Lotto Quotes

Great swaths of her life were white space to her husband. What she did not tell him balanced neatly with what she did. Still, there are untruths made of words and untruths made of silences, and Mathilde had only ever lied to Lotto in what she never said.

If you have one parent who loves you, even if they can't buy you clothes, they're so poor and they make all kinds of mistakes and maybe sometimes they even give you awful advice, but never for one moment do you doubt their love for you--if you have this, you have incredibly good fortune. If you have two parents who love you? You have won life's Lotto. If you do not have parents, or if the parents you have are so broken and so, frankly, terrible that they are no improvement over nothing, this is fine. It's not ideal because it's harder without adults who love you more than they love themselves. But harder is just harder, that's all.

The world was precarious, Lotto had learned. People could be subtracted from it with swift bad math. If one might die at any moment, one must live!

Perhaps it is our lot—to never have the fathers we wish, but to still hope they might surpass what they are, flaws and all.

The truth is there’s not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there’s too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there’s a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can’t find answers is because the search party didn’t invite us.

Kaloka! Ito ba ang Pilipinas na gustong iligtas nina Lola Sepa at Emil? Iligtas mula saan? Kung sarili nga ayaw nitong iligtas! Ang gusto lang ng mga ito'y kumain, tumae, mag-Glutathione, saka pumunta sa weekend markets, mag-malling para makalibre ng air-con, mag-text ng corny jokes, sumingit sa pila ng bigas, saka umasa ng suwerte sa lotto o sa TV! Kapag may bagyo o lindol o anumang problema'y laban pero susuko din agad at makakalimot, o kaya ay magma-migrate! Ilang taon na ba ang bansang ito pero bakit hanggang ngayo'y wala pa ring pinagkatandaan?

I care about you. Hell, woman, I'm falling for you, hard and fast, and I don't even know which way is up anymore. I mean, Christ, I felt like I'd won the lotto when you crawled into my bed, but being with you has turned into so much more than mindblowing sex. You make me want things I've never allowed myself to want before, and you've made me happier than I've been in years. I'm sorry, babe, really sorry. Please forgive me. I just found you. I don't want to lose you.

TO MAKE A LONG STORY SHORT To make a long story short I leave all my possessions to the Municipal Slaughterhouse to the Special Unit of the Police Department to Lucky Dog Lotto So now if you want you can shoot

The only true voyage of discovery (is) to behold the universe through the eyes of another - Marcel Proust

Our perceptions are an ongoing, ever-growing. ever-changing story, and our brain allows us to be not just passive listeners to that story, but also the storytellers as well

No one is an outside observer of nature, We're defined by our environment and our interaction with that environment -- by our ecology. And that ecology is necessarily relative, historical and empirical.

this real fucking genius, though I don’t really think anybody knew that back then, but there was something in him. Charisma. Gentleness, a kind of acceptance of people for who they are. That’s rare, you know? Someone who never, never judges. Most people have a nasty interior monologue going on at all times, not Lotto. He’d rather think kindly of you. Easier that way.

Development never truly ends, as our brains evolved to evolve...we are adapted to adapt, to continually redefine normality, transforming ones space of possibility with new assumptions according to the continual process of trial and error

Information is agnostic. Meaning isn't. The meaning you make with this knowledge is up to you.

YOU’RE A PATHOLOGICAL TRUTH-TELLER,” Lotto once said to her, and she laughed and conceded that she was. She wasn’t sure just then if she was telling the truth or if she was lying.

Lotto once said to her, and she laughed and conceded that she was. She wasn’t sure just then if she was telling the truth or if she was lying. Great

Io sono l'otto di spada, io sono la vespa che punge, io sono la serpe scura. lo sono l'animale invulnerabile che attraversa il fuoco e non si brucia.

Whatever happened to all of those friends of ours" Lotto wondered. The ones who had seemed so essential had faded away.

[Grief is pain internalized, abscess of the soul. Anger is pain as energy, sudden explosion.] This one would be for Lotto. “This will be fun,” she said aloud to the empty house.

Also the fact that he's a guy. A girl screws around like Lotto and she's like diseased. Untouchable. But a guy can stick it to a million places and everyone just thinks he's doing what boys do.

