Jackpot Book Quotes

But now it seems clear that literary criticism was inherently doomed. Explicitly or otherwise it had based itself on a structure of echelons and hierarchies; it was about the talent elite. And the structure atomized as soon as the forces of democratization gave their next concerted push. Those forces – incomparably the most potent in our culture – have gone on pushing. And they are now running up against a natural barrier. Some citadels, true, have proved stormable. You can become rich without having any talent (via the scratchcard and the rollover jackpot). You can become famous without having any talent (by abasing yourself on some TV nerdathon; a clear improvement on the older method of simply killing a celebrity and inheriting the aura). But you cannot become talented without having any talent. Therefore, talent must go. Literary criticism, now almost entirely confined to the universities, thus moves against talent by moving against the canon. Academic preferment will not come from a respectful study of Wordsworth’s poetics; it will come from a challenging study of his politics – his attitude toward the poor, say, or his unconscious ‘valorization’ of Napoleon; and it will come still faster if you ignore Wordsworth and elevate some (justly) neglected contemporary, by which process the canon may be quietly and steadily sapped. A brief consultation of the Internet will show that meanwhile, everyone has become a literary critic – or at least, a book-reviewer.

Sociologist Rachel Sherman, who wrote a book called Uneasy Street about the anxieties of wealthy Manhattanites, had one woman nearly cancel their interview because Sherman used the word “affluent” in an outreach email.

But now it seems clear that literary criticism was inherently doomed. Explicitly or otherwise it had based itself on a structure of echelons and hierarchies; it was about the talent elite. And the structure atomized as soon as the forces of democratization gave their next concerted push. Those forces – incomparably the most potent in our culture – have gone on pushing. And they are now running up against a natural barrier. Some citadels, true, have proved stormable. You can become rich without having any talent (via the scratchcard and the rollover jackpot). You can become famous without having any talent (by abasing yourself on some TV nerdathon; a clear improvement on the older method of simply killing a celebrity and inheriting the aura). But you cannot become talented without having any talent. Therefore, talent must go. Literary criticism, now almost entirely confined to the universities, thus moves against talent by moving against the canon. Academic preferment will not come from a respectful study of Wordsworth’s poetics; it will come from a challenging study of his politics – his attitude toward the poor, say, or his unconscious ‘valorization’ of Napoleon; and it will come still faster if you ignore Wordsworth and elevate some (justly) neglected contemporary, by which process the canon may be quietly and steadily sapped. A brief consultation of the Internet will show that meanwhile, everyone has become a literary critic – or at least, a book-reviewer.

The room was small, but as neat as his necktie and as clean as his collar. The fireplace was swept; the floor was bare and polished. Books crowded bookshelves in every possible space. One corner was filled by an elderly flat-top desk; the papers on it were neatly in order. Near it, on its own stand, was a small electric calculator. To her right, french windows gave out on a tiny porch over the garage. Beyond it she could see the sprawling city, where a few neon signs were already blinking.

One life, one death. For all of us. Those are the numbers. I'm going to die and there's no avoiding it. I can go looking for it early by driving smashed out of my skull or swimming with sharks, sure, but staying with you isn't like that. It wouldn't be stupid and reckless and dumb, it wouldn't be me missing out on part of my life and skipping to the middle of the book. It'd just be me finding the guy I love early. It'd me hitting the jackpot. I'm not walking away from a piece of luck like that. I'm not walking away from you.

Before he could answer, it started. It sounded like a murmur, and then someone said it out loud, and the whisper became outright laughter. “Is eht Gaylord?” said a rat-faced boy at the front. The room erupted. “Big Bobby Bender?” said another. Shuggie tried to talk over them. His face burned red. “It’s Shuggie, sir. Hugh Bain. I’m transferred here from Saint Luke’s.” “Listen tae that voice!” said another boy, with tight curly hair. He opened his eyes wide like he had hit the bullying jackpot. “Ere, posh boy. Whaur did ye get that fuckin’ accent? Are ye a wee ballet dancer, or whit?” This went down the best of all. It was a divine inspiration to the others. “Gies a wee dance!” they squealed with laughter. “Twirl for us, ye wee bender!” Shuggie sat there listening to them amuse themselves. He took the red football book and dropped it into the dark drawer of this strange school desk. He was glad, at least, to be done with that. It was clear now: nobody would get to be made brand new.

