Luck Is The Residue Quotes

Luck is the residue of design.

Good luck is a residue of preparation.

Ordinary effort, ordinary result. ... Luck is the residue of design. Be steadfast. The anvil outlasts the hammer.

Luck is the residue of design

luck was the residue of preparation.

Luck is the residue of design.

Luck is the residue of design. A man makes being there for his son a priority—chances are good that boy’ll turn out safe. You understand me?” He looked at me head-on, the white hospital light hitting his age-spotted face directly. “What I’m saying is, being in a healthy marriage takes two. Being a good father…all that takes is you.

Luck is nothing more than the residue of hard work,

Luck is the residue of preparation,

Remember what Doc always says: ‘Luck is the residue of preparation.’ Icing on the cake, nothing more.

I believe you, but unlike the Times and the Post and CNN and the rest, we don’t go with one-source, anonymous stories.” “Just my luck,” Turnbull said. “I happen to get extorted by a reporter at the one outlet with any residual journalistic integrity.

Luck is the residue of design,” I said.

Luck is the residue of design.” “We’re

Nathan nodded. “Luck is the residue of design.

Reece smiled, remembering an old commanding officer who preached that luck was the residue of preparation.

I'm afraid they may not win it, in which case many will blame bad luck, which would not be the entire case. Luck is the residue of design.

Good luck will be the residue of good design.

For many years, Darrel Royal was the football coach for the University of Texas at Austin. They always had great teams and winning records. Sometimes, however, when they won a close game, a sportswriter would suggest that while the Longhorns were skilled, they had been lucky on that day. Hearing it one time too often, Coach Royal finally said, “Luck is partly the residue of design, the simple act of being prepared for luck when it arrives.” And there is something else to luck, Royal said—luck follows speed. Move, and luck finds you. Move quickly, and it finds you more often.

With a sigh, I whisked the moisture off my cheeks, then studied Narian’s handsome features, creating a portrait in my mind. I traced his cheekbones and jaw, lingering over his lips. Impulsively, I leaned down to kiss him and his eyelids flicked open. “I will always love you, Alera,” he murmured, momentarily regaining clarity. “And I will always love you.” I curled up beside him, my arm across his chest, willing him to stay with me for as long as possible. I continually fought against drowsiness, but exhaustion and grief eventually got the best of me, and I drifted off to sleep. Someone was shaking my shoulder and I slowly came awake to see London crouched down beside me. I bolted upright, then reached out to touch his face, certain I was seeing a ghost. “Alera, it’s all right. I’m here to bring you safely home.” I nodded, then shifted onto my knees, my voice urgent. “The High Priestess has poisoned Narian. She doesn’t want him to fight against her if she sends reinforcements to Hytanica.” London placed a hand upon Narian’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat, for the rise and fall of breathing, for warmth. “He’s still alive,” he told me. “How long ago was he poisoned?” “About ten hours now. He can’t have much time left. According to what the High Priestess told me about the poison, he should already be dead.” “Listen to me. He may still have some of Nantilam’s healing power inside of him.” “From when the Overlord tried to kill him?” London nodded and hope surged within me. It had been the residual effect of Nantilam’s healing abilities that had enabled the deputy captain to withstand the Overlord’s torture. “That’s probably why his dying is prolonged,” London continued. “With any luck, she may have miscalculated what it will take to kill him. But we need to help him fight, Alera.” “How?” London retrieved his water flask and bedroll from his horse, handing them to me. “Get as much water as possible into him, to dilute the toxin in his bloodstream, and we’ll cover him with all the blankets and cloaks we have. He’s fevered, so let’s help his body sweat out some of the poison.” I began to cover Narian while London added wood to the fire. Then he removed his own cloak and tossed it to me. “I’m going to gather some herbs that might help. I’ve learned a few things about Cokyrian compounds over the years, knowledge that I’m guessing the High Priestess would like to take away from me about now. You stay here and care for him as you have been doing. And, Alera, keep talking to him. He is strong and will fight to hear the sound of your voice--fight to come back to you.” “I think the High Priestessis in love with you, London.” “Just proves folly knows no limit.

Luck is the residue of design,

mobilize citizens against elites, inspired democratic leaders, and a good dose of luck. These moments tend not to last. The institutions often turn out to be more fragile than they first appear, and they require continual renewal. In a basically capitalist economy, financial elites, even when constrained, retain an immense amount of residual power. That can be contained only by countervailing democratic power. The Bretton Woods era suggests that a more benign form of globalization is possible. But the postwar brand of globalization, balancing citizenship and market, above all required a politics. Today, a few thinkers could sit in a seminar room and design a thinner globalization and a stronger democratic national polity. Keynes and his generation did just that after World War II. But they had the political winds at their backs. Today’s architects of democratic capitalism face political headwinds. Though ideas do matter, they are no substitute for political movements.

Bush changed national research the same way Vail changed corporate research. Both recognized that the big ideas—the breakthroughs that change the course of science, business, and history—fail many times before they succeed. Sometimes they survive through the force of exceptional skill and personality. Sometimes they survive through sheer chance. In other words, the breakthroughs that change our world are born from the marriage of genius and serendipity. The magic of Bush and Vail was in engineering the forces of genius and serendipity to work for them rather than against them. Luck is the residue of design.

