disapproving looks and snide remarks…all along, Gran had been goading him toward what she wanted. God preserve him. With a sickening sense of inevitability, he saw her go to the duchess’s side and whisper a few words, then saw the duchess rise and tap her glass to indicate she had an announcement to make. With a triumphant smile, Gran announced the engagement of her grandson, the Marquess of Stoneville, to Miss Maria Butterfield of Dartmouth, Massachusetts. All eyes turned to him, and the whispers began anew. He couldn’t believe it. How could he have been so blind? He’d lost the battle, maybe even the war.

Of course I’m ready. But are you ready for your part of our agreement?” “Kereseth? Yeah,” she said. “You get us in, we’ll get him out.” “I want it done simultaneously--I don’t want to risk him getting hurt because of what I’m doing,” I said. “He’s hushflower-resistant, so it will require quite a bit to knock him out. And he’s a skilled fighter, so don’t underestimate him.” Teka nodded, slowly. And stared, chewing the inside of her cheek. “What happened? You look all…frantic, or something,” she said. “You guys have a fight?” I didn’t answer. “I don’t get it,” she said. “You’re obviously in love with him, why do you want him gone?” I considered not answering that, either. The feeling of his rough chin scratching my cheek, and his mouth, warm against my skin, haunted me still. He had kissed me. Without prompting, without cunning. I should have been happy, hopeful. But it wasn’t that easy, was it? I had dozens of reasons to give her. Akos was in danger, now that Ryzek had realized he could use him as leverage over me. Eijeh was lost, and maybe Akos would be able to accept that once he was home, with his mother and sister. Akos and I would never be equals, as long as he was Ryzek’s prisoner here, so I had to make sure he was freed. But the one closest to my heart was the reason that came tumbling out. “Being here, it’s…breaking him,” I said. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. “I can’t watch anymore. I won’t.” “Yeah.” Her voice was soft. “Win or lose--you get us in, we’ll get him out. Okay?” “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.

How is he, Amelia?” she finally brought herself to whisper. There was no need for Amelia to ask who “he” was. “Merripen has changed,” she said cautiously, “nearly as much as you and Leo. Cam says what Merripen has accomplished with the estate is no less than astounding. It requires a broad array of skills to direct builders, craftsmen, and groundsmen, and also to repair the tenant farms. And Merripen has done it all. When necessary, he’ll strip off his coat and lend his own back to a task. He’s earned the respect of the workers—they never dare to question his authority.” “I’m not surprised, of course,” Win said, while a bittersweet feeling came over her. “He has always been a very capable man. But when you say he has changed, what do you mean?” “He has become rather … hard.” “Hard-hearted? Stubborn?” “Yes, and remote. He seems to take no satisfaction in his success, nor does he exhibit any real pleasure in life. Oh, he has learned a great deal, and he wields authority effectively, and he dresses better to befit his new position. But oddly, he seems less civilized than ever. I think …” An uncomfortable pause. “Perhaps it may help him to see you again. You were always a good influence.” Win eased her hands away and glowered down at her own lap. “I doubt that. I doubt I have any influence on Merripen whatsoever. He has made his lack of interest very clear.” “Lack of interest?” Amelia repeated, and gave a strange little laugh. “No, Win, I wouldn’t say that at all. Any mention of you earns his closest attention.” “One may judge a man’s feelings by his actions.” Win sighed and rubbed her weary eyes. “At first I was hurt by the way he ignored my letters. Then I was angry. Now I merely feel foolish.

We all know the elementary form of politeness, that of the empty symbolic gesture, a gesture-an offer-which is meant to be rejected. In John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany, after the little boy Owen accidentally kills John's-his best friend's, the narrator's-mother, he is, of course, terribly upset, so, to show how sorry he is, he discreetly delivers to John a gift of the complete collection of color photos of baseball stars, his most precious possession; however, Dan, John's delicate stepfather, tells him that the proper thing to do is to return the gift. What we have here is symbolic exchange at its purest: a gesture made to be rejected; the point, the "magic" of symbolic exchange, is that, although at the end we are where we were at the beginning, the overall result of the operation is not zero but a distinct gain for both parties, the pact of solidarity. And is not something similar part of our everyday mores? When, after being engaged in a fierce competition for a job promotion with my closest friend, I win, the proper thing to do is to offer to withdraw, so that he will get the promotion, and the proper thing for him to do is to reject my offer-in this way, perhaps, our friendship can be saved.... Milly's offer is the very opposite of such an elementary gesture of politeness: although it also is an offer that is meant to be rejected, what makes hers different from the symbolic empty offer is the cruel alternative it imposes on its addressee: I offer you wealth as the supreme proof of my saintly kindness, but if you accept my offer, you will be marked by an indelible stain of guilt and moral corruption; if you do the right thing and reject it, however, you will also not be simply righteous-your very rejection will function as a retroactive admission of your guilt, so whatever Kate and Densher do, the very choice Milly's bequest confronts them with makes them guilty.

