Streak Of Luck Quotes

It would be one of those evenings when lady luck showed the bitchy streak in her nature

Another mistaken notion connected with the law of large numbers is the idea that an event is more or less likely to occur because it has or has not happened recently. The idea that the odds of an event with a fixed probability increase or decrease depending on recent occurrences of the event is called the gambler's fallacy. For example, if Kerrich landed, say, 44 heads in the first 100 tosses, the coin would not develop a bias towards the tails in order to catch up! That's what is at the root of such ideas as "her luck has run out" and "He is due." That does not happen. For what it's worth, a good streak doesn't jinx you, and a bad one, unfortunately , does not mean better luck is in store.

If there was any justice in the world, I'd never have met you, much less have even a scrap of your regard. And for a while... I thought maybe I'd cheated fate to have you near me. That I was bending the rules—forcing some impossible streak of luck—and any moment, you'd find out who I really was, and then you'd be gone. (...) But what a stupid thing to think. Unfair to you. Did I think so little of you? Did I think you couldn't see who I was, really? Was I foolish enough to believe I could make you see something other than what was there?

Opportunities are like night owls. They like to streak naked and howl at the moon. A lot of success in life comes down to luck. So put yourself in a position to get lucky. Because you know what happens if you don't go out? Nothing.

My mother believed in God's will for many years. It was af if she had turned on a celestial faucet and goodness kept pouring out. She said it was faith that kept all these good things coming our way, only I thought she said "fate" because she couldn't pronounce the "th" sound in "faith". And later I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control. I found out the most I could have was hope, and with that I wasn't denying any possibility, good or bad. I was just saying, If there is a choice, dear God or whatever you are, here's where the odds should be placed. I remember the day I started thinking this, it was such a revelation to me. It was the day my mother lost her faith in God. She found that things of unquestioned certainty could never be trusted again. We had gone to the beach, to a secluded spot south of the city near Devil's Slide. My father had read in Sunset magazine that this was a good place to catch ocean perch. And although my father was not a fisherman but a pharmacist's assistant who had once been a doctor in China, he believed in his nenkan, his ability to do anything he put his mind to. My mother believed she had nenkan to cook anything my father had a mind to catch. It was this belief in their nenkan that had brought my parents to America. It had enabled them to have seven children and buy a house in Sunset district with very little money. It had given them the confidence to believe their luck would never run out, that God was on their side, that house gods had only benevolent things to report and our ancestors were pleased, that lifetime warranties meant our lucky streak would never break, that all the elements were now in balance, the right amount of wind and water.

... It's a tradition my great-grandfather started almost a hundred years ago, after my father was born. He gave my father fifty newly minted silver dollars and explained that each time something really amazing happened to him, he had to return one of the dollars to the universe so that someone else could wish on it." I smile, recalling how Patrick had once told me a story of his grandfather standing on the Brooklyn Bridge in 1936 and throwing a silver dollar into the water after his beloved Yankees won the World Series. They won it for the next three years too, and his grandfather always believed that it was his coins - good luck returned to the universe - that kept their streak alive... ... My father always used to tell me that if you keep the coins, you throw things out of balance... It's all about passing the luck on and thanking the world for whatever good things have happened to you.

Graduate student Raina Sun is trying to keep her head above water as the bills roll in when her dashing college adviser cons her out of several months of rent. But her quest to get her money back sets into a motion a streak of bad luck.

La mala racha" Mientras dura la mala racha pierdo todo. Se me caen las cosas de los bolsillos y de la memoria: pierdo llaves. lapiceras, dinero, documentos, nombres, caras, palabras. Yo no se si será gualicho de alguien que me quiere mal y me piensa peor, o pura casualidad, pero a veces el bajón demora en irse y yo ando de pérdida en pérdida, pierdo lo que encuentro, no encuentro lo que busco, y siento mucho miedo de que se me caiga la vida en alguna distracción. "When Luck Runs Out” During streaks of bad luck, I lose everything. Things fall out of my pockets and my memory: I lose keys, pens, money, documents, names, faces, words. I don’t know whether someone wishes me harm and has put the evil eye on me or whether it’s pure happenstance, but sometimes this slump just won’t end and I lose one thing after another. I lose what I find, I can’t find what I’m looking for, and I’m quite afraid of losing life through some little hole in my pocket.” Eduardo Galeano: El libro de los abrazos (The Book of Embraces)

