The Real Deal: My Life in Business and Philanthropy

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Overview

"A consummate innovator, Sandy Weill has written a memoir which uniquely brings to life the dramatic evolution of the modern financial services industry."
—Dr. Alan Greenspan

"I've been friends with Sandy Weill for nearly thirty years, and this book is vintage Sandy: at every turn it's spirited, passionate, and brutally honest."
—President Gerald Ford

"THE REAL DEAL doesn't...

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2006 Audio CD New 6 AUDIO CDs NEW in the shrink wrap, in the original printed box. You will receive SEALED Audio CDs. Makes a great gift! Enjoy this BRAND NEW Audio CD ... performance. Read more Show Less

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The Real Deal: My Life in Business and Philanthropy

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Overview

"A consummate innovator, Sandy Weill has written a memoir which uniquely brings to life the dramatic evolution of the modern financial services industry."
—Dr. Alan Greenspan

"I've been friends with Sandy Weill for nearly thirty years, and this book is vintage Sandy: at every turn it's spirited, passionate, and brutally honest."
—President Gerald Ford

"THE REAL DEAL doesn't mince words on what it takes to be successful in business and life. Sandy's drive and hard-earned lessons resonate throughout this fascinating book."
—Dr. Henry Kissinger

"Sandy Weill reinvented Wall Street, redefined banking, and reshaped the world of financial services. He is a visionary who changed the world of business for all of us, and in doing so became that rarest of all breeds—a legend in his own time."
—Ken Chenault, CEO of American Express

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Sandy Weill started his entrepreneurial career during the Eisenhower years with a loan of $30,000. Within approximately 20 years, he was a billionaire. After his attempt to become CEO of American Express failed, he recovered impressively, becoming first the CEO, and then the chairman of Citigroup. Weill's Real Deal tells it all: his successes; his mistakes; his regrets; and what he has learned along the way. One of the most riveting business memoirs in years.
Rick Rothacker
Weill throws in a little about his family life and charity work, but mostly it's a trip down mergers-and-acquisitions lane.... an entertaining tale of a one-time stockbroker who eventually built a global banking giant.
—Charlotte Observor
Anthony Bianco
...this thick volume usefully adds [Weill's] perspective to the record.
—BusinessWeek
Terry Savage
A must-read for anyone who wants to understand the history of this industry -- and the kind of person it takes to battle the establishment, change the landscape and marshal giant transactions like the $60 billion merger of Travelers and Citicorp.
—TheStreet.com
David Weidner
An honest account of an unmatched figure in American business. Weill's telling of his 45-year career on the Street is a nice complement to "Tearing Down the Walls," the 2003 biography written by Wall Street Journal reporter Monica Langley.
—MarketWatch.com
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781594836336
  • Publisher: Hachette Audio
  • Publication date: 10/9/2006
  • Format: CD
  • Edition description: Abridged, 6 CDs, 6.5 Hours
  • Product dimensions: 5.50 (w) x 6.00 (h) x 0.87 (d)

Read an Excerpt

SEPARATION



Somehow, I entered into many of my biggest deals over the years in May. The cycle seemed as regular as the seasons: another year, another deal. My colleagues insisted I'd purposely announce an acquisition by Memorial Day simply to wreck their summer vacation plans and demand that we roll up our sleeves with yet another big merger. Looking back on my very first deal, though, I barely could have imagined possessing that sort of sway over other people's lives.

For four years, my friend Arthur Carter and I dreamed of starting our own company. Arthur was a fledgling investment banker at Lehman Brothers while I had made my way from Bear Stearns to Burnham & Company as a young stockbroker. Commuting into Manhattan each morning to our respective jobs, we talked incessantly of pooling our resources and opening our own business. It was the late 1950s; I was in my mid-twenties; and the Space Age was upon us. American industry was benefiting from an explosion of new technologies, and prosperity was in the air. The promise of a new decade was at hand, and the stock market was surging. We had a limited perspective on the securities business, but we were young, optimistic, and infused with self-confidence.

As we imagined our new business, we looked to Allen & Company, the prestigious merchant bank. Charles Allen had made a fortune investing in start-up companies and profiting as the companies in which his firm had ownership stakes sold out to the public. We were drawn to that sort of enterprise but knew we didn't want to stop there. I had experience selling securities to individuals and figured a brokerage business alongside a merchant bank would cover our day-to-day operating costs.