It is, in short, the growing conviction that the Negroes cannot win—a conviction with much grounding in experience—which accounts for the new popularity of black power. So far as the ghetto Negro is concerned, this conviction expresses itself in hostility, first toward the people closest to him who have held out the most promise and failed to deliver (Martin Luther King, Roy Wilkins, etc.), then toward those who have proclaimed themselves his friends (the liberals and the labor movement), and finally toward the only oppressors he can see (the local storekeeper and the policeman on the corner). On the leadership level, the conviction that the Negroes cannot win takes other forms, principally the adoption of what I have called a "no-win" policy. Why bother with programs when their enactment results only in sham? Why concern ourselves with the image of the movement when nothing significant has been gained for all the sacrifices made by SNCC and CORE? Why compromise with reluctant white allies when nothing of consequence can be achieved anyway? Why indeed have anything to do with whites at all? On this last point, it is extremely important for white liberals to understand what, one gathers from their references to "racism in reverse," the President and the Vice-President of the United States do not: that there is all the difference in the world between saying, "If you don't want me, I don't want you" (which is what some proponents of black power have in effect been saying), and the statement, "Whatever you do, I don't want you" (which is what racism declares). It is, in other words, both absurd and immoral to equate the despairing response of the victim with the contemptuous assertion of the oppressor. It would, moreover, be tragic if white liberals allowed verbal hostility on the part of Negroes to drive them out of the movement or to curtail their support for civil rights. The issue was injustice before black power became popular, and the issue is still injustice.

When a Single Glance Can Cost a Million Dollars Under conditions of stress, the human body responds in predictable ways: increased heart rate, pupil dilation, perspiration, fine motor tremors, tics. In high-pressure situations, such as negotiating an employment package or being cross-examined under oath, no matter how we might try to play it cool, our bodies give us away. We broadcast our emotional state, just as Marilyn Monroe broadcast her lust for President Kennedy. We each exhibit a unique and consistent pattern of stress signals. For those who know how to read such cues, we’re essentially handing over a dictionary to our body language. Those closest to us probably already recognize a few of our cues, but an expert can take it one step further, and closely predict our actions. Jeff “Happy” Shulman is one such expert. Happy is a world-class poker player. To achieve his impressive winnings, he’s spent much of his life mastering mystique. At the highest level of play, winning depends not merely on skill, experience, statistics, or even luck with the cards, but also on an intimate understanding of human nature. In poker, the truth isn’t written just all over your face. The truth is written all over your body. Drops of Sweat, a Nervous Blink, and Other “Tells” Tournament poker is no longer a game of cards, but a game of interpretation, deception, and self-control. In an interview, Happy says that memorizing and recognizing your opponent’s nuances can be more decisive than luck or skill. Imperceptible gestures can reveal a million dollars’ worth of information. Players call these gestures “tells.” With a tell, a player unintentionally exposes his thoughts and intentions to the rest of the table. The ability to hide one’s tells—and conversely, to read the other players’ tells—offers a distinct advantage. At the amateur level, tells are simpler. Feet and legs are the biggest moving parts of your body, so skittish tapping is a dead giveaway. So is looking at a hand of cards and smiling, or rearranging cards with quivering fingertips. But at the professional level, tells would be almost impossible for you or me to read. Happy spent his career learning how to read these tells. “If you know what the other player is going to do, it’s easier to defend against it.” Like others competing at his level, Happy might prepare for a major tournament by spending hours reviewing tapes of his competitors’ previous games in order to instantly translate their tells during live competition.

