Money Heist Quotes

Will you still want me if I'm poor, Kat?" "What kind of question is that?" "No. Seriously. You're the planner. Simon's the genius. The Bagshaws are the muscle. And Gabrielle is . . . Gabrielle. But what am I, Kat? I'm the guy who writes the checks." "No. You're the most naturally gifted inside man I have ever seen. And I was raised by Bobby Bishop." She made him look into her eyes. "I don't care about your money.

Money comes and goes, darling. Tiaras are forever. So are titles.” Gabrielle

Now, it makes sense why they don’t want to connect us to what made them successful. Their success came from drugs, money, diamond , gold laundering, prostitution, human trafficking, heist, kidnappings, corruption, fraud, extortion and killings.

Once completely freed, the bankers very quickly ran their institutions off the cliff, taking much of the global economy with them. Not only did they create and sell a huge amount of junk, but they turned the financial system into a gigantic casino, one in which they played mainly with other people’s money.

You haven't been yourself lately." Nikhil shook his head and sighed. "You've gone off the rails. We just want you to go back to being who you were--- sweet, good, quiet, respectful. Listen to the people who know what's best for you." "Shut up, Nikhil." I was sick of him and his officious, condescending attitude, sick of him thinking he knew anything about me. Where was he when I was struggling at school? Where was he when I needed a big brother, or even a friend? "Why are you here anyway?" "To make sure you do the right thing." "And that would be what? Telling the head of a Mafia family I'm going to bail on his daughter's wedding? Do you know how much money he's paying me to see it through? You can't even count that high." Nikhil swallowed hard. He couldn't stand being bested in any way. "We've found a perfect match for you. He's a dermatologist and he's looking for a wife. The family all agrees this is the best thing for you." "Single and has a job. That's a pretty low bar." I said. "Personality. Interests. Political views. Sense of humor. Pets. Hobbies. Character. Intelligence. Values. None of those matter?" "Not when you've lost all sense of who you are." Nikhil leaned forward. "Not when the family honor is at stake." "Oh, I'm sorry." My voice dripped with sarcasm. "Did I go to sleep and wake up in the wrong century? The family honor? Since when does our family have honor? And in what universe did you ever think I would agree to something like this?

BOTH IN PERSONAL conversations and in the statistics, I sense a change among America’s young, who increasingly display both a pervasive cynicism about politics (particularly after Obama turned out to be business as usual) and also, unless they are in the upper 5 percent or so, a fatalism about their personal career prospects. Their general view is: if you have rich parents, a computer science background, or an MBA, you’re okay; otherwise, you’re not okay, and if you want to change that and make some money, you had better concentrate really hard on pleasing the boss. Outside of Silicon Valley and Wall Street, the America of possibility, openness, progress, and opportunity seems increasingly distant. Most older Americans, in contrast, still do not seem to realize how unfair their society has become over the last generation unless they have become victims of it themselves.

There are many facets to the decline in fairness and opportunity in American life. Perhaps the worst are the conditions now imposed upon young children born into the underclass and subjected to the recent evolution of the educational system. They are related, and they reinforce each other; their combined result is to condemn tens of millions of children, particularly those born into the new underclass, to a life of hardship and unfairness. For any young child whose parents don’t have money, or who is the child of a migrant agricultural worker and/or an illegal immigrant, prenatal care, nursery, day care, after school, school nutrition, and foster-care systems are nothing short of appalling. And then comes school itself. The “American dream”, stated simply, is that no matter how poor or humble your origins—even if you never knew your parents—you have a shot at a decent life. America’s promise is that anyone willing to work hard can do better over time, and have at least a reasonable life for themselves and their own children. You could expect to do better than your parents, and even be able to help them as they grew old. More than ever before, the key to such a dream is a good education. The rise of information technology, and the opening of Asian economies, means that only a small portion of America’s population can make a good living through unskilled or manual labour. But instead of elevating the educational system and the opportunities it should provide, American politicians, and those who follow their lead around the globe, have been going in exactly the wrong direction. As a result, we are developing not a new class system, but, without exaggeration, a new caste system—a society in which the circumstances of your birth determine your entire life. As a result, the dream of opportunity is dying. Increasingly, the most important determinant of a child’s life prospects—future income, wealth, educational level, even health and life expectancy—is totally arbitrary and unfair. It’s also very simple. A child’s future is increasingly determined by his or her parents’ wealth, not by his or her intelligence or energy. To be sure, there are a number of reasons for this. Income is correlated with many other things, and it’s therefore difficult to isolate the impact of individual factors. Children in poor households are more likely to grow up in single-parent versus two-parent households, exposed to drugs and alcohol, with one or both parents in prison, with their immigration status questionable, and more likely to have problems with diet and obesity. Culture and race play a role: Asian children have far higher school graduation rates, test scores, and grades than all other groups, including whites, in the US; Latinos, the lowest.

as with private planes and private lifts, so with private education; there has arisen an increasingly segregated system of private primary and secondary schools for the wealthy. It’s not very subtle. Where does John Paulson send his children to school? His twin daughters attended preschool at the 92nd Street Y, which costs over $20,000 per student per year—yes, for nursery. Paulson is on their board. He also manages some of their investments, which he has guaranteed against losses. Many other board members have sent children to the school; four of them also manage money for the institution. This is not unusual. One of Mr Paulson’s daughters, having left nursery behind, now attends Spence, another exclusive private school in Manhattan. Mr Paulson is on their board too.