How to produce sufficient cash flow to have enough left over to feed our families soon became our major challenge. Before long, we effectively solved that problem by bringing in two additional partners, Roger Berlind and Peter Potoma. Like me, Roger and Peter were brokers who could be relied upon to generate a steady stream of business while we'd hunt for the episodic and lucrative investment banking deal.

Opening day for Carter, Berlind, Potoma & Weill was thrilling. It was May 2, 1960. We had found a small no-frills office with an address that oozed respectability within sight of the New York Stock Exchange: 37 Wall Street. Along with a newly hired secretary, the four of us spent our first day in cramped quarters opening boxes, getting our phone lines working, and calling as many clients as we could to announce our new venture. Conscious of our young age-we were all in our twenties- Peter Potoma had suggested that we buy hats and black umbrellas so that we might appear older. After all, with our own money on the line, credibility and bringing in new accounts would be more important than ever.

Shortly after we set up shop, the four of us and our wives convened at Arthur's home on Long Island to celebrate. It was a festive occasion, and we all openly shared our aspirations. To this day, I remember the others stressing over and over their desire to become wealthy. Given that Joanie and I were raising two toddlers and lived nearly hand to mouth, the talk was certainly seductive. Still, what I remember most from that dinner was my declaration that the money should be secondary-what mattered more to me was to build a great firm: one that would lead the industry, employ lots of people, endure over many years, and importantly, command respect.

Over the next forty-three years, I never altered my priorities. I don't recall how my partners reacted to my idealism that evening. It was probably a good thing that none had known me in my younger years. Had they been more familiar with my up-and-down experiences growing up and my family background, I'm sure they would have snickered at my outburst and accused me of hubris. In truth, setting off with my new partners amounted to a genuine coming of- age. Being my own boss was empowering and nerve-wracking all at the same time. It allowed me to dream, but it also instilled discipline, self-confidence, and a work ethic the likes of which I had never consistently mustered before.

I'm still amazed I was able to summon the confidence to start my own business. I was shy as a child and through all my years of schooling was at best an uneven student. My parents never enjoyed a close relationship, and neither represented a particularly good role model. And I lacked the family connections that gave many of my college classmates and early colleagues that certain swagger as they approached their first jobs.

I was born on March 16, 1933, and lived in a modest three-story home in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn until I was ten. My mother's parents owned the home and lived on the first floor with my Aunt Rose, while my family lived in two bedrooms on the second level. The third floor was reserved for tenants. Since I was meek and introverted, I depended heavily on an Irish nanny, Miss Heally, with whom I shared a room and who doted on me so much that I almost looked to her as my real mother. Our neighborhood was filled with Italian, Jewish, and Irish kids, but I never went out of my way to make friends. Between my shyness and reliance on my nanny, I must have been sort of a sissy. It was always easier to talk to Miss Heally or play with my younger sister, Helen.

Summers were special, as we spent them in Peekskill, New York, then a largely agricultural community on the Hudson River. My mother's father originally had owned a hotel there; by the time I was born, he had sold it and bought a farm. It was a terrific escape from the noise and hubbub of Brooklyn. The farm was a gathering point for my extended family, which included my mother's four siblings and their spouses and children. While my mother would move up for the full summer, dad commuted from his city job on weekends. Helen and I had a great time at that farm swimming in the pond, learning to milk cows, fishing, and racing down a sweeping hill in our matching red wagons.

By the time I knew them, my maternal grandparents were already well on in years. In his prime, though, my grandfather, Philip Kalika, must have been a risk taker with good business sense. He had grown up in what is now Poland but then was part of Russia. Though he had been engaged to someone from his hometown, he met my grandmother, Riwe Schwartz, while serving in the Russian army. Falling in love, my grandfather never returned home and instead married my grandmother and settled in a village northwest of Warsaw. Before long, with three of their five children born, including my three-year-old mother, they emigrated to the United States, entering through Ellis Island in 1908.

I don't know the story of how my grandfather went from being a penniless newcomer to his later prosperity; by 1919, he had bought his first home in Brooklyn (the house in which I grew up) and by 1926 opened his own business mass-producing black mourning dresses. Somehow, the company thrived through the Depression years to the point where my grandfather was investing in hotels and farmland and giving his children trips abroad for high school graduation presents.

My grandmother played the role of supportive wife-she was a tiny lady and very old-world in her ways. However, she knew how to juggle the household and raise her kids with a strong hand. I never had the chance to understand what lay behind my grandfather's business success since he was in failing health by the time I knew him. All I recall is an old man suffering from consumption and spitting constantly into an oatmeal box.

