Golden Ticket Quotes

The happiest people I know are not those who find their golden ticket; they are those who, while in pursuit of worthy goals, discover and treasure the beauty and sweetness of the everyday moments.

Grant me the strength to focus this week, to be mindful and present, to serve with excellence, to be a force of love.

Here we go. Another step. Small, bold steps. That’s how you change. You must take another step.

The happiest people I know are not those who find their golden ticket; they are those who, while in pursuit of worthy goals, discover and treasure the beauty and sweetness of the everyday moments. They are the ones who, thread by daily thread, weave a tapestry of gratitude and wonder throughout their lives. These are they who are truly happy.

Suppose whatever we can recognize we can find. We can if P=NP.

But if you don’t decide what you want in life, you can’t change your course to get it. No goals, no growth. No clarity, no change. I’m sorry.

In life, the path of least resistance is always silence. If you don’t express your feelings and thoughts to others, you don’t have to deal with their reactions to it. You don’t have to feel vulnerable. You don’t risk rejection. But I’ll tell you what: the path of least resistance leads exactly where that ride leads to.” He pointed again to the carts looping around the track. “Nowhere.

You let the themes in your life become your beliefs, and you let those beliefs guide your behaviors.

It was a very beautiful thing, this Golden Ticket, having been made, so it seemed, from a sheet of pure gold hammered out almost to the thinness of paper. On one side of it, printed by some clever method in jet-black letters, was the invitation itself—from Mr. Wonka.

Stripping is not a fair or unbiased career field. Your body and looks are your livelihood. Once those two things go, it’s only a matter of time before you punch your last T and A ticket – and Erica’s stub was wilting faster than a golden wrapped candy bar that would gain her admittance into the chocolate factory.

I always told Hitch that it would have been better to put seats around the set and sell tickets.

There are no Cinderella stories - just hard work, tenacity, and repeat attempts at the golden ticket.

Don’t you dare settle for anything other than the life you want to live. Look at your life. Look at every area. See what you need to stop doing and what you need to start, and do it while you still can, no matter how hard it is.

Books by Roald Dahl The BFG Boy: Tales of Childhood Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator Danny the Champion of the World Dirty Beasts The Enormous Crocodile Esio Trot Fantastic Mr. Fox George’s Marvelous Medicine The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me Going Solo James and the Giant Peach The Magic Finger Matilda The Minpins The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes Skin and Other Stories The Twits The Umbrella Man and Other Stories The Vicar of Nibbleswicke The Witches The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More

It might seem that being a genius is a golden ticket to a life of glamorous soirees with the intellectual elite, champagne flute in hand, arm candy at your side, surrounded by a throng of smiling sycophants. But you might be confusing this scene with the lifestyle of a diplomat

Years have passed, I suppose. I'm not really counting them anymore. But I think of this thing often: Perhaps there is a Golden Age someplace, a Renaissance for me sometime, a special time somewhere, somewhere but a ticket, a visa, a diary-page away. I don't know where or when. Who does? Where are all the rains of yesterday? In the invisible city? Inside me? It is cold and quiet outside and the horizon is infinity. There is no sense of movement. There is no moon, and the stars are very bright, like broken diamonds, all.

Inspiration in the wee hours of the morning is the golden ticket

Inspiration in the wee hours of the morning is the golden ticket

The grass is never greener on the other side. Every author hates their imprint. There are no Cinderella stories- just hard work, tenacity, and repeat attempts at the golden ticket.

There are no Cinderella stories—just hard work, tenacity, and repeat attempts at the golden ticket.

Spencer felt as though he’d stepped into the Willy Wonka chocolate factory and he’d just been given a golden ticket. One that might just help him finally get the girl.

If the golden ticket to sobriety involved hard work and learned information, this beast would be nothing but a faint unpleasant memory.

If you walk in with the cocky attitude, big chances that you will walk out quickly with out golden ticket. It's ok to have confidence, not so ok to be full of yourself.

I have a whole world tucked away in my closet; sepia colored memories of my parents in the eighties, ticket stubs from movies I don’t remember because I was too busy exploring the mouth of a boy I do, and crinkled petals from a golden sunflower that said you still love me. And though you haven’t come back yet, I know you will, because sunflowers never lie. Sunflowers Never Lie

We were all born as a blank canvas, perfectly untouched. Then life happens, and the more you age, the more paint you need. In the end, some of us would escape with our morals, leaving beautiful paint strokes from a tractable life behind on our canvas. But others, like me, will be ending with brushstrokes far too acrimonious to warrant us a ticket through the golden gates of whatever the fuck was waiting on the other side.

