rich

Never bring a lot of money to where a poor man lives. He can only lose what little he has. On the other hand it is mathematically possible that he might win whatever you bring with you. What you must do, with money and the poor, is never let them get too close to one another.

A live broke man is 'luckier' than a dead rich man.

When you're rich, 'crazy' is just 'eccentric'.

I am an urchin, standing in the cold, elbowed aside by the glossy rich visitors in their fur coats and ostentatious jewellery, being fussed into the hotel by pompous-looking doormen. 'No problem. I'd better get home, actually Mr _ Gustav. A drink is very tempting, but maybe not such a good idea after all.' I pat my pockets. 'And I'm skint.' 'Pavements not paved with gold yet, eh?' He moves on along the facade of the grand hotel to the corner, and waits. He's staring not back at me but down St James Street. I wage a little war with myself. He's a stranger, remember. The newspaper headlines, exaggerated by the time they reach the office of Jake's local rag: Country girl from the sticks raped and murdered in London by suave conman. Even Poppy would be wagging her metaphorical finger at me by now. Blaming herself for not being there, looking out for me. But we're out in public here. Lots of people around us. He's charming. He's incredibly attractive. He's got a lovely deep, well spoken voice. And he's an entrepreneur who must be bloody rich if he owns more than one house. What the hell else am I going to do with myself when everyone else is out having fun? One thing I won't tell him is that my pockets might be empty, but my bank account is full. 'One drink. Then I must get back.' He doesn't answer or protest, but with a courtly bow he crooks his elbow and escorts me down St James. We turn right and into the far more subtle splendour of Dukes Hotel. 'Dress code?' I ask nervously, wiping my feet obediently on the huge but welcoming doormat and drifting ahead of him into the smart interior where domed and glassed corridors lead here and there. The foyer smells of mulled wine and candles and entices you to succumb to its perfumed embrace.

Nothing humbles a rich man better than a poor man that isn__ willing to do __nything_ for money.

Life punishes those who have things in abundance by making them worry about petty things like: what to wear, or, which car to drive.

Gatsby's self-willed metamorphosis from farm boy to prince is many ways identical to my father's. Like Gatsby, my father fueled this transformation with the "colossal vitality of his illusion". Unlike Gatsby he did this on a school teacher's salary.

Give dry bread to a rich kid and he will throw it into the dustbin, give it to the poor kid and he will remember your name for the rest of his days

For you cannot live in New York City very long and not be conscious of the niceties of being rich__he city is, after all, an ecstatic exercise in merchandising__nd one evening of his visit to Venezuela Sutherland sat straight up when he read a line of Santayana__: __oney is the petrol of life.

It doesn't matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or who you love. It doesn't matter whether you're black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you're willing to try.

If a nation succeeds in making her people strong in virtues, then the nation is rich already.

Being rich is an untalented artist__ consolation prize.

Principles in a poor is admirable as politeness in a prince.

The world is administered by rich but it is constructed by poor.

Money makes people stupid. They don't have to work as hard as people who don't have money. That's why the smart people who do have money mostly use it for one thing_ They use it to make sure the people without it don't get any more.

I liked this rich lifestyle, but I loved the poor lifestyle better. The less money people had, the less greedy they seemed to be. The people who lived around our flocks seemed to always love everyone around them. Even though they aren__ always happy and can__ always afford the bills, they are still glad to be alive.

In fifteen hundred years someone will figure out a way to squeeze black juice out of the yellow sand, and that will get everyone very excited. Some people who were rich already will get a lot richer, and some people who were poor will be told that they're richer but will be pretty sure they're not.

Son, let me tell you a little something about the environment_ you can try to fix it up all you want, but it__ a waste of time. Sooner or later we__l all be doomed_ slaughtered by terrorists, baked in the heat of the sun, nuked until our shadows glow_ greed is good. We don__ exist to help other people, we exist to grow the hell up, have kids, get old and die, while consuming all we can. Nothing comes after. There__ no wrath, no day of reckoning_ we just go. POOF! We have no reason to aspire to change the world, son. We__l thrive by feeding off of whatever__ available. How else do you think we ended up rich? You don__ get ahead by being nice, Thomas.