She knew it was time, What for was the mystery but focused; she remained. She turned her back on anything that no longer served her strengths nor taught her vital lessons with her weaknesses. She said no without explanation & assigned validation back just to parking spots. She was fierce but gentle and authentic in her approach to live even if it meant standing alone. She knew the hard days weren't over but stood proud that she had already survived some of the worst. She laughed in the midst of a mindfuck & gathered her worth with all the pieces of herself that have held her together throughout the years. She knew it was time What for was the mystery, but focused; she remained. She learnt that motherhood provided unconditional love doesn't have boundaries, it's pure in all its forms. Family are rare connections. Friendships are like shoes, not all will fit but when some do it's like you have won the lotto. She learnt that every love was different and how important it was to keep her heart open for the possibility of being able to experience it just one more time.

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.

The world out there is really just our three-dimensional screen

Are we products of nature or nurture? It's the wrong question. It's not one or the other. Nor is it a combination of both. It's their constant interaction.

One by one, they guessed aloud about what Lotto had meant by this sculpture: nautilus, fiddlehead, galaxy. Thread running off its spindle. Forces of nature, perfect in beauty, perfectly ephemeral, they guessed. He was too shy to say time. He’d woken with a dry tongue and the urge to make the abstract concrete, to build his new understanding: that this was the way that time was, a spiral.

It's true,' Mathilde said after some time, 'I could breathe fire.' She thought of how Lotto, in later years, had been called the lion. With his dander up, he could roar. He looked leonine too, his carrona of white-shot gold, the fine, sharp cheekbones. He'd leap on stage, offended by some actor flubbing his precious lines, and there he'd pace, sleek and swift with his long lovely body, growling. He could be deadly, fierce, the name was not inapt, but please, Mathilde knew lions. The male lolled beautifully, lazy in the sun. The female, less lovely by miles, was the one who brought back the kill.

Big Data: by itself doesn't yield insights...information doesn't serve us...without knowing why....unless something transformative is brought to these data sets (to create) understanding Gathering data is easy, understanding why is hard.

A good leader thinks in shades of grey but speaks in black and white

if you attack a problem with the wrong assumption, there is nowhere to go but deeper into that assumption

A te vengo, balena che tutto distruggi ma non vinci: fino all'ultimo lotto con te; dal cuore dell'inferno ti trafiggo; in nome dell'odio, vomito a te l'ultimo mio respiro.

THE THREAD OF SONG has been measured to its bare spool, Lotto. We’ll sing the last of it to you.]

The world was precarious, Lotto had learned. People could be subtracted from it with swift bad math.

She was so agreeably flexible when it came to Lotto that she could have been a contortionist.

How would he write without her? [The buried awareness of how completely her hands reached into his work; don’t look, Lotto. It’d be like looking at the sun.]

Still, there are untruths made of words and untruths made of silences, and Mathilde had only ever lied to Lotto in what she never said.

some rich old white dude, chillin’ on the East Side, doing his thing with some young supermodel with fake everything on a mattress made of real money. Lotto-ticket money.

When your family dismisses you, like Lotto's did, you create your own family

Mathilde had always been a fist, in truth. Only with Lotto had she been an open hand.

Better for sure than Lotto had been. Well, she knew what that was like.

Mathilde and Lotto held hands in the taxi going to brunch, communicating, not speaking.

Even most of those whose wealth was not inherited or won often lose sleep over losing their wealth.

Most people have a nasty interior monologue going on at all times, not Lotto. He’d rather think kindly of you.

Lotto never brought home the men. They didn't get put in any book. They remained unseen, these ghosts of hungers in his bed, out of it.

Se lotto goffamente, è colpa tua. Anche il mio essere attaccata alla vita è colpa tua. Sei tu che mi hai fatto scoprire il rimpianto per il tempo che non potevo passare insieme a te.

I’ve got some questions, Are you sick of feelin’ sorry? And people sayin’ not to worry? Sick of hearing this hakuna matata motto, From people who won the lotto, We’re not that lucky. Have you noticed that you’re breathing? Look around and count your blessings, So when you’re sick of all this stressin’ and guessin’ I’m suggestin’ you turn this up and let them hear you sing it

What’s it like?” Natalie said quietly. “Marriage, I mean.” Lotto said, “A never-ending banquet, and you eat and eat and never get full.” Mathilde said, “Kipling called it a very long conversation.