You could me practice. They wouldn't have to know." I don't even feel like practicing. I just seems I should get in the water on principal, since Galen told me not to. And especially since he left me with a babysitter. She throws me a sideways glare. "Fat Lips would know. He can sense me from anywhere, remember? An he'd snitch to Galen. He would know something's wrong if you and me got in without my brother." I shrug. "Since when do you care about getting in trouble?" "Since never. But Galen said if I kept you out of the water, he'd teach me how to drive his car." Jackpot. "I happen to know how to drive. I could teach you." "Galen said I wasn't allowed to ask you, or the deal's off." "You didn't ask me. I offered." She nods, biting her lip. "That's true. You did." I set the book on the ugly glass coffee table and squat next to her. "I'll teach you how to drive if you let me get in the water. You don't even have to get in." The way she raises her brow reminds me of Galen. "You're wasting your time trying to change if you ask me. You're half human. You probably don't even have a fin in there." "What do you know about the half-breeds?" She shrugs. "Not much. Enough to know that if you're one of them, there's no point in trying to change. No one is going to accept you. At least, no Syrena will." I decide not to take offense. I don't put much stock in her opinion anyway, and she won't care if she offended me or not.

Asking the wrong questions leads to the sorts of horror stories Watts shares in his books Fables of Fortune and Entitlemania. The latter, which focuses on intergenerational wealth, brought him a host of new clients. They flew in “from all over, saying, ‘My God, it’s already happening with my kids, and we’ve got $100 million and I know I don’t want to give it to them. So what do we do?’ And I said, ‘Well, I want you to know that if you left them nothing, they would probably be happy.’ And that just terrorizes people, that thought.

His biggest hit so far is making the first investment in Pinterest, the popular social network used to share photos, organized as collections of pictures on a pin board. Launched in March 2010, it has become one of the most visited sites, with 23 million users in 2012 and a valuation of over $1.5 billion. Pinterest was founded in Palo Alto, Silicon Valley, by three youngsters under 30. “I helped them start and guided them as a mentor to become what they are,” says Cohen. “With this single investment I’m done. As soon as I get my liquidity event I will party like there’s no tomorrow.” All the angels dream of “the big hit,” says Cohen, who has written a book on the subject.[24] They are the ones providing 90% of startup capital, by writing checks out of their own pocket. But they don't do it just thinking of financial returns. “I think we do it because it’s fun. There’s no question that everyone thinks he or she is smarter than everyone else,” the Chairman of the New York Angels says half-jokingly. “In reality no one makes money, although some are luckier and hit the jackpot. Then there is the fashion factor. Everyone today wants to be an angel because it is cool. In other words, we are the prima donnas; we have a big ego. But there is also the idea of doing good, to have the satisfaction of helping start new emerging companies.” The pleasure of giving back: an important part of Jewish culture, and of American culture in general.

When I first got on welfare and began to learn all of the tricks of milking the system, it seemed like I’d hit the jackpot.

Robert Hooke was a member of another which had used the mails to go intercontinental—the British Royal Society. Hooke picked up on Galileo’s innovations, built his own telescope, used it to discover a new star in Orion and to sketch the planet Mars, then turned it on its head, transforming it into a microscope with which he could examine the invisible intricacies of snowflakes, mosquitoes, feathers, and fungi. He hit the jackpot when he pointed his lenses at a slice of cork, for here he spotted what he described in his best-selling book Micrographia as “the first microscopical pores I ever saw.” Because they reminded him of the chambers in which monks slept, Hooke called these microrooms cells.

Money changes everything. In Billionaires, a book by political scientist Darrell West, one member of the three-comma club brought up his “get-a-senator” strategy—a handy tactic, given that a lone senator can block objectionable legislation or pull strings on a favored donor’s behalf. West recalls how Senator Rand Paul held up Senate action for years on a treaty that would have forced Swiss banks to reveal the names of twenty-two thousand wealthy Americans who had assets stashed in overseas accounts, presumably to evade taxes. (An invasion of privacy, Paul insisted.) In another case, a billionaire hedge fund manager persuaded Democratic senator Edward Markey to write a letter to the SEC calling for an investigation of Herbalife, a multilevel marketing company the financier suspected of fraud, and whose stock he also happened to be short-selling. The effort paid off. After Markey’s letter was made public, Herbalife’s share price plummeted 14 percent.

The sitting area at Griffin Concierge Medical in Tampa, Florida, has the vibe of an upscale bed-and-breakfast, with sunlight casting through double-hung windows onto warm hardwood floors. Nashville’s Brentwood MD feels more like a wealthy man’s living room, with a wide, brown leather sofa and an expensive-looking wooden coffee table with photo books.