And the wraith on the heart monitor looks pensively down at Gately from upside-down and asks does Gately remember the myriad thespian extras on for example his beloved ‘Cheers!,’ not the center-stage Sam and Carla and Nom, but the nameless patrons always at tables, filling out the bar’s crowd, concessions to realism, always relegated to back- and foreground; and always having utterly silent conversations: their faces would animate and mouths would move realistically, but without sound; only the name-stars at the bar itself could audibilize. The wraith says these fractional actors, human scenery, could be seen (but not heard) in most pieces of filmed entertainment. And Gately remembers them, the extras in all public scenes, especially like bar and restaurant scenes, or rather remembers how he doesn’t quite remember them, how it never struck his addled mind as in fact surreal that their mouths moved but nothing emerged, and what a miserable fucking bottom-rung job that must be for an actor, to be sort of human furniture, figurants the wraith says they’re called, these surreally mute background presences whose presence really revealed that the camera, like any eye, has a perceptual corner, a triage of who’s important enough to be seen and heard v. just seen. A term from ballet, originally, figurant, the wraith explains. The wraith pushes his glasses up in the vaguely sniveling way of a kid that’s just got slapped around on the playground and says he personally spent the vast bulk of his own former animate life as pretty much a figurant, furniture at the periphery of the very eyes closest to him, it turned out, and that it’s one heck of a crummy way to try to live. Gately, whose increasing self-pity leaves little room or patience for anybody else’s self-pity, tries to lift his left hand and wiggle his pinkie to indicate the world’s smallest viola playing the theme from The Sorrow and the Pity, but even moving his left arm makes him almost faint. And either the wraith is saying or Gately is realizing that you can’t appreciate the dramatic pathos of a figurant until you realize how completely trapped and encaged he is in his mute peripheral status, because like say for example if one of ‘Cheers!’’s bar’s figurants suddenly decided he couldn’t take it any more and stood up and started shouting and gesturing around wildly in a bid for attention and nonperipheral status on the show, Gately realizes, all that would happen is that one of the audibilizing ‘name’ stars of the show would bolt over from stage-center and apply restraints or the Heineken Maneuver or CPR, figuring the silent gesturing figurant was choking on a beer-nut or something, and that then the whole rest of that episode of ‘Cheers!’ would be about jokes about the name star’s life-saving heroics, or else his fuck-up in applying the Heineken Maneuver to somebody who wasn’t choking on a nut. No way for a figurant to win. No possible voice or focus for the encaged figurant.

This was the greatest day ever. This morning as you walked to school, you saved a child’s life by pulling him out of the way of an oncoming bus. Then you got an A-plus on a huge biology test even though you studied for only forty-five seconds. Then you were named Student of the Millennium in your school. With the award you were given a brand-new sports car, an all-expenses-paid trip to the moon, and a statue of yourself that will grace the courtyard at your school for all eternity. Then you hit the game-winning home run for your school’s baseball team. There happened to be a major-league scout in the stands, and he wants you to be the new cleanup hitter for the New York Yankees. Your starting salary will be eight billion dollars. What a day! It was so good that you went home that night, sat on your bed, and told . . . no one. Of course not! If you had a day like that, you would tell everyone! You’d throw a party for six hundred of your closest friends to announce what happened. Right? Well, becoming a Christian is actually way better than all of those things. The statue and the eight billion dollars will fade away some day. But the decision to follow Jesus will mean something for all eternity.

any CSS rule that is closest to the content wins” over any

the closest I can come to describing what the theater is like. A barbaric free-for-all in which should you ever win, you are for sure going to fall flat on your face or your ass.9

Consider a guess-the-number game in which players must guess a number between 0 and 100. The person whose guess comes closest to two-thirds of the average guess of all contestants wins. That’s it. And imagine there is a prize: the reader who comes closest to the correct answer wins a pair of business-class tickets for a flight between London and New York. The Financial Times actually held this contest in 1997, at the urging of Richard Thaler, a pioneer of behavioral economics. If I were reading the Financial Times in 1997, how would I win those tickets? I might start by thinking that because anyone can guess anything between 0 and 100 the guesses will be scattered randomly. That would make the average guess 50. And two-thirds of 50 is 33. So I should guess 33. At this point, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. I’m sure I’ve nailed it. But before I say “final answer,” I pause, think about the other contestants, and it dawns on me that they went through the same thought process as I did. Which means they all guessed 33 too. Which means the average guess is not 50. It’s 33. And two-thirds of 33 is 22. So my first conclusion was actually wrong. I should guess 22. Now I’m feeling very clever indeed. But wait! The other contestants also thought about the other contestants, just as I did. Which means they would have all guessed 22. Which means the average guess is actually 22. And two-thirds of 22 is about 15. So I should … See where this is going? Because the contestants are aware of each other, and aware that they are aware, the number is going to keep shrinking until it hits the point where it can no longer shrink. That point is 0. So that’s my final answer. And I will surely win. My logic is airtight. And I happen to be one of those highly educated people who is familiar with game theory, so I know 0 is called the Nash equilibrium solution. QED. The only question is who will come with me to London. Guess what? I’m wrong. In the actual contest, some people did guess 0, but not many, and 0 was not the right answer. It wasn’t even close to right. The average guess of all the contestants was 18.91, so the winning guess was 13. How did I get this so wrong? It wasn’t my logic, which was sound. I failed because I only looked at the problem from one perspective—the perspective of logic. Who are the other contestants? Are they all the sort of people who would think about this carefully, spot the logic, and pursue it relentlessly to the final answer of 0?