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. Kevin

...then he blushed and seemed to fade where he stood....When the musical star moved on, Lotto turned to her and silently docked his head on her shoulder for two moments, recharged he turned to face the others.

some rich old white dude, chillin’ on the East Side, doing his thing with some young supermodel with fake everything on a mattress made of real money. Lotto-ticket money. Cheap-forty-ounce money. Bootleg-DVD money. My money.

The glow lasted through the night, beyond the bar's closing, when there were no cabs on the street. And so Mathilde and Lotto decided to walk home, her arm in his, chatting about nothing, about everything, the unpleasant, hot breath of the subway belching up from the grates. 'Chthonic', he said, booze letting loose the pretension at his core, which she still found sweet, an allowance from the glory. It was so late, there were few other people out, and it felt, just for this moment, that they had the city to themselves. She thought of all the life just underfoot, the teem of it that they were passing over, unknowing. She said, 'Did you know that the total weight of all the ants on Earth is the same as the total weight of all the humans on Earth.' She, who drank to excess, was a little bit drunk, it was true, there was so much relief in the evening. When the curtains closed against the backdrop, an enormous bolder blocking their future had rolled away. 'They'll still be here when we're gone,' he said. He was drinking from a flask. By the time they were home, he'd be sozzeled. 'The ants and the jellyfish and the cockroaches, they will be the kings of the Earth.'... 'They deserve this place more than we do,' she said. 'We've been reckless with our gifts.' He smiled and looked up. There were no stars, there was too much smog for them. 'Did you know,' he said, 'they just found out just a while ago that there are billions of worlds that can support life in our galaxy alone.' ...She felt a sting behind here eyes, but couldn't say why this thought touched her. He saw clear through and understood. He knew her. The things he didn't know about her would sink an ocean liner. He knew her. 'We're lonely down here,' he said, 'it's true, but we're not alone.' In the hazy space after he died, when she lived in a sort of timeless underground grief, she saw on the internet a video about what would happen to our galaxy in billions of years. We are in an immensely slow tango with the Andromeda galaxy, both galaxies shaped like spirals with outstretched arms, and we are moving toward each other like spinning bodies. The galaxies will gain speed as they draw near, casting off blue sparks, new stars until they spin past each other, and then the long arms of both galaxies will reach longingly out and grasp hands at the last moment and they will come spinning back in the opposite direction, their legs entwined, never hitting, until the second swirl becomes a clutch, a dip, a kiss, and then at the very center of things, when they are at their closest, there will open a supermassive black hole.

Oh, Lotto, Mathilde thought with loving despair. Like most deadly attractive people, he had a hollow at the center of him. What people loved most about her husband was how mellifluous their own voices sounded when they echoed back. Mathilde

Two free days like an open mouth. They drank beer all day in the sun and passed out, and when she woke, she was burnt all over, and it was sunset, and Lotto had started building something enormous with sand, already four feet high and ten feet long and pointing toward the sea. Woozy, standing, she asked what it was. He said, 'spiral jetty.' She said, ''In sand?' He smiled and said, 'That's its beauty.' A moment in her bursting open, expanding. She looked at him. She hand't seen it before, but there was something special here. She wanted to tunnel inside him to understand what it was. There was a light under the shyness and youth, a sweetness, a sudden surge of the old hunger in her to take a part of him into her and make him briefly hers. Instead, she bent and helped, they all did. And deep into the morning, when it was done, they sat in silence, huddled against the cold wind and watched the tide swallow it whole. Everything had changed somehow

I know, it’s a lotto take in. Never thought you’d be this happy, did you? Or this lucky. Blimey, go ahead and envy yourself. Countless other people will, I assure you.” A laugh escaped me even as my eyes became so shiny, his image started to blur. “You might be the most conceited man I’ve ever met, and I’ve met millions of them.” His low, seductive laugh coincided with his hands settling on my hips. “Then I deserve a spanking, don’t I? Here, I’ll start things off.” - Ian and Veritas

Mathilde was there in the dawn, this perfect girl as if made to his specifications. [A different life, had Lotto listened to the terror: no glory, no plays; peace, ease, and money. No glamour; children. Which life was better? Not for us to say.]