My grandparents' children followed fairly predictable routes. My uncles joined the family business while my mother and aunts stayed close to home. My mother, Etta, was an old-fashioned Jewish mother-she cooked and cleaned and was always loving. Her family meant everything. Like her mother, she physically was short of stature and unsophisticated in her ways. Shy to the point of being socially awkward, she never liked going out and was given to housedresses and hairnets. She never learned to drive and was a penny-pincher by nature, often walking ten blocks if she could buy something for a few cents cheaper. Until the day she died in 1994, she never used a credit card.

My mother was no great intellect, yet she had a terrific head for numbers and always was concerned that Helen and I should have a good education. Maybe it was because of her basic frugality, but my mother had an unbelievable knack for memorizing and calculating figures, and she taught me at a very early age about arithmetic before it was called modern math. To this day, I can manipulate numbers in my head with ease.

As a child, I certainly didn't appreciate the mismatch, but my father and mother were worlds apart. I see now that theirs had to have been an arranged marriage of some sort. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if my father was attracted to my mother because of her family's money. After their wedding in 1932, Max "Mac" Weill went to work with my maternal grandfather in the dressmaking business-accommodating his new son-in- law, my grandfather changed the company name to Kalika & Weill.

Over the years, my relationship with my father would change dramatically, and I'd come to resent him in many ways. As a child, though, I adored him. He was tall and athletic and enjoyed the gift of an ebullient personality. I marveled at his gregarious nature, his terrific sense of humor, and his ease with people. Like my mother, he had been born in Poland and came to America as a child-insisting he hailed from more aristocratic stock, he used to contend (I assume tongue in cheek) that his family had migrated to Poland from Alsace.

Unlike my mother's family, my paternal grandparents remain largely a mystery. My grandmother died at a young age, and we didn't have much to do with my grandfather since my mother didn't enjoy his company. I know that my grandfather was a religious man with little money. After the death of his second wife, he apparently married again, this time to a disabled cousin as a mitzvah. I don't know much beyond those few facts.

By the outbreak of the Second World War, my father had split off from my grandfather and had established his own dressmaking business. For a while, his business thrived. I admired his work ethic and took note that he seemed more prosperous than anyone else in the family. Sadly, though, disaster suddenly struck. To the eyes of a tenyear- old, little made sense. By my early twenties, though, I pieced together what happened in this period. In the early 1940s, my father had taken advantage of wartime price controls for personal profit. He was caught by the Office of Price Administration for buying raw materials at controlled prices and then selling the goods on the black market at an inflated price rather than producing dresses for a fixed price as the rules dictated. He was convicted and given a probationary sentence.

My parents did their best to protect Helen and me from those dif- ficult events. In 1943, for instance, we learned abruptly that the family was moving to Miami Beach. Our parents told us only that we had to move there for business reasons. In truth, my father sought to gain physical distance from his legal troubles and probably felt it was too risky to stay in business for himself. I learned much later that he secretly maintained a stake in the garment business in New York by having others front for him.

I had mixed feelings about our move to Miami. Emotionally, I was uprooted from my comfortable surroundings and experienced a sense of loss at being told I would no longer have Miss Heally taking care of me. I was devastated as though I had lost a parent. Joanie contends this forced separation from my surrogate mother had a deep psychological impact on me for the rest of my life. She often reminds me how I consistently attached great importance to personal loyalty, both in business and in my personal life. While I don't know if in fact there was a lasting impact, my world certainly was turned upside down.

Arriving in Florida, we settled into a house on Royal Palm Avenue five blocks from the ocean. My parents insisted that I drop back a year in school but that did little to improve my academic performance. Over the three years we spent in Florida, I was a terrible student. On the other hand, I enjoyed the sunshine and was constantly outside riding my bike or playing basketball with my nextdoor neighbor, Frankie. All of the physical activity helped me realize that I had natural athletic abilities. Within a year, I took on my first job, delivering newspapers, and used to pay Helen a penny a paper to act as my assistant and roll each paper. I proved good at sales and making on-time deliveries and soon began winning contests for new subscriptions.