It’s the habit of process change—the undertaking of numerous, sustained changes over time—that counts. So often leaders try to change a business overnight by taking a single, bold action. Process improvement is less dramatic and glamorous than that. It’s a change in mind-set and operational norms that takes months or even years to establish, and that yields incremental, accumulated gains years into the future (remember that the compounding effect of 3 percent versus 1 percent annual productivity is huge over time). Process improvement is also about yielding some of your authority as a leader and empowering others closest to the action to improve the real work, incrementally, day after day. Their insights, judgments, and decisions large and small, compounded over a period of years, move the organization forward.

Trump fancied himself a world leader like Putin—a man who saw what he wanted and took it, and yet remained beloved by the Russian people. If only Trump could win, then Putin would be his closest friend. Had he not already promised assistance? Yes. His oligarch emissaries, like Konstantin Rykov, had been assisting since the night in 2012 after the reelection of President Barack Obama. That same night Trump demanded in a Twitter message, a tweet, that Americans take to the streets in protest! How could Obama win a second election? Rykov had been watching Trump’s Twitter feed and said in a private message that if he wanted to run for president “Russia will help you.

Discipline carried over into Eisenhower’s approach to the economy and defense. A champion of the free market, Ike told Americans that prosperity would come only to those who worked hard and made sacrifices; the government would do no more than clear a path so that individual Americans could demonstrate their God-given talents. It is no accident that Eisenhower’s closest friends were self-made millionaires who, like him, had started out in life with little. He also told Americans they needed discipline to wage and win the cold war. From his first inaugural to his Farewell Address, he insisted that to prevail in the struggle against global communism, Americans needed to demonstrate vigilance and steadfast purpose. They needed to pay taxes, serve in the military, and rally to the defense of their country. They needed to spend wisely on defense so as not to jeopardize the health of the economy or trigger inflation. Most significant, he believed, the American system could endure only if citizens willingly imposed self-discipline and prepared themselves to bear the common burden of defending free government. Americans like to think of themselves as the inheritors of Athenian democracy, but Eisenhower, a soldier-statesman who believed his nation faced a dire threat from a hostile ideology, also drew inspiration from the martial virtues of Sparta.16

The two men stared at each other. “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him,” Myron said. “Then you really don’t know me.” A horse whinnied. Win turned and looked at the magnificent animal. Something strange came across his face, a look of loss. “What did she do to you, Win?” Win kept staring. They both knew whom Myron was talking about. “What did she do to make you hate so much?” “Don’t engage in too much hyperbole, Myron. I am not that simple. My mother is not solely responsible for shaping me. A man is not made up of one incident, and I am a far cry from crazy, as you suggested earlier. Like any other human being, I choose my battles. I battle quite a bit—more than most—and usually on the right side. I battled for Billy Waters and Tyrone Duffy. But I do not wish to battle for the Coldrens. That is my choice. You, as my closest friend, should respect that. You should not try to prod or guilt me into a battle I do not wish to fight.” Myron

If you remove the negative people from your life, God will bring positive people into it. Is your inner circle of friends holding you back? Are those closest to you with you but not for you? If you find that it takes constant effort to win their support and encouragement, they likely don’t understand your destiny. The Scripture says, “Do not throw your pearls before swine” (Matthew 7:6 NASB). You could say your pearl is your gift, your personality. It’s who you are. When you get around true friends, people who really believe in you, they won’t be jealous of your gifts. They won’t constantly question who you are. They won’t try to talk you out of your dreams. It will be just the opposite. They’ll help you polish your pearl. They’ll give you ideas. They’ll connect you with people they know. They’ll help push you further along. Do not waste time with people who don’t value your gifts or appreciate what you have to offer. That’s casting your pearl before swine. Those closest to you should celebrate who you are and be happy when you succeed. They should believe the very best of you. If that doesn’t describe those in your inner circle, move them out. You can be nice. You can still be friends from a distance. But your time is too valuable to spend with people who are not 100 percent for you. It’s not the quantity of friends that’s important; it’s the quality of friends.