The horsewife! The very basebone of the American plethora! The horsewife! Without whom the entire structure of civilian life would crumble! Without the horsewife, the whole raison d'être of our existences would be reduced, in a twinkling, to that brute level of brutality for which we so rightly reproach the filthy animals. Were it not for her enormous purchasing power and the heedless gaiety with which it is exercised, we would still be going around dressed in skins probably, with no big ticket items to fill the empty voids, in our homes and in our hearts. The horsewife! Nut and numen of our intersubjectivity. The horsewife! The chiefest ornament on the golden tree of human suffering!

of different wild flowers and ferns grow.

The Oompa Loompas were hired to replace us, and throw us over the fuck'n factory wall! -Joe Bucket (Grandpa Joe)

Unlike Wonka, we didn't love chocolate enough to stick it in our ass or use it as some sort of alternate form of lubrication. -Joe Bucket (Grandpa Joe)

The ideas, that are currently permeating your mind, are your golden tickets towards a life that you have always desired. These sparks of inspiration aren't a figment of your imagination. In fact, they have been divinely sent to you for very important reasons. Planted in your head like a seed that needs nurturing. This is your sign to pursue what came to your mind while reading this. It is not a coincidence.

Then you clean it up! I’m sick of cleaning it and having you come in and mess it up again,’ Hud would say. ‘I’m not your maid.’ ‘You are, though,’ Jay would say. ‘Just like I’m the fluff and fold around here.’ Jay was in charge of the laundry. He handled his sisters’ underwear and bathing suits with chopsticks, unwilling to touch them whether they were clean or dirty. But Jay quickly became a wiz at stain removal, each mark a puzzle to solve. He threw himself into searching the right combination of liquids that would unlock the dirt from Kit’s soccer shorts. He found the golden ticket by asking an older woman in the laundry aisle what she did to get out grass stains. Turned out it was Fels-Naptha. Worked like a charm. ‘Look at this, motherfucker!’ Jay called out to the rest of the house one day from the garage. ‘Good as fucking new!’ Kit peeked her head in to see her white shorts bright as the sun, unblemished. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can open Riva’s Laundry.

There is a visitor, Countess.” “A visitor?” Mother looks toward the rain-drenched windows. “Who would be out in this mess? Has their car given out?” “No, My Lady. The young woman says her name is Nancy Herald. She apologized for not making an appointment and provided her card. It seems to be a business proposition.” My mother makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand. “I have no interest or time for business propositions. Send her on her way, please.” Stanhope places a business card on the table, bows, and leaves the room. Penny picks it up as she sips her drink, looks it over—and then spits her brandy all over the carpet. “Penelope!” mother yells. My sister stands up, waving the card over her head like Veruca Salt after she got her hands on the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. “Stanhope!” she screams. “Don’t let her leave! She a television producer!” Penny turns to me and in a quieter but urgent voice says, “She’s a television producer.” As if I didn’t hear her the first time. Then she sprints from the room. Or . . . tries to. Halfway to the door, her heel catches on the carpet and she falls flat on her face with an “Ooof.” “Are you all right, Pen?” She pulls herself up, waving her hands. “I’m fine! Or I will be, as long as she doesn’t leave!” The second try’s the charm, and Penelope scurries out of the room as fast as her four-inch heels will take her. My mother shakes her head at my sister’s retreating form. “Too much sugar, that one.” Then she drains her glass.

How far can the airlines go?” replied a clearly irritated TWA spokesman when asked whether his employer planned to make any changes to its boarding procedures. “Restrict everyone from the terminal except those who have a ticket? Stop everyone from entering the airport area except those who