And although my father was not a fisherman but a pharmacist's assistant who had once been a doctor in China, he believed in his nengkan, his ability to do anything he put his mind to. My mother believed she had nengkan to cook anything my father had a mind to catch. It was this belief in their nengkan that had brought my parents to America. It had enabled them to have seven children and buy a house in the Sunset district with very little money. It had given them the confidence to believe their luck would never run out, that God was on their side, that the house gods had only benevolent things to report and our ancestors were pleased, that lifetime warranties meant our lucky streak would never break, that all the elements were in balance, the right amount of wind and water.

The Lucky Looking Glass by Stewart Stafford Woken from a nightmare, He walked to his bathroom, Treading on a hand mirror, Breaking it, to his horror. Payback of a reflection dodged, With a lifespan of scars healed, Dark energies bilaterally wiped, A poisonous duo counterbalanced. From then on, Plutus's grin shone, A Midas touch with an off switch, Winning streaks of a Texan width, Cracked mirror coffin for the next life. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

ONE OF THE peculiarities of the white race’s presence in America is how little intention has been applied to it. As a people, wherever we have been, we have never really intended to be. The continent is said to have been discovered by an Italian who was on his way to India. The earliest explorers were looking for gold, which was, after an early streak of luck in Mexico, always somewhere farther on. Conquests and foundings were incidental to this search—which did not, and could not, end until the continent was finally laid open in an orgy of goldseeking in the middle of the 19th century. Once the unknown of geography was mapped, the industrial marketplace became the new frontier, and we continued, with largely the same motives and with increasing haste and anxiety, to displace ourselves—no longer with unity of direction, like a migrant flock, but like the refugees from a broken ant hill. In our own time we have invaded foreign lands and the moon with the high-toned patriotism of the conquistadors, and with the same mixture of fantasy and avarice.

Sitting out on the canoe tonight, watching the indigo waters of the South China Sea, I noticed the waxing moon calculating that maybe by the time it is full we’ll be back in the U.S. of A. I shed a few tears for Michael again. I was hoping his ghost would materialize just to let me know there actually is a spiritual realm but no such luck. It was just me, alone. It’s so bizarre. He was here and now… he’s gone. That’s the way it is. We are… and then, we are no more. Two or three loved ones keep our memory alive… and then, they are no more. And we all fade into that massive vapor cloud of forgotten souls. Why were we even here in the first place? I began to stand up. That’s when I saw it. It entered the night sky from the west and streaked to the east, forming a brilliant but thin arc of flame. A shooting star. A meteorite. Was that my confirmation? I would like to think so.

Socrates' execution must have had a profound impact on his associates. From Plato's seventh letter, for instance, we learn how it affected his assessment of the Athenian polity and, in fact, of every other polity. All human political and social arrangements, Plato concluded (Epist. 7.325d-326a), were almost beyond repair and could not be helped except by some miraculous plan and a streak of good luck. Later on, he would insist on the necessity of casting aside all existing political and social arrangements in order to undertake the task of reforming them as if on a new canvass, because those used hitherto were useless. Like an artist bent on correcting a painting full of flaws, who eventually decides to discard it, Plato envisioned the possibility of recreating society on a new foundation. His political dialogues, the Republic and the Laws, are the literary testament of his aspirations. Antisthenes, however, appears not to have sheltered such aspirations. The human world, which according to Plato was "almost beyond repair," was for Antisthenes truly beyond repair and there was nothing to do about it, except to tear it down, and Socrates' execution provided irrefutable evidence for this. Socrates had practiced what the Athenians regarded as an inviolable right- freedom of speech or the willingness to say it all-and yet, it was for this that he was punished.

Do you ever get the feeling you’re on a bit of a downer. A losing streak? Perhaps being deliberately overlooked by Lady Luck. You know, being victimised by the gods of chance.