The beige linoleum floor turned into the ocean, crashed and crashed against Lotto's shins. He sat down. How swiftly things spun. Two minutes ago he'd been a kid, thinking about his nintendo system, worried about asymptotes and signs. Now he was, heavy, adult.

What's it like?" Natalie said quietly. "Marriage, I mean." Lotto said "A never-ending banquet, and you eat and eat and never get full." Mathilde said, "Kipling called it a very long conversation." Lotto looked at his wife, touched her cheek. "Yes," he said.

One by one, they guessed aloud about what Lotto had meant by this sculpture: nautilus, fiddlehead, galaxy. Thread running off its spindle. Forces of nature, perfect in beauty, perfectly ephemeral, they guessed. He was too shy to say time. He’d woken with a dry tongue and the urge to make the abstract concrete, to build his new understanding: that this was the way that time was, a spiral. He loved the uselessness of all the effort, the ephemerality of the work. The ocean encroached, it licked their feet. It pushed around the outside wall of the spiral, fingering its way in. When the water had scooped the sand from the lifeguard's chair, revealing white like bone beneath, something broke, and the fragments spun into the future. This day would bend back and shine itself into everything.

It has been a long time since I've been in France. I miss the food like a phantom limb.' ... 'I shall bring you our best dishes,' he promised. 'And the wine to pair with them," she said. He feigned exasperation. 'But of course, he said, 'would I blaspheme?'... She ate, her eyes half closed. All along, she'd known Lotto was with her, across the table, enjoying her food with her. He would've loved this night. Her dress, the food, the wind. The lust welled in her until it was almost unbearable. If she looked up, she knew she would see only an empty chair. She would not look up.

Earth was the winner of the ultimate lotto, with 500 million to one odds, this one planet, of comparable, size to its other 17 billion siblings, became the life force of the universe itself. But the inhabitants of earth did not just inherit life, they inherited all that life has to offer a sentient species. It offers them —as a gift— love, joy, surprise, wonder, friendship, as well as spirituality, art, literature, music, and most importantly morality. A morality that is capable of reaching beyond its species to that of other living creatures on this shared fishbowl called Earth.

And though Lotto was thoroughly straight, the daily greedy need of his hands told her this, her husband's desire had always been more to chase and capture the gleam of the person inside the body and the body itself. And there was a part of her husband that had always been so hungry for beauty.

Tell me, why did Lotto write a war play? Because works about war always trump works about emotions, even if the smaller, more domestic plays are better written, smarter, more interesting. The war stories are the ones that gets the prizes. But your husband's voice is strongest when he speaks most quietly and clearly.

Her mother had smelled of cold and scales, her father of stone dust and dog. She imagined her husband's mother, whom she had never met, had a whiff of rotting apples, though her stationary had stunk of baby powder and rose perfume. Sally was starch, cedar, her dead grandmother sandalwood, her uncle, swiss cheese. People told her she smelled like garlic, like chalk, like nothing at all. Lotto, clean as camphor at his neck and belly, like electrified pennies at the armpit, like chlorine at the groin. She swallowed. Such things, details noticed only on the edges of thought would not return. 'Land,' Mathilde said, 'odd name for a guy like you.' 'Short for Roland,' the boy said. Where the August sun had been steaming over the river, a green cloud was forming. It was still terrifically hot, but the birds had stopped singing. A feral cat scooted up the road on swift paws. It would rain soon. 'Alright Roland,' Mathilde said, suppressing as sigh, 'sing your song.

Understanding reduces the complexity of data by collapsing the dimensionality of information to a lower set of known variables. " "There you have it: a generalizable principle. What was once a massive, high-dimensional dataset has now collapsed to a single dimension, a simple principle that comes from using the data but is not the data itself. Understanding transcends context, since the different contexts collapse according to their previously unknown similarity, which the principle contains. That is what understanding does. And you actually feel it in your brain when it happens. Your “cognitive load” decreases, your level of stress and anxiety decrease, and your emotional state improves.

What makes you you and them them is how one deviates from the norm

Research has found that successful leaders share three behavioral traits: they lead by example, admit their mistakes, and see positive qualities in others

Everything you see - everything - exists in only one place: in here. Inside your head.

creativity as we traditionally think of it is not creative at all. Creativity is only creative from the outside.