You’re so bright, Trav, and so intuitive about people. And you have … the gift of tenderness. And sympathy. You could be almost anything.” “Of course!” I said, springing to my feet and beginning to pace back and forth through the lounge. “Why didn’t I think of that! Here I am, wasting the golden years on this lousy barge, getting all mixed up with lame-duck women when I could be out there seeking and striving. Who am I to keep from putting my shoulder to the wheel? Why am I not thinking about an estate and how to protect it? Gad, woman, I could be writing a million dollars a year in life insurance. I should be pulling a big oar in the flagship of life. Maybe it isn’t too late yet! Find the little woman, and go for the whole bit. Kiwanis, P.T.A., fund drives, cookouts, a clean desk, and vote the straight ticket, yessiree bob. Then when I become a senior citizen, I can look back upon …” I stopped when I heard the small sound she was making. She sat with her head bowed. I went over and put my fingertips under her chin. I tilted her head up and looked down into her streaming eyes. “Please, don’t,” she whispered. “You’re beginning to bring out the worst in me, woman.” “It was none of my business.” “I will not dispute you.” “But … who did this to you?” “I’ll never know you well enough to try to tell you, Lois.” She tried to smile. “I guess it can’t be any plainer than that.” “And I’m not a tragic figure, no matter how hard you try to make me into one. I’m delighted with myself, woman.” “And you wouldn’t say it that way if you were.” “Spare me the cute insights.

It [the charcuterie] was almost on the corner of the Rue Pirouette and was a joy to behold. It was bright and inviting, with touches of brilliant colour standing out amidst white marble. The signboard, on which the name QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat gilt letter encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued background, was protected by a sheet of glass. On the two side panels of the shop front, similarly painted and under glass, were chubby little Cupids playing in the midst of boars' heads, pork chops, and strings of sausages; and these still lifes, adorned with scrolls and rosettes, had been designed in so pretty and tender a style that the raw meat lying there assumed the reddish tint of raspberry jam. Within this delightful frame, the window display was arranged. It was set out on a bed of fine shavings of blue paper; a few cleverly positioned fern leaves transformed some of the plates into bouquets of flowers fringed with foliage. There were vast quantities of rich, succulent things, things that melted in the mouth. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of rillettes were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some boned hams, nicely rounded, golden with breadcrumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Then came the larger dishes--stuffed Strasbourg tongues, with their red, varnished look, the colour of blood next to the pallor of the sausages and pigs' trotters; strings of black pudding coiled like harmless snakes; andouilles piled up in twos and bursting with health; saucissons in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; pies, hot from the oven, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great cuts of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as crystallized sugar. Towards the back were large tureens in which the meats and minces lay asleep in lakes of solidified fat. Strewn between the various plates and sishes, on the bed of blue shavings, were bottles of relish, sauce, and preserved truffles, pots of foie gras, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. A box of creamy cheeses and one full of snails stuffed with butter and parsley had been dropped in each corner. Finally, at the very top of the display, falling from a bar with sharp prongs, strings of sausages and saveloys hung down symmetrically like the cords and tassels of some opulent tapestry, while behind, threads of caul were stretched out like white lacework. There, on the highest tier of this temple of gluttony, amid the caul and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the alter display was crowned by a small, square fish tank with a little ornamental rockery, in which two goldfish swam in endless circles.

Waste of what?” “Of you! It seems degrading. Forgive me for saying that. I’ve seen those African movies. The lion makes a kill and then clever animals come in and grab something and run. You’re so bright, Trav, and so intuitive about people. And you have … the gift of tenderness. And sympathy. You could be almost anything.” “Of course!” I said, springing to my feet and beginning to pace back and forth through the lounge. “Why didn’t I think of that! Here I am, wasting the golden years on this lousy barge, getting all mixed up with lame-duck women when I could be out there seeking and striving. Who am I to keep from putting my shoulder to the wheel? Why am I not thinking about an estate and how to protect it? Gad, woman, I could be writing a million dollars a year in life insurance. I should be pulling a big oar in the flagship of life. Maybe it isn’t too late yet! Find the little woman, and go for the whole bit. Kiwanis, P.T.A., fund drives, cookouts, a clean desk, and vote the straight ticket, yessiree bob. Then when I become a senior citizen, I can look back upon …

He's no Ciro Lazzari. Honey, in the sweepstakes of the acquisition of handsome men, you got the golden ticket. The man you married is one in a million. But you know that.

All politics seem to offer places like Ebbw Vale is the defeatist idea of 'social mobility', a philosophy in which a golden ticket is available to a lucky few. Those unable to reach the handle of the oar are left to fall through the rotten boat and sink.

using the ticket she purchased for you! She will also try to open some doors for me once we arrive. I am speechless. Beyond words.” She dashed at a tear that had slipped from her eye. “Well, I’ll be,” Hunter said. “That’s pretty nice. That leaves us some time to have a few more shows.” Dichelle laughed. “That is exactly right, my amico. That’s precisely what we will do. A few more golden eggs for the Bright Nugget.” Gabe Garrison rode down the street with a ranch hand from the Broken Horn, a sack tied to the back of his saddle. The two stopped in front of the laundry house, dismounted, and untied the sack. They disappeared

So this is the ride Mary chose as her last?” “Yep,” Crank said. “In the end, love is always the last ride.

