They experimented on the poor and if that worked they used the treatment on the rich. And if it didn’t work, there would still be more poor people left over to experiment upon.

The secret to a rich life is to have more beginnings than endings.

“You can’t blame them for being rich,” Jimmy said.
“No, I blame their fucking parents.”
“And their grandparents,” said Jimmy.
“Yes, I’d be happy to take their new cars and their pretty girlfriends and I wouldn’t give a fuck about anything like social justice.”
“Yeah,” said Jimmy.
“I guess the only time most people think about injustice is when it happens to them.”

We were in rich territory. I had forgotten that some people lived quite well while most others ate their own shit for breakfast.

You are no superior not inferior even if you are rich and you are poor.

This poor Sufi dressed in rags walked into a jewelry store owned by a rich merchant and asked him, “Do you know how you’re going to die?” The merchant answered, “No. No one knows how they’re going to die.” And the Sufi said, “I do.”
“How?” asked the merchant.
And the Sufi lay down, crossed his arms, said, “Like this,” and died, whereupon the merchant promptly gave up his store to live a life of poverty in pursuit of the kind of spiritual wealth the dead Sufi had acquired.

Anyway, when you get in trouble, just don’t tell on anyone. I mean, I hate the rich snots here with a fervent passion I usually reserve for only dental work and my father. But that doesn’t mean I would rat them out. Pretty much the only important thing is never never never never rat.

The quiet mind is richer than a crown.

That scene in the office stayed with me. Those cigars, the fine clothes. I thought of good steaks, long
rides up winding driveways that led to beautiful homes. Ease. Trips to Europe. Fine women. Were they
that much more clever than I? The only difference was money, and the desire to accumulate it.
I’d do it too! I’d save my pennies. I’d get an idea, I’d spring a loan. I’d hire and fire. I’d keep whiskey in
my desk drawer. I’d have a wife with size 40 breasts and an ass that would make the paperboy on the
corner come in his pants when he saw it wobble. I’d cheat on her and she’d know it and keep silent in
order to live in my house with my wealth. I’d fire men just to see the look of dismay on their faces. I’d
fire women who didn’t deserve to be fired.

Too many writers write for the wrong reasons. They want to get famous or they want to get rich or they want to get laid by the girls with bluebells in their hair… When everything works best, it’s not because you chose writing, but because writing chose you. It’s when you’re mad with it. When it’s stuffed in your ears, nostrils, under your finger nails. It’s when there’s no hope but that.

Both riches and honor come from You, and You rule over all. In Your hand is power and might; and it is in Your hands to make great and to give strength to everyone.

You can’t just think and grow rich, you’ve got to do something with those thoughts.

Well, winning the lottery is one way of becoming a millionaire, but the odds stacked against you are pretty ridiculous. You could cut those odds way down if you decided to earn a million.

You were born rich and your abundance is contained in your thoughts, so be good to yourself, choose magnificent ideas and cease permitting your physical world to control your thinking.

I’ll bet you a million dollars you are a lot sharper than many people who have already earned a million. What’s the difference between you and them? They decided to do it.

If a man had as many ideas during the day as he does when he has insomnia, he’d make a fortune.

Good morning to you dear! The Lord shall supply your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus. You are blessed.

May the Lord increase you in riches and in good health, good morning.

Gus: Del Griffith! How the hell are ya?
Del: Well, I’m still a million bucks shy of bein’ a millionaire. Gus, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Neal Page from Chicago. Neal, this is Gus Mooney.
Neal: Hi.
Gus: Glad to meet you, Nick.

Goddamn! I’m shitting gold these days! Kinda makes me wonder why the hell so many people are tryin’ to tell me to slow down. Seems like motherf**kers should be shuttin’ the hell up, and enjoy the show.

The humongous part about being a celebrity is cashing in on it – making shitloads of money, having expensive, luxurious things. That way, in case one day you’re not famous, you can still be rich as hell and better than everyone around you.

When my ass was 19 years old, I changed the face of professional baseball. I was handed the keys to the kingdom: multimillion-dollar deals, endorsements. Everyone wanted a piece of my shit. Just a man with a mind for victory and an arm like a f**king cannon. But sometimes when you bring the thunder, you get lost in the storm. And a true champion, face to face with his darkest hour, will do whatever it takes to rise above. A man fights and fights, and then fights some more. Because surrender is death, and death is for pussies. And my ass ain’t no pussy. My ass is a f**king champion.

Once again, I’m with the hottest chick in town, buyin’ the most expensive fashions, dinin’ in the fanciest food places, riding around on goddamn jet skis. Rainin’ trim. Hallucinogens. Jet skis again. Throwin’ heat.

When the Englishman speaks of national wealth he means the number of millionaires in the country.

One has often wondered whether upon the whole earth there is anything so unintelligent, so unapt to perceive how the world is really going, as an ordinary young Englishman of our upper class.