We don’t do superstars in our Tough Mudder world—but if we were to, it would be hard to ignore the claims of Amelia Boone, an athlete who now features regularly on the cover of Runner’s World and who has been the women’s champion at World’s Toughest three times. An in-house lawyer for Apple in Silicon Valley, Amelia is among the only competitors to keep running for twenty-four hours in the desert without a rest. She keeps coming back not for the glory of “winning” but because, she says, “you will never find a race like World’s Toughest Mudder—where you are technically running against other people but where you will still see the leader out there stopping to help people up over walls or out of the water. It is just this unwritten rule; no one questions it, that is how it is.” Amelia studied social anthropology before she became a lawyer, with an interest in the way that social norms and gossip were used by indigenous tribes to create and maintain healthy and coherent cultures. Tough Mudder, she suggests, is the closest she has come to seeing that tribal spirit in action in the contemporary world. “If I am out for a run and I see someone wearing a Tough Mudder headband or T-Shirt, there is always a big smile and a nod of recognition between us,” she says, as if she is speaking of a pair of Yanomami natives coming across each other on a forest trail. It’s a nod, she suggests, that communicates a great many things—not only shared philosophies and kinship but also the recognition that “I may well have pushed your wet ass over a wall at some point last year.

In my work,” Everett says, “in mergers and amalgamations, we’re seeing a real boom. LBOs are still the cornerstone of the business, obviously, but the increase in global capital flows is translating to even more revenue. It’s an exciting time. And there’s real security there. We work hard, and there’s a measurable gain, or, yes, occasionally, a loss, but at the end of the day, win or lose, we can all look at the same numbers and acknowledge we’ve accomplished something. It’s real, you know what I mean?” I nod vigorously, to show her I agree, but honestly, Everett’s world doesn’t sound like a more measurable one than mine at all, and the closest I can come to picturing what she’s talking about is imagining numbers dancing around gaily on a computer screen while giant piles of cartoon cash rain down from the ceiling at the end of each day. My mind began to wander somewhere around “LBOs.

Bob Bigelow has also revealed that the DIA scientist told him that what shocked him at the ranch was an incident where a three-dimensional object suddenly materialised in front of him, which looked like the triangular metallic ‘bent bell’ cover art on the front of the Mike Oldfield album Tubular Bells. ‘That’s the closest thing I can come to as to what the structure of this looked like,’ Bigelow says he was told.

This whole race is set up to mimic some twisted fairy tale. The queen is supposed to be the best among us: the smartest, the most beautiful, the worthiest. But the people who win are rarely the people who deserve it. Like with any monarchy, they're just the closest to the top. You don't earn queen; you inherit it.

On the ball field, a twelve-year-old might care about nothing but winning. And not just winning, but beating the opposition. He’ll impugn the referee’s motives, stomp on toes, and hold nothing back in order to win. That same kid doesn’t care at all about being at the top of his class, but he cares a lot about who sits next to him on the bus. In the jazz band, someone is keeping track of how many solos he gets, and someone else wants to be sure she’s helping keep the group in sync. The people you’re seeking to serve in this moment: What are they measuring? If you want to market to someone who measures dominion or affiliation, you’ll need to be aware of what’s being measured and why. “Who eats first” and “who sits closest to the emperor” are questions that persist to this day. Both are status questions. One involves dominion; the other involves affiliation.

had to pull back the string to get the right range. By noon, I felt ready to test my skills out on a live target. “You guys ready for this?” I asked my animal audience. “Witness the master at work!” As a vote of no confidence, they continued to graze with their backsides to me. “Just wait,” I said, walking out to the beach. “One calamari entrée comin’ right up!” I spotted the closest squid about a dozen or so blocks out to sea, drew back the bowstring, and took careful aim. WHP whistled the arrow, streaking in a shallow arc. “Ha!” I cried, as the missile struck its target. I watched the squid flash red, vanish in a puff of smoke, turn into a small black organ-looking thing, and then sink right out of sight. I won’t tell you the word I shouted. I’m not proud of it, but I should win some kind of prize for making one syllable last a good five seconds. “Frrph,” snorted Moo from behind my back as if to say, “What were you thinking? How did you not have a recovery plan?” “I don’t know,” I said, only now seeing solutions. “I should have tied something to the arrow, or found a way to make a net or…or even waited till a squid was closer to shore! But why didn’t I think of it till now?” I started pacing. “Idiot!” I grunted, wishing this world would let me hit myself. “Stupid, stupid idiot!” “Moo!” interrupted my stern friend, forcing me to stop and face her. “You’re right,” I said. “When looking for solutions, beating yourself up isn’t one.” “Moo,” replied the cow, as if to say, “That’s better.” “I know I’m not an idiot,” I said, calmly raising my hands, “but something is wrong with me, like my brain’s only working part-time.” I started pacing again, more out of contemplation than anger. “It’s not like panic or hunger. It’s something new. Well, not new, actually. I’ve felt it coming on for a while, but now that I’m well-fed and not scared out of my wits, I can see this mental mud for what it is.” I could feel anxiety rising, the last thing I needed right now. “Any ideas?” I asked the animals. “Any hints about what’s causing