Harvard, and most other elite private schools, claim that their admissions are merit-based and need-blind, and that everyone who qualifies will receive enough financial aid to attend. This is bullshit, of course. If your parents went to Harvard (or another Ivy League university, such as Yale, Princeton, etc.) and have donated money, or if your father runs a huge global bank or is prime minister somewhere, your chances are surely somewhat improved. But forget about that—just look at the money and the students. In the 2011 academic year, Harvard’s administration proudly announced that slightly over 60 percent of its undergraduates received some level of financial aid and also stated that no student whose family earned less than $180,000 per year would be required to pay more than 10 percent of their total costs.17 Think about that for a minute. If you’re a Harvard student who receives no financial aid at all, you come from a family that makes much more than $180,000 per year. Let’s say the eligibility cutoff for receiving any financial aid at all is $300,000 (Harvard doesn’t reveal the number). This means that nearly 40 percent of Harvard undergraduates came from families whose income is at the very upper end of the American income distribution. This means that Harvard’s income distribution is probably even more skewed than America’s: in the nation as a whole, in 2010 the top 1 percent of families received about 20 percent of all annual income.

The money, as promised, was in the trunk of the general’s official

lot. In addition to the behaviour that caused the crisis, major US and European banks have been caught assisting corporate fraud by Enron and others, laundering money for drug cartels and the Iranian military, aiding tax evasion, hiding the assets of corrupt dictators, colluding in order to fix prices, and committing many forms of financial fraud. The evidence is now overwhelming that over the last thirty years, the US financial sector has become a rogue industry.

Betrayal is the inherent part of love.

She knew all the ways of building up a mark's confidence. She knew how to feed them a little of the sweetest bait whether it was sex or money or power, whatever it was that they adored the most. You were really feeding them the delicious poison of their own egos. You had to let them have a taste of it, and you had to promise them more. You had to make them believe that it would all come true.

Josie said. “We almost gave up several times,” Dora admitted, shaking her head.  “But maybe the quilt did keep us from going home earlier than we had planned.” “I like the name Rolling Stones,” Josie commented. “Hey, that’s kind of like us. We didn’t use wagons, but we managed to tour part of the country.” “You’re right. I believe we should just keep the quilt.” “Won’t it remind us of all the anxious moments?” “Maybe, but we showed courage and persevered,” Dora said, soundly.  “Hey, where’s the bonus they promised us?” “Well, I don’t know.” Dora searched the box and held up a blue envelope. “Let’s see.” Josie whipped it out of her hand. She broke the seal and took out two airplane tickets. “Airplane tickets?” Dora asked in disbelief. “What do we do with tickets?” “Here’s a note between the tickets.” Josie opened it.  “It says the tickets are for a quilt show in Philadelphia. Milton wants us to attend.  He says he will meet us there and answer more questions for us.” “But we’re afraid to fly,” Dora protested. “Could we send the tickets back?” Josie suggested. “I don’t think so. Milton will be out his money.” “When is it?” Dora took the tickets and examined them. “In September. Only a month away.” Josie tapped her chin in thought. “If we decided to do more touring, we could extend our trip from there to the New England States.” “We could see the autumn leaves,” Dora said, excitement rising in her voice. “Anthony wanted us to visit him in Iowa,” Josie reminded Dora. “How are we going to work all this in?” “I have no idea. Why does traveling have to be so complicated and so full of surprises?”   ______   MDora looped a bright red scarf around her neck while glancing out her bedroom  window. The wind swirled bits of trash down the sidewalk of their Hedge City, Nebraska, home. She sighed, wishing she could stay at home today and read.  Buzzie looked up at her and meowed, expressing the same sentiments. She reached down and patted her softly.  But she didn’t have that luxury today. She had agreed to substitute teach for the current English teacher who would be out for at least a week.  Josie called from the kitchen. “Want more coffee?” “Yes, please.  Fill my mug.  I’ll drink it on my way to school.” She reached into the closet and pulled out a beige sweater. A glance in the mirror confirmed the bright red scarf did wonders for the nondescript sweater’s color. Josie joined her at the door dressed in russet slacks and matching jacket and handed Dora her mug.  “A little blustery today.” “For sure.” Dora eyed Josie, wishing she had the sense of style Josie displayed. The sisters would walk together and then would split to their separate ways, Josie to fill in at the

The only thing perfect about any crime is getting away with it. And by getting away I mean not getting caught, by keeping the money, by being free and clear. That said, even as there is no perfect heist, there is the more perfect plan.