Lotto had made the story of their meeting a coup de foudre, but he was a born storyteller. He recast reality into a different kind of truth. It was, as she knew, actually a coup de foutre. Their marriage had always been about the sex. It had been about other things at first and would be about other things later, of course, but within days it was about the sex.

«Crescendo senza un padre e con una madre inaffidabile, presumo che ci siano stati molti momenti nella sua infanzia in cui ha dovuto farsi da genitore» disse il dottor Sherman, convinto. «Non ha avuto altra scelta che prendersi cura, non solo di se stessa, ma certe volte anche di sua madre. In assenza di una figura maschile, è stata lei “l’uomo di casa”, si fa per dire. Quindi è perfettamente comprensibile che desideri un’identità maschile.» Sam si sentì come se avesse portato l’automobile in officina e il meccanico ne parlasse come di un cavallo. «Mi dispiace, ma non credo che sia sulla strada giusta» disse Sam. «Sono un transessuale perché mi identifico in un sesso diverso da quello del mio corpo. Non ha nulla a che fare con la mancanza di una figura paterna nella mia vita.» «Sì, capisco che pensi di essere transessuale, ma la mia opinione professionale è che lei soffra di una confusione di identità...» «Non sono affatto confuso» ribatté Sam. «È qualcosa con cui lotto e che ho tenuto nascosto da quando ero bambino. Non credo che lei capisca quanto sia stato difficile venire qui e raccontare tutto a uno sconosciuto. Sono venuto per ricevere consiglio su cosa fare e come dirlo ai miei cari, non per farmi trattare come se fossi pazzo»

In other words, two people in a relationship never have the same past, never have the same brain, and thus never have the same space of possibility filled with the same ideas in the same positions of availability

Mark Pincus smelled the social-game opportunity first. He was the guy who, with Reid Hoffman, had been part of the angel investment that, in his words, was like winning lotto. In late 2006, Matt Cohler tipped him off that Facebook was going to launch a platform and was looking for entrepreneurs to come up with apps. We don’t want any money from you, he told Pincus. Just build cool stuff and we’ll expose you to our traffic.

Lotto couldn’t forget his wife, but she existed on a constant, unchanging plane, her rhythms in his bones. At all moments, he could predict where she was. [Now, whipping eggs for an omelet; now, hiking over the crispy fields to the pond for an illicit smoke as she always did in her angry moments.] And Lancelot existed, right now, on a plane where everything he knew and was had been turned inside out, predictability had exploded. He

I will never be old, Rachel promised herself. I will never be sad. I’d scarf a cyanide capsule first, kill myself like that friend of Lotto’s everyone is crying about. Life isn’t worth living unless you are young and surrounded by other young people in a beautiful cold garden perfumed by dirt and flowers and fallen leaves, gleaming in the string of lights, listening to the quiet city on the last fine night of the year. Under the dying

In my view, as soon as you’ve told something to someone, you’ve taken the potential for a deeper meaning away from them. True knowledge is when information becomes embodied understanding: We have to act in the world to understand it.

This requires giving children the freedom to go, and the discipline and wisdom to know when to say stop, not because their transgression triggers one of your own fears, but because they are doing something that would actually harm them

And Lotto beamed with pleasure, preening, eyes darting around to see which kind soul in the room could have sent along the champagne, the force of his delight such that wherever his eyes landed, the recipients of the gaze would look up out of their food and conversation. and a startled expression would come over their face, a flush, and nearly everyone began grinning back, so that on this spangled early evening with the sun shining through the windows in gold streams, and the treetops rustling in the wind, and the streets full of congregating, relieved people, Lotto sparked upwellings of inexplicable glee in dozens of chests, lightening the already buoyant mood in one swift wave. Animal magnetism is real. It spreads through bodily convection. Even Ariel smiled back. The stunned grin stayed on the faces of some people, an expressions of speculation growing, hoping he would look at them again, or wondering who he was because on this day, and in this world, he was someone.

antes de darme cuenta de que era para comprar boletos de Lotto. ¿Ha visto usted esas filas? La próxima vez que las vea, fíjese en las personas. Darryl y su hermano Darryl. Estas no son personas ricas, ni inteligentes. La lotería es un impuesto a la gente pobre y las personas que no pueden sacar cuentas. La gente rica y la gente inteligente estarían en la fila si la lotería fuese un verdadero instrumento para crear riqueza, pero lo cierto es que la lotería es un robo instituido por nuestro gobierno.