As I reached my teens, I became conscious of my father's boisterous personality. He dominated our household, always forcing my mother to take a back seat. He'd often embarrass me in front of my friends by telling lewd jokes or pointing out my inadequacies. In restaurants, he'd flirt with pretty waitresses and extravagantly grab the check when we ate with friends. These were little things that were harbingers of a gradually diminishing reverence I'd have for him over the next several years. The louder he became, the more I shrank back in shyness and passivity.

In 1947, my father surprised us again by announcing that we were heading back to New York. He had decided to start a new business with a partner importing steel. In the years following the war, New York suffered one of its periodic housing shortages, and we struggled to find a place to live. Reluctantly, my father moved the family into his father's house in Brooklyn for a year. One of my great-aunts already shared the house with my grandfather and his second wife, and quarters would be tight. At the same time, I was still doing poorly in school-in fact, my freshman high school grades in Florida were horrible. To ease the housing crunch and also acknowledge my scholastic difficulties, my parents decided I should go to boarding school upon our return.

From our summers spent in Peekskill, my parents were familiar with the Peekskill Military Academy. With little time to research alternatives and my parents' sense that I might benefit from a disciplined environment, I was enrolled as a lowly plebe. As had been the case when we moved to Florida, I was put back a year, while my more academically inclined sister was skipped forward. We might have been three years apart in age, yet grade-wise she was steadily catching up on me.

Originally, I was supposed to go to PMA only for a year until my parents found more permanent living accommodations, but I really took to the school and insisted on staying the full four years even after my family found a home of their own in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. Military school was fantastic for me. There was plenty of hazing my first year, and I learned how to take criticism before dishing it out, a skill with lifelong value. The attractive campus with its ivycovered redbrick buildings did little to detract from the administration's insistence on tight discipline and hard work. We attended classes six days a week, and there were strictly enforced curfews. The discipline was exactly what I needed.

Early on, I had the good fortune to develop a close relationship with Clare Frantz, who was my Latin teacher and tennis coach. Tall and lean, the Germanic Frantz took an active interest in me and motivated me to improve my study habits. He worked with me both in the classroom and on the tennis court and tremendously boosted my self-confidence. Unlike my father, who always seemed immersed in business, Clare and I related well to one another.

He had an attractive wife, and the two would often invite me to their on-campus house for dinner. It didn't take long for rumors to fly that I was having an affair with Clare's wife, but the gossip simply reflected the fantasies of my classmates. By my second semester, my academic performance had begun to improve visibly. By the third term, I really took off, and my grades consistently ranked in the top two or three out of a class of thirty-five for the rest of my years at PMA. One year, I ranked top in my class and earned high honors.

PMA also allowed me to experiment with a variety of extracurricular activities. For a time, I worked for the school newspaper, The Reveille, but I wasn't much of a reporter. Being a bass drummer in the marching band was much more to my liking. I still remember marching in a Columbus Day parade down the main street in Peekskill with my large bass drum hoisted from my shoulders-a German shepherd leapt from the curb and began nipping at my heels before sinking its teeth into my leg. Undeterred, I insisted on finishing the parade before attending to my wound.

With Frantz's steady encouragement, I worked at my tennis game with passion and soon excelled. I loved representing the school in various competitions. By my senior year, I won the Westchester County singles tournament for private and parochial school teenage boys and was invited to join the Junior Davis Cup team from New York, which gave me the opportunity to practice in the professional stadium in Forest Hills with Pancho Segura, then one of the sport's great professionals. The thrill of those tennis experiences represented a high point of my high school years.

I matured tremendously during my teenage years at Peekskill Military Academy. My teachers and peers liked me and gave me two nicknames: "Duck" (because they claimed I waddled) and "Mr. Five O'Clock Shadow." By my junior year I was appointed an officer with the rank of first lieutenant. Being on the battalion staff accorded me certain privileges such as officer's quarters (still awfully spartan), later curfews, and opportunities to head into Peekskill on weekends.

I also discovered girls while at PMA. My first experience came the summer after my sophomore year when I worked as a lifeguard at a hotel near my grandparents' farm. There I met a college-aged girl who took more than a casual interest in me. The relationship was brief, but she gave a terrific boost to my self-esteem at a time when I was figuring out my place in the world. Later, I had my first real girlfriend when I met Marian Rogers. Neighbors of my parents were friends with Marian's folks and made the introduction. For the next two years, Marian and I saw one another steadily-she'd come up to PMA on weekends to attend dances and other social functions.