I always thought that Jax was my golden ticket to happiness, but I was wrong. There is joy without Jax, and in actuality, there always has been. In all my happy memories, he was there, and I let myself think that he was the reason. But now, I know that he was just along for the ride, just as I was on his roller coaster through life. He was a passenger on my ride, the one I created. I have the choice to live my life with regret or to live it with gratitude, and I’m choosing the latter. I still don’t understand everything that has happened, and maybe I never will. But I know that this isn’t the end for me. I’m not on the downward slide of life at almost twenty-three. Bigger and better things are out there. A smile warms my face as I focus on the full suitcase sitting next to my bedroom door. I leave tomorrow for New York City. I still can’t wrap my mind around that one either. While looking for photography jobs online this summer, I came across an internship at a huge advertising firm, and I applied on a whim. I knew that the competition would be fierce, and the chances of me getting

Hillbilly stepped closer. Now the barrel of his arrow blaster was touching my chest. I couldn't stop my heart from racing. "You're the golden ticket," he replied. "Mr. President don't care about your friends." "No," I said, "he put the bounty on everyone." "Those kids are nothing without you. Orwell wants to lock you up in The Nether. He blames you for everything." SwineBrine appeared behind Captain Hillbilly and the others. He had a laser sword

I listened to my inner desires. I became who I wanted to be because I didn’t get trapped in other peoples ideas of who I should be.

Give a boy twenty thousand dollars and put him in business, and the chances are that he will lose every dollar of it before he is a year older. Like buying a ticket in the lottery; and drawing a prize, it is "easy come, easy go." He does not know the value of it; nothing is worth anything, unless it costs effort. Without self-denial and economy; patience and perseverance, and commencing with capital which you have not earned, you are not sure to succeed in accumulating.

Faith is a golden ticket to the mountaintop. If you are tired of being in the valley, embrace a life of Faith.

Enough of these discouragements Enough of these discouragements, you said. Enough gnawed skulls. Why all these red wet tickets to the pain theatricals? Why these boxfuls of ruin? Whole big-block warehouses full. Why can't you tell about flowers? But I did tell, I answer. Petal by petal, snowdrop and rose unfolding in season, I told them all— the leaf, the stem, the intricate bloom— I praised each one in its turn. I told about sunsets, as well, and silvery dawns, and noons. I told about young men playing their flutes beside pools and young girls dancing. I raised up fountains, golden pears: such gentle miracles. You didn't want them, these pastel flavours. You were bored by them. You wanted the hard news, the blows of hammers, bodies slammed through the air. You wanted weaponry, the glare of sun on metal, the cities toppled, the dust ascending, the leaden thud of judgment. You wanted fire. Despite my singed feathers and this tattered scroll I haul around, I'm not an angel. I'm only a shadow, the shadow of your desires. I'm only a granter of wishes. Now you have yours.

College admission is arbitrary and howlingly unfair. As a matter of fact, it’s a lot like life.

James Baldwin’s words—“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read.

failing in an ambitious undertaking—and delving into the reasons for failing—is far more interesting than succeeding.

Your golden ticket is being able to see things from other people’s point of view. This shift enables heartfelt empathy. It also allows you to persuade others and it is the key to great design. Mastering the view through the eyes of others will unlock so many doors.

When she raised her hand, in the center of her palm, was Cillian’s goodbye to me, his apology scribbled down on my treasured old Bruins ticket. The one that I had destroyed in Japan. Only this ticket had been carefully reconstructed with golden lacquer. My breathing came heavy as I stared at this beautifully patched-up ticket lying in Savannah’s gentle hand.

You're my golden ticket." Golden ticket? I don't think I've ever been referenced as something so... special.