Contrary to what our brains are telling us, there’s no mystical force that imbues a winner with a streak of luck, nor is there a cosmic sense of justice

long streaks are extraordinary luck imposed on great skill.

Rancorous ivy. On the other side of the wall, at the edge of the river, the sand burned. The river lay afire. Kingfishers fell like spots across the eyes and laughter was yellow. Every Sunday Omensetter strolled by the river with his wife, his daughters, and his dog. They came by wagon, spoke to people who were off to church, and while Furber preached, they sprawled in the gravel and trailed their feet in the water. Lucy Omensetter lay her swollen body on a flat rock. Furber felt the sun lapping at her ears. It was like a rising blush, and his hands trembled when he held them out to make the bars of the cross. May the Lord bless you and keep you . . . He closed his eyes, drifting off. They would see how moved he was, how intense and sincere he was. Cause His light to shine upon you . . . He would find the footprints of the dog and imprint of their bodies. All the days of your life . . . The brazen parade of her infected person. Watchman. Rainbows like rings of oil around her. Watchman. Shouldn’t we be? I spy you, Fatty, behind the tree. He wanted to rub the memory from his eyes. Glittering. Beads of water stood on her skin and drop fled into drop until they broke and ran, the streaks finally fading. Her navel was inside out—sweet spot where Zeus had tied her. She was so white and glistening, so . . . pale, though darker about the eyes, the nipples dark. Open us to evil. He made a slit in his lids. Burn our hearts. Shawls of sunlight spilled over the backs of the pews. Nay-ked-nessss. The droplets gathered at the point of her elbow and hung there, the sac swelling until it fell and spattered on her foot. Nay . . . nay. To enclose her like the water of the creek had closed her. Nay . . . Proper body for a lover. Joy to be a stone. Please, the peep-watch is over. Please hurry now. Hurry. Get out of my church.

Antisthenes' learning from Socrates came to an end in the spring of 399 B.C., when Socrates was tried and executed. The charge was irreligiosity, which implied, as pointed out earlier, a lack of respect or fearlessness. He did not have the fear, respect, and reverential awe ( crif3ac;) toward the laws and their foundation-the gods-that were expected of law-abiding citizens. At least in word, he had challenged the structure of the State and, worse still, had taught others to do like-wise, according to the affidavit submitted by the prosecutors. He had stood apart from the people and had seldom taken part in their political affairs. He had shown little respect for Homer and other epic poets, from whom people learned their moral values. He had set up himself as a monarch and had claimed access to a secret voice that guided his conduct. For this, the Athenians found him guilty and sentenced him to die by hemlock poisoning. To make things worse, he had defended himself in what was an unusual way, neither asking for mercy nor producing his family before the jurors nor giving any indications of wanting to reach an accommodation nor showing consternation at the prospect of death. Socrates' execution must have had a profound impact on his associates. From Plato's seventh letter, for instance, we learn how it affected his assessment of the Athenian polity and, in fact, of every other polity. All human political and social arrangements, Plato concluded (Epist. 7.325d-326a), were almost beyond repair and could not be helped except by some miraculous plan and a streak of good luck. Later on, he would insist on the necessity of casting aside all existing political and social arrangements in order to undertake the task of reforming them as if on a new canvass, because those used hitherto were useless. Like an artist bent on correcting a painting full of flaws, who eventually decides to discard it, Plato envisioned the possibility of recreating society on a new foundation. His political dialogues, the Republic and the Laws, are the literary testament of his aspirations. Antisthenes, however, appears not to have sheltered such aspirations. The human world, which according to Plato was "almost beyond repair," was for Antisthenes truly beyond repair and there was nothing to do about it, except to tear it down, and Socrates' execution provided irrefutable evidence for this. Socrates had practiced what the Athenians regarded as an inviolable right-n:appfJ

Alec watched as she fluffed her hot-pink-streaked hair, then kissed the cross for luck and headed out. Christian vampires were burned by a cross, but Lily was a Buddhist. The cross meant nothing to her, except that it had been Raphael's.