I will never forget that day. It was in Europe, what... seven years ago now? It was molecular gastronomy's most prestigious international competition. As famous name after famous name received their awards... ... imagine my shock when I saw a young girl less than ten years of age step forward to receive one of her own!" "Cooking is art. The more it is honed, the more beautiful and elegant the result. I look forward to showing you all... the beautiful worlds the art of cooking can create." She went on to receive almost all the awards there were to win. By the time she was ten years old, she had successfully obtained forty-five patents and was contracted with over twenty different restaurants for research into new menu items. She is heaven's gift to molecular gastronomy, a certified genius! Of all the first-year students in the institute, no one can refute that she is the one closest to being named to the Council of Ten!

Whoever who prepares and wishes to win a war must make books his first and closest ally.

Here I am counting my blessings, wins and successes, while the closest people to me are counting my trials, losses and curses. Same book, different page. It be your own family.

I’m not a philosopher, but I know that worth isn’t found in a sword or the skill to wield it. Worthiness comes from the heart, from courage in the face of adversity, from fighting a battle you know you can’t win with dignity.” He looked at the pressed grass where he had fallen. “Sometimes you fight and lose because you must. Doing so is right and good and worth it. I learned that from Master Rawlings, the closest thing I had to a real father.

Instead, Wambach planted her feet and jumped straight up into the air, thrusting her head toward the ball. She beat Andréia to the ball and snapped it toward the goal. Wambach’s eyes were closed, but the sound of the ball rattling the back of the net was unmistakable. Goal, USA. The score: 2–2. “OH, CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?!” ESPN announcer Ian Darke shouted at the top of his lungs to American viewers through their TV sets. “ABBY WAMBACH HAS SAVED THE USA’S LIFE IN THIS WORLD CUP!” Wambach ran over to the corner flag and slid, releasing a primal scream. The players closest to her—Tobin Heath and Alex Morgan—hugged her first. Kelley O’Hara leapt off the bench and raced over to Wambach, and everyone else soon followed. Rapinoe fist-pumped furiously and pounded on her chest. It was perhaps the most exhilarating moment in the national team’s history—perhaps it could rival the 1999 World Cup win, which had fittingly happened exactly 12 years earlier. Either way, coming after 121 minutes and 19 seconds, it was the latest goal in World Cup history—men’s or women’s—and it was a thrilling boost for the Americans. There was no way they were going to lose to Brazil on penalty kicks now.

It’s very common for the person who gets paid the most to have their opinion matter the most. Sometimes that is merited—a high-level leader may have purview or wisdom that the team can and should learn from. But sometimes it’s the young people, the folks just out of school, who are closest to the technology trends and have their hands on the new stuff, who have the best ideas.

I have never really understood our gene-father's obsession with martial glory. It always seemed to me more efficient to simply eradicate our foes from orbit. Pound the earth flat and build over the ashes. And if they dig in? There are ways. Saboteurs, chemical weapons - there are hundreds of ways of dismantling a world and its population that do not involve orbital insertions and glorious advances into the teeth of enemy fire. Perhaps I overestimate the intelligence of our species. Perhaps we are little more than psychopathic apes, driven to fashion clubs and smash out the brains of our closest neighbours. And here I thought you were the clever one. I figured that out the day of my culling, when my family forced my cousins and me to fight for the honour of joining the Third. War as you describe it would be little more than pest control. What is there for the gods to feed on? Where is the desire for victory, the savagery, the hope and despair? Where is the entertainment? I believe you have made my point for me. No, you are not listening. On my pilgrimage, I learned much. Win or lose, the gods feast on our deeds. A man pets a stray, and his small pleasure in the kindness of the act feeds Slaanesh. A woman strikes her crying child, and that awful moment of elation she feels feeds Khorne. A Munitorum drone considers suicide. Nurgle grows fat on his despair. A merciful strategist devises a plan for bloodless victory, and Tzeentch is content. The Word Bearers believe the gods crave worship. But the gods care for nothing save filling their bellies with our sorrows. Intentionally or not, we are all meat for the beast. Even you, Fabius.