23 Lottery Winners Who Lost Millions Andrew Lisa/Yahoo Finance: Mickey Carroll was only 19 years old when he won a British jackpot that sent him into early adulthood with the equivalent of $11.8 million. The media dubbed him the “Lotto Lout” as the young winner tore through his newfound fortune with astonishing speed. Much of it went to drug-fueled partying, with the rest wasted on jewelry, cars and other materialistic excesses. As of 2016, he was earning a few hundred dollars a week working in a slaughterhouse.

Stopping gives you the chance of knowing less, of halting the perception-narrowing force of the cognitive biases that we are always trying to confirm, of taking the jerk out of knee-jerk and sitting with the meaninglessness of the stimuli, even if it doesn't feel meaningless.

Life was rich with possibility, or life was possibly rich...She felt incandescent with the news. Cold sun. Jack in the pulpits nosing out of the still-frozen mud. Lotto lay watching the world incrementally wake up. They had been married for seventeen years, she lived in the deepest room in his heart, and sometimes that meant that wife occurred to him before Mathilde, helpmeet before herself, abstraction of her before the physical being. But not now. When she came across the veranda, he saw Mathilde all of the sudden, the dark whip at the center of her, how, so gently, she flicked it and kept him spinning. She put her cold hand on his stomach, which he was sunning to banish the winter's white. 'Vain,' she said. 'An actor in a playwright's hide,' he said. 'I'll never not be vain.' 'Oh well, it's you,' she said. 'You're desperate for the love of strangers, to be seen.' 'You see me,' he said. And he heard the echo with his thoughts a minute before and was pleased. 'I do,' she said. 'Now please, talk.' She stretched her arms over heads...she looked at him, savoring her own knowing, his unknowing...

If you imagine complex, challenging possibilities, your brain will adapt to them. Much like a tiger trapped in a zoo exhibits repetitive displacement behavior, if you cage your imagination within the bars of the dull and neurotic, which often portray one’s fears more than they do an empirical “truth,” then your brain will adapt to these imagined meanings, too. Like the sad tiger pacing back and forth within its puny cage, your brain too will ruminate cyclically upon destructive meanings, and in doing so make them more significant than they might need to be. This present perceptual meaning becomes part of your future history of meanings, together with the meaning (and re-meanings) of past events, thus shaping your future perception. If you don’t want to let received contexts limit possibility, then you need to walk in the darkest forest of all—the one in your own skull—and face down the fear of ideas that challenge.

The essence of Kasulo is a devils' gamble: tunnel diggers risk their lives for the prospects of riches. Mind you, the "richest" income I documented in Kasulo was an average take home-pay of $7 per day. There are spikes to $12 or even $15 when a particularly rich vein of heterogenite is found. That is the lotto ticket everyone is after. The most fortunate tunnel diggers in Kasulo earn around $3,000 per year. By way of comparison, the CEOs of the technology and car companies that buy the cobalt mined from Kasulo earn $3,000 in an hour, and they do so without having to put their lives at risk each day that they go to work.

When Sally stopped crying, she found herself alone, the cold draft of the window at her neck, and on both sides, the rows of doors went on and on, diminishing to nothing, the end. 'What fun it is to ride and sing a sleighing song tonight, oh.' What glories. Mathilde came. And though she appeared to be the... same sweet girl Sally had been afraid of, she was not. Sally saw the flint in her. Mathilde can save Lotto from his own laziness, Sally thought. But here they were, a year later, and he was still ordinary. The chorus caught in her throat. A stranger hurrying as fast as he could over the icy sidewalks looked in. He saw a circle of singing people bathed in the clean, white light from a tree, and his heart did a soumersault. And the image stayed with him, it merged with him even as he came home to his own children, who were already asleep in their beds, to his wife crossly putting together the tricycle without the screwdriver he'd run out to borrow. It remained long after his children ripped open their gifts and abandoned their toys and puddles of paper and grew too old for them and left their house and parents and childhoods, so that he and his wife gaped at each other in bewilderment as to how it had happened so terribly swiftly. All those years, the singers in the soft light in the basement apartment crystalized in his mind, became the very idea of what happiness should look like.