To see why temporarily high returns don’t prove anything, imagine that two places are 130 miles apart. If I observed the 65 mph speed limit, I can drive that distance in two hours. But if I drive 130 mph, I can get there in one hour. If I try this and survive, am I “right”? Should you be tempted to try it, too, because you hear me bragging that it “worked?” Flashy gimmicks for beating the market are much the same: in short streaks, so as long as your luck holds out, they work. Over time, they will get you killed.

Mother Superior of the Sisters of Mercy herself was lying in wait for Jane at the foyer. "You have to keep in mind we only can restock our supplies once a month. Frankly, it always stresses our supplies of medications when Mr. Rogers is having a streak of bad luck. With fighting breaking out right and left..." "Mother Superior, this is Nigel Reid. Nigel, Mother Superior is head of the nuns that oversee this hospital. Anyone attacked by a monster is brought here to be treated." Which of course was all that took. TV hosts were kind of like napalm. You threw them at any major infestation and they cleaned out the area of all hostiles. Nigel lit up as if introduced to Santa Claus. "Oh, how simply wonderful to meet you!" Taggart caught what she had done and his eyes glittered with his smile. "That was pure evil." "Judicial use of resources is always appropriate.

But since I do happen to have a bit of ability to write novels, and have had some good luck on my side, plus a stubborn streak (or, to put it more nicely, a consistency) that's proved helpful, I've been able, over thirty-five years, to write novels as a profession. To this day it continues to amaze me. It really does. What I've wanted to talk about in this book is that very sense of amazement, about the strong desire (or will, you might say) to hold onto the purity of that feeling of amazement. Perhaps the past thirty-five years of my life have been the ardent pursuit to maintain that sense of amazement. It certainly feels that way.

Someone like Bella ought to have a protector, a guardian angel. She deserved that. And yet, clearly, she’d been left defenseless. I would love to believe an angel or anything else was watching over her, anything that would give her a measure of protection, but when I tried to imagine that champion, it was obvious such a thing was impossible. What guardian angel would have allowed Bella to come here? To cross my path, formed, as she was, in such a fashion that there was no way I could possibly overlook her? A ridiculously potent scent to demand my attention, a silent mind to enflame my curiosity, a quiet beauty to hold my eyes, a selfless soul to earn my awe. Factor in the total lack of self-preservation so she was not repelled by me, and then of course add the wide streak of appallingly bad luck that put her always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When a process seems obviously random—like, say, coin flips or spins of a roulette wheel—then the gambler’s fallacy takes hold of our minds. That leads us to believe that a streak of luck is likely to reverse. (It’s when human skill appears to play a major role, as in sports, for example, that we tend to believe a hot streak will persist.)

In all prospering human affairs there is a streak of hazard, a blending of good fortune with good judgment which gives the lucky man a sense of having earned his deserts and gives the deserving, if he is modest, an awareness of his luck. That

Sometimes a streak of bad luck and bad decisions will persist mercilessly for years at a stretch. After a while, it all kind of bounces off you. It still hurts, but you don’t mind it. And you become so uninvested that you don’t even blink when things fall to pieces.

Some say that life was created for no reasons by an endless streak of good luck involving dumb and dead matter that nobody made out of nothing. :-)

Neely Thomas was used to losing. Compulsive gamblers learn how to handle it—his kids' college funds depleted, an ultimatum from his wife, his life near bottom—he was ready to unravel. But then a moment's inattention—checking the football scores instead of keeping his eyes on the road—and a traffic accident leaves an innocent boy dead. Now suddenly Neely can't stop winning. The punishment for his crime? How bad could this be? A winning streak so relentless it won't end until his lies are exposed and he's lost everything he loves.

Klarman has a wonderful line: “Value investing is at its core the marriage of a contrarian streak and a calculator.”35 He's saying that you have to be different from others and focus on gaps between price and value. This idea extends well beyond the world of investing.

The luck gives in first. Luck," continued the gambler reflectively, "is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when it's going to change that makes you. We've had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat,-you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along you're all right.