They had reached, she felt, a sunny island where peace dwelt, sanity reigned and the sun forever shone, the blessed island of good boots.

Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.

I often calculate odds on horse races; the civil service computermen frequently program such requests. But the results are so at variance with expectations that I have concluded either that the data is too meager, or the horses or riders are not honest. Possibly all three.

Every adversity, every unpleasant circumstance, every failure, and every physical pain carries with it the seed of an equivalent benefit.

Written By Napoleon Hill

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