I came out at 32. Married my college sweetheart. Stay-at-home mama to 2 small children. Small town preacher's daughter living in a bubble of privilege she had no idea existed. Playgroups & sippy cups & easy predictability. An eternal restless, seeking edge telling me there was something more. There was that life. It was good. Safe. Stable. Then it was gone. “How did you not know you were queer?” My kids asked me this over the years. Their life in a sex-positive, queer-friendly, liberal utopian bubble made my lack of self-awareness utterly perplexing. It is hard to know a thing when you are given no context for it. You know there is a misfit, something not entirely right. But without options beyond compulsory heterosexuality & with a deep desire for approval, one does what one sees. At least, that is what one does until one no longer can. Being queer was like holding the golden ticket to a club nobody wanted to go to. I had no idea that once I blasted down those closet doors, with their bouncers of fear & religion & internal bias, the club would be lit. The way a party can be when everyone inside finally knows what it means to come home. My queerness is a Tupperware container (thank god) that nobody will ever find a lid for. A box that cannot be closed. The reclamation of wholeness over goodness, transforming the perpetual misfit into one holy hell of a celebration. Owning my queerness was like learning the desert floor was once the bottom of the ocean, meaning the towering 200-year-old saguaro watching over me was somehow born underwater. It is the dogged insistence on coloring outside of every single line. It is the refusal to accept a singular definition that makes the word witch at me finally feel at home in the spaces where words are left behind. My queerness rests its foundation on a ground named freedom. I speak it loudly because I have the freedom to do so without fear of reprisal or harm. I claim this life of mine under the rainbow & the complexity of the history it has given me fiercely. To love a woman in a world that said I must not will never be anything but a revolution. And when I kiss her, trust me, entire galaxies are mine

Being queer was like holding the golden ticket to a club nobody wanted to go to. I had no idea that once I blasted down those closet doors, with their bouncers of fear, religion, and internal bias, the club would be lit. The way a party can be when everyone inside finally knows what it means to come home. My queerness is a Tupperware container (thank god) that nobody will ever find a lid for. A box that cannot be closed. The reclamation of wholeness over goodness, transforming the perpetual misfit into one holy hell of a celebration. Owning my queerness was like learning the desert floor was once the bottom of the ocean, meaning the towering 200-year-old saguaro watching over me was somehow born underwater. It is the dogged insistence on coloring outside of every single line. It is the refusal to accept a singular definition that makes the word witch at me finally feel at home in the spaces where words are left behind. My queerness rests its foundation on a ground named freedom. I speak it loudly because I have the freedom to do so without fear of reprisal or harm. I claim this life of mine under the rainbow and the complexity of the history it has given me fiercely. To love a woman in a world that said I must not will never be anything but a revolution. And when I kiss her, trust me, entire galaxies are mine.

Jack and Jill (Colonial Sonnet) Jack and Jill once went up a hill, to pick the fabled golden fruit. So they trapped some blacks-n-browns, to serve them tireless hand and foot. Jack and Jill had a glorious dream, to make the world imperially great. So they bought some colored folks, to boss around from their noble bed. Jack and Jill were full of themselves, they nicked 'n nicked without repercussion. Like shameless filth then they sold tickets, exhibiting the spoils of their barbarism. Jack and Jill were textbook white trash, not the right idols of civilized society. You cannot unscrew their diabolical screwups, just have the decency to not repeat history.

The lawyer’s stakes at the table turned out to be not even colonial notes of the usual baffling variability, but certificates drawable upon a tobacco warehouse in Virginia, and Smith presented one without much hope, the first time he tried their use as payment. But it was accepted without demur, at fifty-five per centum of face, New-York’s merchants seeming all to maintain within themselves a register of values for every conceivable money-substitute they might encounter. Wampum, tobacco bales, rum by the gallon: it was all money, in a world without money. Between the tobacco tickets and his own pointedly-returned guineas, Smith calculated he now possessed enough to reach Christmas in relative ease – if he could avoid being knocked on the head for spoiling De Lancey’s game against the Governor, or offending in some other role pressed upon him, or falling victim to a misadventure entirely unsuspected.

Diffie and Hellman suggested such a system, but their protocol is not as commonly used as a scheme discovered by three computer scientists, Ronald Rivest, Adi Shamir, and Leonard Adleman, in 1978 and named “RSA” after them.

She was his meal ticket, love. He wasn’t about to kill his golden goose. She held all the power.” My voice grows

She tested the peppermint cocoa. The rich, dark liquid warmed her tongue and put a shine in her green eyes as she swallowed. She sighed. "I would live inside this if I could." "You and Willy Wonka." Anna set her mug in the sink and gathered ingredients for the truffles. Today she thought she'd make a variety filled with dark chocolate, raspberry, peanut butter, or almond cream. "I wish he was real." "I bet you wish you had a golden ticket too," Eli said. Anna looked over her shoulder, and they shared a smile that made her insides feel hot and gooey like the center of a fresh cinnamon bun.