Sia detto alla sfuggita, il successo è una cosa piuttosto lurida; la sua falsa somiglianza col merito inganna gli uomini. Per la folla, la riuscita ha quasi lo stesso profilo della supremazia. Il successo, sosia della capacità, sa ingannare per bene la storia; solo Giovenale e Tacito gli mormorano contro. Oggidì, una filosofia quasi ufficiale addomesticatasi col successo ne porta la livrea e serve nella sua anticamera. Se riuscite, è teoria; la prosperità suppone la capacità. Se guadagnate al lotto, eccovi diventato un uomo abile. Chi trionfa è venerato; tutto sta nel nascere colla camicia, ma se avete fortuna, avrete il resto. Siete fortunati e vi si crederà grandi. All'infuori delle cinque o sei immense eccezioni che formano lo splendore d'un secolo, l'ammirazione dei contemporanei è soltanto miopia; la doratura è oro.

Lotto began to smile and she saw he was her tiny image with her dimples and charm, she forgave him. A relief, to find her own beauty there. Her husband’s family were not a lovely people, descendants of every kind of Floridian from original Timucua through Spanish and Scot and escaped slave and Seminole and carpetbagger; mostly they bore the look of overcooked Cracker. Sallie was sharp-faced, bony. Gawain was hairy and huge and silent; it was a joke in Hamlin that he was only half human, the spawn of a bear that had waylaid his mother on her way to the outhouse. Antoinette had historically gone for the smooth and pomaded, the suave steppers, the loudly moneyed, but a year married, she found herself still so stirred by her husband that when he came in at night she followed him full-clothed into the shower as if in a trance.

Enttäuschung und Frustration werden [...] alle erleben, die sich wie im Märchen danach sehnen, Glück in einem Schlaraffenland zu finden ... Nur, dass unser Schlaraffenland nicht ein großer Berg von süßem Brei ist ... wir haben andere Fantasien und Bilder von Fülle und Erfülltheit in einem imaginären Schlaraffenland, das nur eben unglücklicherweise niemals dort ist, wo wir tatsächlich leben. Vielmehr leben wir mit der Hoffnung auf ein Glück, das uns das Schicksal irgenwann einmal gewähren müsse. [...] So können wir das Schlaraffenland je nach unserer eigenen Fasson ausgestalten - und wir tun es. Privat und auch gesellschaftlich. Doch sobald wir anfangen, uns mit diesem Glücksmodell anzufreunden, und gespannt darauf warten, wie im Lotto das große Los zu ziehen, werden wir auf einem Weg sein, wo das Glück ganz bestimmt nicht zu uns findet! Wir bleiben hungrig und ungesättigt. Denn geheimnisvollerweise ist das Glück dort, wo wir Bezogenheit leben - selbst in dem unspektatulärsten Tun des Alltags.

It is clear, then, that the desire for certainty shapes our spaces of possibility, our perceptions, and our lives both personally and professionally. Usually, this need saves us. But it also sabotages us. This produces an ongoing tension between what we might think of as our conscious selves and our automatic selves. To overcome our inborn reflex that pushes us to seek certainty (sometimes at any cost), we must lead with our conscious selves and tell ourselves a new story, one that with insistent practice will change our future past and even our physiological responses. We must create internal and external ecologies that… celebrate doubt! This means the biggest obstacle to deviation and seeing differently isn’t actually our environment as such, or our” intelligence, or even—ironically—the challenge of reaching the mythical “aha” moment. Rather, it is the nature of human perception itself, and in particular the perceived need for knowing. Yet the deep paradox is that the mechanisms of perception are also the process by which we can unlock powerful new perceptions and ways to deviate. Which means that mechanism of generating a perception is the blocker… and the process of creating perception is the enabler of creativity

I went through a period where I couldn’t keep off the establishment’s roofs, it was a serious urge I had. To look at a drainpipe and start shaking with excitement, nobody knows the feeling of hitting a prison roof, not unless you’ve done it. Let me tell you, it’s like a lotto win - it’s power. You’re the governor; it’s a kick in the teeth to the system.