Triggers occupy the space between your growth area and somebody else’s—you could work on controlling your reactions, but the other person could also benefit from hearing your feedback. To figure out what your triggers are, ask yourself the following questions: When was the last time someone said something that annoyed me more than it did others around me? Why did I feel so strongly about it? What would my closest friends say my pet peeves are? Who have I met that I’ve immediately been wary of? What made me feel that way? What’s an example of a time when I’ve overreacted and later regretted it? What made me so worked up in that moment? Knowing what lifts you up or brings you down is enormously valuable. Like how athletes have structured diet and exercise regimens to keep them competing in peak condition, the work you do to help yourself operate at your best will lead to many more winning days on the job.

[Winning in] India is essential. For GE, winning with India requires a new business model, one in which we are “local” in every sense of the word. That means migrating P&L responsibility and major business functions [like R&D, manufacturing and marketing] from a centralized headquarters to an experienced in-country team that is closest to the action and uniquely in touch with local customers and capabilities. Shifting power to where the growth is, putting more resources, more people and more products in the country, and integrating all elements of the GE product and services pipeline makes good business sense. This new One GE in India approach will speed progress. With an integrated team, we can develop products and services designed specifically to meet local needs and, potentially, for export to other markets. Since we’ve changed the model in India to align with the market more directly, there’s great excitement. It gives us entirely new opportunities to develop more products at more price points. This will help open up access to large, underserved markets in India, China, Brazil, and Africa while also fueling innovation that opens a door into new markets in the more developed regions of the world. The establishment of a new business model in India is an important step and I am eager to see it take off.

RULES TO TEACH YOUR SON 1. Never shake a man’s hand sitting down. 2. Don’t enter a pool by the stairs. 3. The man at the BBQ Grill is the closest thing to a king. 4. In a negotiation, never make the first offer. 5. Request the late check-out. 6. When entrusted with a secret, keep it. 7. Hold your heroes to a higher standard. 8. Return a borrowed car with a full tank of gas. 9. Play with passion or don’t play at all… 10. When shaking hands, grip firmly and look them in the eye. 11. Don’t let a wishbone grow where a backbone should be. 12. If you need music on the beach, you’re missing the point. 13. Carry two handkerchiefs. The one in your back pocket is for you. The one in your breast pocket is for her. 14. You marry the girl, you marry her family. 15. Be like a duck. Remain calm on the surface and paddle like crazy underneath. 16. Experience the serenity of traveling alone. 17. Never be afraid to ask out the best looking girl in the room. 18. Never turn down a breath mint. 19. A sport coat is worth 1000 words. 20. Try writing your own eulogy. Never stop revising. 21. Thank a veteran. Then make it up to him. 22. Eat lunch with the new kid. 23. After writing an angry email, read it carefully. Then delete it. 24. Ask your mom to play. She won’t let you win. 25. Manners maketh the man. 26. Give credit. Take the blame. 27. Stand up to Bullies. Protect those bullied. 28. Write down your dreams. 29. Take time to snuggle your pets, they love you so much and are always happy to see you. 30. Be confident and humble at the same time. 31. If ever in doubt, remember whose son you are and REFUSE to just be ordinary! 32. In all things, give glory to God.

No matter how highly placed they were, they were still officials, their views were well established and well known, famous. It could have rained frogs over Tan Son Nhut and they wouldn’t have been upset; Cam Ranh Bay could have dropped into the South China Sea and they would have found some way to make it sound good for you; the Bo Doi Division (Ho’s Own) could have marched by the American embassy and they would have characterized it as “desperate”—what did even the reporters closest to the Mission Council ever find to write about when they’d finished their interviews? (My own interview with General Westmoreland had been hopelessly awkward. He’d noticed that I was accredited to Esquire and asked me if I planned to be doing “humoristical” pieces. Beyond that, very little was really said. I came away feeling as though I’d just had a conversation with a man who touches a chair and says, “This is a chair,” points to a desk and says, “This is a desk.” I couldn’t think of anything to ask him, and the interview didn’t happen.) I honestly wanted to know what the form was for those interviews, but some of the reporters I’d ask would get very officious, saying something about “Command postures,” and look at me as though I was insane. It was probably the kind of look that I gave one of them when he asked me once what I found to talk about with the grunts all the time, expecting me to confide (I think) that I found them as boring as he did. And just-like-in-the-movies, there were a lot of correspondents who did their work, met their deadlines, filled the most preposterous assignments the best they could and withdrew, watching the war and all its hideous secrets, earning their cynicism the hard way and turning their self-contempt back out again in laughter. If New York wanted to know how the troops felt about the assassination of Robert Kennedy, they’d go out and get it. (“Would you have voted for him?” “Yeah, he was a real good man, a real good man. He was, uh, young.” “Who will you vote for now?” “Wallace, I guess.”) They’d even gather troop reflections on the choice of Paris as the site of the peace talks. (“Paris? I dunno, sure, why not? I mean, they ain’t gonna hold ’em in Hanoi, now are they?”), but they’d know how funny that was, how wasteful, how profane. They knew that, no matter how honestly they worked, their best work would somehow be lost in the wash of news, all the facts, all the Vietnam stories. Conventional journalism could no more reveal this war than conventional firepower could win it, all it could do was take the most profound event of the American decade and turn it into a communications pudding, taking its most obvious, undeniable history and making it into a secret history. And the very best correspondents knew even more than that.