You’re my golden ticket.” Golden ticket? I don’t think I’ve ever been referenced as something so… special.

Samsāra was one name for the wheel of life and death, the stupidity we wander through, lost, until we find enlightenment and get to join with the divine. All the shit that hurts so much. The big things like death and loss and pain and also just the everyday grind of eating and sleeping and wanting and wanting and wanting—that was samsāra. You were supposed to want to get out of it. You were supposed to look for the exit, the golden ticket that could take you to the chocolate factory. Escape from New York. This way to the egress.

People who lived in trailers had an effective rent of $1,500 a month: one $50 ticket per day times thirty days.

What makes you different is your golden ticket.

There is nothing wrong with righteous yearnings— we hope and seek after things that are “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy.”4 The problem comes when we put our happiness on hold as we wait for some future event— our golden ticket—to appear.

As you read on you may have certain expectations, hoping for an intoxicating mixture of insights and truths, or perhaps a new perspective on life that could lead to a personal transformation ‒ a desire to rise above everyday concerns, easing your pain and suffering. Perhaps even a chance to win that elusive golden ticket to Enlightenment. First, you must come to understand as I did that chasing these goals from within the illusion takes you further from them. Such dualistic thinking simply buys into the illusion. There is already a deep peace waiting to be discovered here and now, all that is required is a shift in perspective that allows you to see through the illusion.

I find the idea of a world without meaning terrifying. I studied literature and continue to read indiscriminately and greedily, like I'm sinking and books are a lifeline. Literature provides reassurance that the world is not a meaningless place. It offers a mirror and a shield, a reflection of my own lived experience and a promise that our struggles matter.

The hierarchies of shame in high school are at least as complex and unforgiving as those in an eighteenth-century Puritan hamlet,

Hodge admired Wilder’s performance but didn't want to reproduce it - for practical as well as artistic reasons. ‘I'm working in a different medium,’ he says. ‘I really admire Gene Wilder's version, but his energy - that druggy, transcendental, gently enigmatic thing - is different from what I require to sing huge songs and fill a theatre full of children. There's a different engine powering a big West End musical.

As 30 Rock’s Liz Lemon would say, ‘I want to go to there.

Wilder's Wonka is, as in the book, the embellishment and excitement round the edges - his batty, barmy, nutty, screwy, dippy, dotty, daffy, goofy, beany, buggy, wacky, loony nature dazzling and drawing our attention but, narratively speaking, remaining decoration.

Perhaps it is only someone who has experienced first-hand what family can and should mean who can be so ruthless when they write about those who fall short of producing the ideal for their offspring.

The idea of a child (of whatever age) forgiving a bad parent, and the unthinkableness of a happy ending without it, is very modern and not one that has much to do with Roald's world view at all. It is idealistic and sentimental, and is more concerned with relieving adult anxieties (there is nothing we can do so bad that it cannot ultimately be undone) than entertaining child viewers/readers or slaking their thirst for natural justice.

This book is written for all those who loved Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when they were young, and those who love it now. It's for anyone who wants to know a bit more about how it came to be, how it managed to permeate readers' worlds and the world at large, and how it has endured so happily for fifty years - and counting.

A good children's book teaches the uses of words, the joy of playing with language. Above all, it helps children learn not to be frightened of books. Once they get through a book and enjoy it, they realize that books are something they can cope with. If my books can help children become readers, then I feel I have accomplished something important.

What do you think, Kaarz?” Standing next to him in the recently pressurized but still-cold office annex, Teela knew she was once again being tested. Every time she was around the Old Man, he did that. She’d heard that it took awhile for him to trust you - but once he did you were golden in his eyes. It seemed that everybody worth the salt in their bodies who worked for him wanted him to feel that way. And why shouldn’t they? A missive of recommendation from Stinex, even just a line or two, was worth just about any conceivable torture one could imagine and endure. It was a ticket for the hyperlane that could lead to wealth, fame, and the most desirable thing of all: Freedom. The freedom to design what one wished, to give free rein to one’s artistic expression, to create something that might truly outlast the ages, that might - Teela realized that the Old Man was waiting patiently for an answer to his question.