Marian's father owned a pipe and tobacco store in Manhattan. He taught me the art of breaking in a pipe and how to distinguish good tobacco. Soon I became his unofficial distributor in Peekskill. I was the only one with this special blend of tobacco, and it was 100 percent legal! I still have a black-and-white photo of me wearing a sweater and leaning back in a comfortable chair with crossed legs, confidently clutching my pipe. Whatever serenity that picture may have shown, I never felt it once I headed off into the real world.

During my years at PMA, my parents were regular visitors. Sometimes they'd arrive together, while on other occasions my father would drive up alone. Either way, my father never failed to make his presence known to all and always eclipsed my mother when they came together. Chomping on a big cigar, he'd typically beckon my friends and regale them with stories and jokes. I was embarrassed and proud all at the same time.

By now, my father was engaged in his steel importing business operating under the name the American Steel Company. To outward appearances, the business seemed hugely successful as my father lived extravagantly. He drove expensive cars, owned tons of clothes, and took a haircut and manicure weekly. I learned later, though, that all was not as it seemed. The business was highly cyclical and did well only during steel industry strikes, which pushed up prices and profit margins for my father's company. Also, working at the company one summer, I noticed my father and his partner seemed constantly to be in a competition on who could run up the largest expense account. I thought such a practice represented a bad culture for building a business, and it troubled me that the company was absorbing personal expenditures.

These were observations that would only hit home in later life as I reflected on my father's business practices. For the most part, I respected my father greatly in those years and felt he could offer me important life lessons. Indeed, during another summer, he arranged a job for me in a pocketbook factory doing piecework installing metal fasteners. All my co-workers were hardworking and friendly minorities who I realized were locked into their menial jobs. My father made a point to tell me, "If you don't do well in school, this is the type of job that will be available to you. If you want more, you have to apply yourself." On another occasion driving back to New York from a stay in Florida, he put us up at the fancy Mayflower Hotel in Washington. Seeing how I enjoyed the hotel's luxurious appointments, my father stressed that "as an adult, you'll only get to enjoy such nice things if you're willing to work very hard." These were simple statements, but somehow the words hit home.

By early 1951, my days at Peekskill Military Academy were quickly drawing to a close, and I knew it was time to think about my future. After a weak start, I finished nearly at the top of my class, which taught me a valuable lesson in the importance of self-discipline. My hard work paid off, for I was accepted at both Harvard and Cornell. I felt my aptitude lay in math and science, as I particularly excelled in those subjects at PMA, and I was also interested in metallurgy thinking that I might eventually join my father in his business. Accordingly, I enrolled in Cornell's well-regarded Engineering School. As a graduation gift, my ever extravagant father presented me with a yellow Plymouth convertible in which I drove off to find my destiny.

My high school years were terrific, but they conveyed a false sense of security. In fact, the following four years were turbulent to say the least. Yes, I'd meet and fall in love with Joanie, but I'd also recognize that I was not cut out for my chosen field of study, and more important, face the crushing news of the disintegration of my parents' marriage. I quickly came to realize that I could never take the future for granted and that attaining one's goals only comes from hard work and self-reliance.

My first experiences at Cornell were deceptively enjoyable. Freed from the rigid restraints of life in military school, I settled into the freewheeling social scene and enjoyed dating and drinking with friends. Cornell had an extensive fraternity system, and I quickly decided to pledge Alpha Epsilon Pi. In the 1950s, fraternities were almost entirely segregated. All I cared about was feeling at home with the members who happened to be Jewish and predominantly from the New York area. I was a skillful Ping-Pong player, which helped boost my popularity with the older brothers. I integrated in no time into the fraternity's social scene, which included great weekend parties with sister sororities. With my yellow convertible and my father's credit card, I found it easy to impress my dates, and I soon learned the joys of weekend road trips with friends to neighboring schools.

The freedom was seductive, but it didn't take long for the reality to set in that Cornell was a place of academic rigor. In my orientation to the metallurgy program, I recall the department head asking us to "look to your left and right because most of you won't be here at graduation." It was an early lesson in how not to motivate people. Before long, I realized firsthand that his admonition was no joke. I may have done well in math and science at PMA but I now was thrown in with truly exceptional students, and I began to struggle.

Things got progressively worse. I'll never forget my physics midterm in which we had to determine where a cannonball would land in relation to a group of hills. Though I wasn't cheating, I happened to notice my neighbor was drawing a landing spot across his piece of paper on a far hill whereas the best I could figure the shell would barely hit the nearest hill. Stumped, I decided to write on my paper that I couldn't answer the question because "my cannon was malfunctioning." When the graded paper came back, I received a zero alongside a sarcastic comment from the professor.