He told me about an incident that had happened to him immediately after one of his heists. He had pulled a cash robbery and was a few miles from the scene, feeling good about having gotten away. He still had the money in a bag on the front seat of his car and the gun on the floor. He was driving in traffic as he came to a red light with several cars already stopped in front of him. As he waited for the light to turn, he looked in his rearview mirror and his heart stopped. Several police cars had pulled up behind him; the cops had bailed out and were running, with drawn guns up alongside his car. “I’m busted,” he thought and quickly put his hands up. The cops ran right by him to the car stopped in front of the line, where they hauled the driver out in what he took to be a drug bust. He said he shakily put his hands down and drove away when the light turned. I wondered if I had ever come that close to a good pinch and gone right on by.

It must be hard for Chloe as a single mom," Garcia said. "Lots of bills to pay and no one to help. Sometimes people get desperate." My spider senses tingled. This was not where I had expected the conversation to go. "Olivia is safe, healthy, and happy," I said. "Chloe works three jobs to support her. They're renting the first floor of a nice house that has three other lovely tenants, and although money is tight, the only real issue she has is an ex who has consistently refused to pay child support or alimony. He's someone you should investigate, not Chloe. He's a nasty piece of work. His parents disinherited him after they found out he'd abused her. He barely scraped through college, and now he's involved with a bad crowd." "No one is trying to take Olivia away," he said, understanding. "Then I don't appreciate your attempt to insinuate that my friend would resort to theft to make ends meet. It's beneath you and the dignity of your profession.

He's resourceful and very good with people. His job will be to form a connection with someone in the mansion so he can get inside and feed us information." "I'll bet he's good with people," Emma muttered. "So long as the people have boobs, money, and utterly no taste." "You remind me of someone I really cared about." Cristian gave her a smooth, guileless smile that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. "We should hang out. I've always enjoyed spending time with older women. You could teach me how to knit." Emma's face turned three shades of fury. "Give me a pair of knitting needles and I'll shove them up your---

Rich people were just like me except they had a lot more money, wore fancier clothes, couldn't get good staff, and shouldn't have bought little Amanda that third horse because she could only stable two horses at her private school. Imagine. Where was all that tuition money going? Rich people also had a place in the Hamptons, a place in Italy, a place in Florida, and thank God "Jim" finally got a private jet. First class is so congested. Shudder. Like me, they found there were simply just enough hours in the day. Unlike me, it was because their days were spent with personal trainers, stylists, therapists, and Reiki practitioners, and their nights were spent at galas, balls, banquets, charity events, operas, symphonies, and fundraisers. Then there was the shopping. Honestly. Jim/Richard/David/John just couldn't understand that it was impossible to wear the same dress twice. Everyone was run ragged. Exhausted. What about me time? Who wanted to fly up to New York to spend a day at the spa? Jim's treat. Me! Me!

20 percent and that's my final offer." Dog folded his arms across his chest in a move that I assumed was meant to intimidate. He had sizable muscle, but the effect was watered down by his My Little Pony tattoos. I could swear I saw Fluttershy wink. "Don't give me that 20 percent bullshit," I said. "I work in retail. I know the margins and I know you didn't buy these goods so everything is profit for you." "You didn't tell me she was a hard-ass." Dog glared at Jack. "I like to keep the good stuff to myself." "Give me the Boxing Day special," I said. "Six A.M. door crasher." His eyes widened. "40 percent?" I shook my head. "First five people in the door." "Sixty?" "Take it or leave it." I pulled out a wad of cash. We'd all chipped in to cover the costs in hopeful anticipation of a bigger return at the end. Dog took the money, but not before registering a complaint with customer service. "You said she was a newb," he said to Jack. "She's a smart and savvy newb." Jack grinned. "Gotta say, it's pretty damn hot.

If you had more money than you knew what to do with, what would you desire?

The last few years had taught her that, bizarrely, there might be more to life than money, heists, and adrenaline. A crazy idea, no kidding, and she wasn't entirely convinced yet, but maybe, just maybe, she could be something more than a thief?

I am your means to gain anything in this world; You can even delay your death by a day but, You cannot buy me because, I rule this world

The Bank of England distributes the nation’s money regionally in this way to avoid the danger of a single calamitous incident at one building destroying its stock of bank notes. This is important because, despite cheques and plastic, the public still uses a vast amount of cash. Approximately £37 billion is fluttering around the national economy daily in paper money.