We were all born as a blank canvas, perfectly untouched. Then life happens, and the more you age, the more paint you need. In the end, some of us would escape with our morals, leaving beautiful paint strokes from a tractable life behind on our canvas. But others, like me, will be ending with brushstrokes far too acrimonious to warrant us a ticket through the golden gates of whatever the fuck was waiting on the other side. No matter how unpleasant our canvas may be at the end, all that mattered was who was willing to gape appreciatively at us.

You’re B2B2C, but don’t lose your mission as you navigate your acronym. The Bs matter, but without the C you have nothing. Now it’s their “Golden Rule”: Our Only Customer Is The Fan. And they make sure the venues and artists believe it, too. They remind them, continually, that if DICE does right by the fans, everything else will follow. The artists, the venues, DICE—they all have one master in the end: the person buying the concert ticket. The human being who just wants to see a great show.

No one wants to hear that you can do all the right things and not get into Harvard, Stanford, Princeton, Caltech, MIT.

Three months after Mara’s overdose, the pear tree in our back yard that has not yielded a single pear for ten years suddenly begins bearing fruit.

We compare our lives to these largely artificial constructs and structure our plans accordingly, hoping to eventually afford a golden ticket to these misleading fantasies. Conveniently tucked out of sight are the months of planning, the “talent” lined up in audition studios toting their head shots, the production crews, the double-parked trucks filled with camera gear, the long spells of unemployment, the weeks of rain that stopped shooting, the food poisoning on location, the empty sets after they leave. Distracted by the never-ending stream of aspirational media, we forfeit our opportunity to define what is meaningful on our own terms.

Don't you know Joe Peck? A little nonsense. Now an then. Is relished by the wisest men.

Johnson commenced his heroic second act as a Los Angeles Laker on January 30, 1996, with the visiting Golden State Warriors in town and tickets being scalped outside the Forum for All-Star Game prices.

We compare our lives to these largely artificial constructs and structure our plans accordingly, hoping to eventually afford a golden ticket to these misleading fantasies.

A resident [of Chukotka] had stuck a flyer on a telegraph pole advertising his flat in exchange for a one-way ticket to Moscow. Unemployment runs at seventy per cent in the surrounding villages.

How’s it going?” I asked him on his way out the door after a session and in his excitement he said a mouthful. “Virry will, thenks,” he said. “I had ivry confidince it would. Just took a moment or two. I utilize a mithodology of my own in this type of situation, I call it Personally Progremmed Power, thet’s PPP for short. It’s a quistion of working with the person stip by stip end slowly increasing silf-confidince, end what I like to call silf-ectualization. Each stip we take down the PPP road will increase the person’s belief in himsilf. We’re will along thet road now. Most diffinitely, yis. Things are will sit. It’s a quistion of giving your frind some tengible ividence, ividence which he can reproduce time after time, of his ibility to take control of his mintal prociss. To be in charge of his physical end imotional reictions. Once he knows he can do thet, he’ll feel confidint to control his ixperience in the outside world. Stip by stip. Thet’s the ticket. What I’m giving him is the ibility to choose how he wants to respond to the folks around him, end stuff thet may heppen now or in the future, end whativer situations may prisint thimsilves. I’m virry optimistic. G’day.

you were so unsuspecting but when i unwrapped you i found a golden ticket

Faith a golden ticket to the mountaintop. If you are tired of being in the valley, embrace a life of faith.

Canon Wallopp is by far the most imposing of the guests. Six feet and clad in fine raiment. A heavy, round red face with roving little eyes. Viewed through the golden glass of the vestibule where we first meet him, wondering where he’s left his ticket of invitation and fuming inwardly because he can’t enter without it, he looks like a dogfish in aspic. Some toady once told him he was the image of Cardinal Wolsey. Later, our friend Inspector Littlejohn is to notice in him a strong resemblance to a casual alcoholic tout who shouts loudly in front of a cheapjack-auctioneer’s shop on the promenade

A college diploma is no longer your golden ticket into DreamJobLand. Your diploma is merely your Pinky Toe in the Door. It’s the small sliver of light and the “Okay, you’ve got one minute.” And what you do with that minute is the difference between crossing into DreamJobLand or traveling back to LivinginYourParentsHouseAgainVille.

May is the month of the cuckoo. . .

June is the month of the foxglove, perhaps the most beautiful of all the wild flowers. The foxglove also gives us a drug called digitalis which is valuable to doctors in treating heart conditions.