By November, I was doing so poorly that I decided to drop out. I went home for Thanksgiving and told my parents I'd transfer to NYU, an idea they acceded to so long as I'd commit to finishing college. Within weeks, however, Cornell sent me a letter saying that the school had set up a special probationary program for eleven students that would allow me to switch to a liberal arts program to which I might be better suited. I took the opportunity and subsequently went to summer school at the University of Wisconsin and Cornell to make up for my lost semester. Fortunately, the switch was just what I needed. I ended up avoiding science classes and instead focused on economics and government. My grades improved, and I eventually spent my final year taking courses from the graduate business school.

With a more manageable academic load, I began to enjoy college life once more. I took a two-bedroom apartment with three of my fraternity brothers my junior year where we had never-ending bridge tournaments. I figured out how to study just hard enough to get by without sacrificing my active social schedule while my weekend road trips became more regular and far-reaching. By now, Helen was studying at Smith College and had begun dating my roommate Lenny Zucker. He and I often would snag one of our other friends and head off to Massachusetts in search of a good time.

My days of playing the field soon ended abruptly. While I was home for spring recess, my aunt told me of an attractive nineteen-yearold named Joan Mosher whose family had just moved to the neighborhood from California. My solicitous relative suggested I call her for a date. Having just broken up with a girlfriend, I eagerly called Joan to ask her out. I was disappointed when I heard her say, "I have a party that night and won't be able to meet you, but I have a friend who you might like . . ." Undeterred, I replied firmly, "There's no way I'm going out with a blind date set up by a blind date . . . I'll call again."

My steadfastness paid off, and we soon arranged to meet on April Fool's Day 1954. That evening, I was greeted by Joanie's mother, who carefully looked me up and down so she could report to her daughter, who was strategically waiting in her room-the big issue at that moment was to determine my height so Joanie could decide whether she should wear heels. In a flash, I saw an energetic and very beautiful girl in flat-soled shoes come bounding down the hall. On the way to drinks at the White Cannon Inn in Freeport, Joanie ribbed that I was nothing like the fair-haired boys she knew in California and joked that at least I didn't have a New York accent.

From the first moment, I was drawn in completely. I felt relaxed and comfortable around her. I had done my share of dating, but no one attracted me like Joanie. She was beautiful and vivacious, confident, full of easy conversation, and quick with a joke. The entire evening proved exciting and intoxicating. Neither of us wanted it to end; at nearly 3:00 A.M., we reluctantly agreed it was time to go home. Joanie and I were eager to see each other again. Unfortunately, she had another date for the following evening. I couldn't bear the thought of her seeing someone else, so I decided to cruise by her house with my car's top down to check out her date that night as he picked her up. Joanie probably didn't appreciate the gesture, but I wanted her to know I would not be deterred.

We saw a lot of each other over the next several weeks. Joanie was finishing her junior year at Brooklyn College so we were limited to weekends. She'd either come up to Cornell for one of our bacchanalian fraternity parties or I'd drive to her house. Yet time seemed in short supply. I was receiving reserve officer training (ROTC) during college with the notion that I'd receive an officer's commission in the air force upon my graduation. That summer I was due to report for training in South Carolina. We dated a lot right up to the day I left. We proved to be avid letter writers that summer-each time I'd receive a note from Joanie, she'd enclose my last letter complete with corrections to all my misspelled words. I should have realized then and there that Joanie would make me a better person!

Copyright © 2006 by Sanford I. Weill

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Sort by: Showing 1 – 4 of 2 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 20, 2006

    A MUST READ for anyone in the industry.

    Speaking from the perspective of an employee of the financial behemoth (Citigroup), the book provided me with a better understanding of the financial industry as a whole as well as the determination and demeanor it takes to survive in this industry. Mr. Weill is a legend on and off the street and I highly recommend this book to anyone who is looking for guidance on how to succeed in the financial industry and life in general. I give this book a rating of 5 Umbrellas. Thank you Mr. Weill for creating a dynasty!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 10, 2006

    How to win with class!

    A great read by a winner who knows how to land on top! Weill demonstrates how to win at business while keeping family and philanthropy at the forefront. Highly recommended!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 20, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 5, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing 1 – 4 of 2 Customer Reviews

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