For the prediction of football matches, it is possible to use Bet9ja vip, that is, to provide a data analysis program with as much information as possible and variables that allow a prediction to be made that is closest to the actual result. They are bookmakers, sports television channels, sports newspapers, sections of this area of printed and digital newspapers, and the same soccer teams, who make predictions of football matches and tournaments using Bet9ja vip and analytical programs, through the use of a predictive mathematics that is based on a very extensive menu of data that is processed once obtained. The data used are the variables that combine to define possible outcomes: team history, evaluation and soccer background of each player, statistics of wins and losses, results of teams as visitors and locals, technical, mental and emotional evaluation of each player, figures of results with teams that a team will face, strategies and tactics with which it has won and lost, climatic variables of the places where it is played, characteristics of each stadium including the behaviour of the people, political and economic variables of the countries where a team will play (in case of international games), among others. The combination of these variables makes it possible to predict football matches and tournaments, in particular of a football world cup where 32 teams face each other and where it is possible to apply the stated variables with a margin of error of approximately 20%; that is to say, that the use of Bet9ja vip to predict a Football Tournament has between 70% and 80% probability of hitting. All in all, the variables of a match and an international soccer tournament, the most important on the planet, that is, a World Cup, are so wide and diverse that we are only in conditions -from Bet9ja vip, analysis programs and even Machine Learning- to partially predict them. So to the question: is it possible to predict who will be the World Cup champion? we can answer that not absolutely and safely, and yes in a tendential and approximate manner; that is, if we use the Bet9ja vip correctly to predict each of the matches of the Tournament and predict who will be the champion of the same, we have between 70% and 80% margin to avoid mistakes. Therefore, when placing your bets, even when you rely on Bet9ja vip to perform them, bear in mind that there are variables that cannot be predicted, so there is no science that predicts with complete certainty their behaviour; finally human actions, in particular a game like soccer, are full of surprises and contingencies that we cannot control or predict yet.

The consideration of devil will be the closest angel to God when wins the game.

Evolution as a process is powerful because of its cumulative nature. Richard Dawkins offers a neat way to think about cumulative selection in his wonderful book The Blind Watchmaker. He invites us to consider a monkey trying to type a single line from Hamlet: “Methinks it is like a weasel.” The odds are pretty low for the monkey to get it right. If the monkey is typing at random and there are 27 letters (counting the space bar as a letter), it has a 1 in 27 chance to get the first letter right, a 1 in 27 for the next letter, and so on. So just to get the first three in a row correct are 1/27 multiplied by 1/27 multiplied by 1/27. That is one chance in 19,683. To get all 28 in the sequence, the odds are around 1 in 10,000 million, million, million, million, million, million. But now suppose that we provide a selection mechanism (i.e., a failure test) that is cumulative. Dawkins set up a computer program to do just this. Its first few attempts at getting the phrase is random, just like a monkey. But then the computer scans the various nonsense phrases to see which is closest, however slightly, to the target phrase. It rejects all the others. It then randomly varies the winning phrase, and then scans the new generation. And so on. The winning phrase after the first generation of running the experiment on the computer was: WDLTMNLT DTJBSWIRZREZLMQCO P. After ten generations, by honing in on the phrase closest to the target phrase, and rejecting the others, it was: MDLDMNLS ITJISWHRZREZ MECS P. After twenty generations, it looked like this: MELDINLS IT ISWPRKE Z WECSEL. After thirty generations, the resemblance is visible to the naked eye: METHINGS IT ISWLIKE B WECSEL. By the forty-third generation, the computer got the right phrase. It took only a few moments to get there.

American politics tends to produce a limited emotional range, mostly positive, peppered with indignation. But Trump scrawled across the spectrum: not just anger but rage; love and, yes, hate; fear, a political commonplace, and also vengeance. It didn’t feel political. Politicians have long borrowed from religion the passion and the righteousness, but no other major modern figure had channeled the tension that makes Scripture endure, the desire, the wanting that gives rise to the closest analogue to Trumpism: the prosperity gospel, the American religion of winning.