Men are notorious for not going to a doctor when they need to, especially if it would interfere with something they want to do. And they don’t like to complain that they are in pain.

No one passes through this life unscathed.

Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers.

That dog’s an English Mastiff. He has had centuries of breeding to make him instinctively guard his master. You know that they had to be put down to get to their wounded or dead masters during the Crusades. He’s no different. It’s in their blood to defend until death.

Somewhere hardwired into our DNA, we know it’s very, very, very wrong to kill a human being. Again, that is if you’re not a psycho. However, after meeting so many jackasses during my fifty-one years of living, I’m surprised more people aren’t knocked-off. They simply wear you down with their meanness, carelessness or stupidity until you simply can’t take it anymore.

«Sento di aver fatto qualcosa di creativo quando mi dedico con tutto il cuore a qualcosa e lotto senza riserve fino alla fine; così vinco una battaglia per crescere. È questione di sudore e lacrime. La vita creativa esige uno sforzo costante per migliorare i nostri pensieri e le nostre azioni. Forse la cosa importante è il dinamismo implicito nello sforzo. «Si passa attraverso tempeste e si possono subire sconfitte. L’essenza della vita creativa è perseverare nonostante le sconfitte e inseguire l’arcobaleno che c’è nei nostri cuori. L’indulgenza e l’indolenza non sono creative. Lamentele e indecisioni sono da vigliacchi e corrompono la naturale tendenza della vita alla creatività. Chi smette di lottare per la creatività si avvia verso l’inferno che ne distruggerà la vita.» Mi irrigidii. Shock da riconoscimento. Il resto del discorso lo percepii come una serie di colpi di martello che mi arrivavano dritti nel cervello. «Non ci si deve mai rilassare negli sforzi per costruire una nuova vita. Creatività significa aprire la pesante porta della vita. Non è una lotta facile. Anzi, può essere il compito più difficile del mondo. Aprire la porta della propria vita è più difficile che aprire le porte ai misteri dell’universo. «Ma l’atto di aprire la porta dimostra la fondatezza dell’esistenza di un essere umano, e rende la vita degna di essere vissuta. Nessuno è più solo e infelice di chi non conosce la pura gioia di creare da solo la propria vita. Essere umano non significa solo camminare su due gambe e manifestare ragione e intelligenza: essere umano nel pieno senso della parola significa vivere una vita creativa.» Bernie piegò il foglio di carta e guardò i fedeli. «Ritengo il fatto che siete tutti qui presenti la prova che Geoff ha vissuto una vita creativa. Grazie.»

lust of the eyes focuses squarely upon our desire to have beautiful things, which we believe we must have for contentment. By definition, both the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes in the world’s context deal with external solicitations to sin. A billboard displaying a scantily dressed body attempting to sell anything from breakfast cereal to fast cars might represent the lust of the flesh. The same billboard could represent the lust of the eyes with a winning lotto ticket, a dream house, or a rose. The message is clear. You need this. You deserve this. You cannot be content living without this.

There is an odd but revealing phrase – ‘in the flesh’ – for seeing art in reality, not reproduction. With Lotto and other Venetian painters it’s almost exact: to appreciate them properly you have to stand in front of them. Only then can you sense the carnal reality of the people they depict, the glistening of their skin, gleam in their eyes, the weight of their bodies, the texture of their clothes. These are physical experiences, because paint is a physical substance: a layer of organic and inorganic chemicals that reflects the light, and consequently changes every time the light alters. There is no substitute for being there.

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The lowest-income households in the U.S. on average spend $412 a year on lotto tickets, four times the amount of those in the highest income groups. Forty percent of Americans cannot come up with $400 in an emergency.

A surprise is a birthday party, a mistake is a DUI. A surprise is a winning lotto ticket, a mistake is getting caught smuggling drugs at the airport. They’re two very different things, and yet somehow, me being born can be categorized as both. It’s interesting to be able to assign different words to the same thing and have them both be true.

If so, did the law of “finders keepers, losers weepers” apply? Because if Billy could find the gold or jewels or winning Mega Millions Lotto cards—whatever treasure Dr. Libris had hidden on his island—he could buy himself a new iPhone. He could also pay for some of his father’s silly toys and maybe get his mom a bunch of those blueberry pies she said she liked so much.