It was Branch Rickey who originated the saying cited in part one: “Luck is the residue of design.

Luck is the residue of good planning.

The fact is clear: Western wars are backed by the Christian God, and we cannot dodge his draft because we are all Christians, regardless of the faith you profess, the church you attend, or whether you declare yourself utterly atheistic. You may be Jew or Muslim, pay tribute to your god in Santeria fashion, join with other Wiccas, but wherever you are in the Western world you are psychologically Christian, indelibly marked with the sign of the cross in your mind and in the corpuscles of your habits. Christianism is all about us, in the words we speak, the curses we utter, the repressions we fortify, the numbing we seek, and the residues of religious murders in our history. The murdered Jews, the murdered Catholics, the murdered Protestants, the murdered Mormons, heretics, deviationists, freethinkers... Once you feel your own personal soul to be distinct from the world out there, and that consciousness and conscience are lodged in that soul (and not in the world out there) and that even the impersonal selfish gene is individualized in your person, you are, psychologically, Christian. Once your first response to a dream, a bit of news, an idea divides immediately into the moral "good" or "bad," psychologically you are Christian. Once you feel sin in connection with your flesh and its impulses, again you are Christian. When a hunch comes true, a slipup is taken as an omen, and you trust in dreams, only to shake off these inklings as "superstition," you are Christian because that religion bans nondoctrinal forms of communication with the invisibles, excepting Jesus. When you turn from books and learning and instead to your inner feelings to find simple answers to complexities, you are Christian, for the Kingdom of God and the voice of His true Word, lies within. If your psychology uses names like ambivalence, weak ego, splitting, breakdown, ill-defined borders for conditions of the soul, fearing them as negative disorders, you are Christian, for these terms harbor insistence upon a unified, empowered, central authority. Once you consider the apparently aimless facts of history to be going somewhere, evolving somehow, and that hope is a virtue and not a delusion, you are Christian. You are Christian too when holding the notion that resurrection of light rather than irremediable tragedy or just bad luck lie in the tunnel of human misfortune. And you are especially an American Christian when idealizing a clean slate of childlike innocence as close to godliness. We cannot escape two thousand years of history, because we are each history incarnated, each one of us thrown up on the Western shores of here and now by violent waves of long ago. We may not admit the grip of Christianity on our psyche, but what else is collective unconsciousness but the ingrained emotional patterns and unthought thoughts that fill us with the prejudices we prefer to conceive as choices? We are Christian through and through. St. Thomas sits in our distinctions, St. Francis governs our acts of goodness, and thousands of Protestant missionaries from every sect you can name join together to give us the innate assurance that we are superior to all others and can help them see the light.

When Japanese people visit the West for the first time, they must think we are backward heathen medieval savages based on our toilets alone. And they might be right. Without getting too graphic about the art of poopery, I have to say that our Western approach to the follow-up operations after number twos are not perhaps up to speed with other lessons learned in personal hygiene in the centuries since the Black Death. If, for example—and I wouldn’t wish this on you unless it was something you wanted and participated in with another consenting adult—you inadvertently got some poop, some human feces, some man dung on your hand or arm or face, would it be sufficient for you to wipe off said ass fruit with a piece of soft, dry paper, wash your hands, and chalk the whole thing up to experience? No, of course it wouldn’t! You’d want hot water and soap and towels and more soap and some sanitizer and maybe the kind understanding counsel of an old friend. Why then is it okay for us to drop, wipe, and walk? It is not enough, I say. Not nearly enough. The Japanese are sublimely and impressively aware of this. Any of you who have had the luxury of executing a humpty in the Land of the Rising Sun will know what I mean. My first time in a Japanese bathroom was a life changer. You enter the cubicle and the lights change. They become moody and dim, like something big is about to happen. Like something intense is going down. Which with any luck it is. The toilet lid opens automatically as if welcoming you to a ride, a ride to another dimension. Nervously you drop your pants and sit on the cushioned seat, which is warmed! Warmed! And by electricity, not by the fat guy who used the stall before you at the airport. You conduct the business which cannot be named, and you think to yourself, “Well, that was nice,” or you cry or sing or whatever it is you normally do and you think that it’s over. But it’s not over, it’s just about to begin. First come the water jets pushing and throbbing, scooting from some hidden hose beneath your nether regions; these temperate jets, aimed by discreet robots, hose your portal of doom and sandblast away any residual entourage left over from the main event. It is transcendental. It’s euphoric. It is as if the fountain display outside the Bellagio in Las Vegas has been transferred to your anus. You think, “Wow that was nice, it can’t get better than that!” but you are wrong. It can get better than that. Then the dryers start. Dryers! A balmy mistral, a soothing trade wind to dry the now scrupulously clean landscape. When they finally, sadly, stop, you think, “That was unbelievable, there is no way it can get better than that!” But you are wrong again! When the wind stops—POOF!—a shot of scented talcum powder right in the tiger’s eye. It is not often I say this, but I left that bathroom a better man than when I walked in. When it was all over I thought the same thought I had on the airplane as it left Japan.