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The Wolf of Wall Street [Anglais] [Broché]

Jordan Belfort
1.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
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Description de l'ouvrage

19 décembre 2013

NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE DIRECTED BY MARTIN SCORSESE, STARRING LEONARDO DICAPRIO (The Great Gatsby, The Aviator),MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY (Mud, Magic Mike), JONAH HILL (Moneyball), JEAN DUJARDIN (The Artist), KYLE CHANDLER (Friday Night Lights, Zero Dark Thirty) AND JOANNA LUMLEY (Absolutely Fabulous), AND ADAPTED FOR THE SCREEN BY TERENCE WINTER (Boardwalk Empire).



'What separates Jordan's story from others like it, is the brutal honesty.' - Leonardo DiCaprio

By day he made thousands of dollars a minute. By night he spent it as fast as he could, on drugs, sex, and international globe-trotting. From the binge that sunk a 170-foot motor yacht, crashed a Gulfstream jet, and ran up a $700,000 hotel tab, to the wife and kids who waited for him for at home, and the fast-talking, hard-partying young stockbrokers who called him king and did his bidding, here, in his own inimitable words, is the story of the ill-fated genius they called...

THE WOLF OF WALL STREET

In the 1990s Jordan Belfort, former kingpin of the notorious investment firm Stratton Oakmont, became one of the most infamous names in American finance: a brilliant, conniving stock-chopper who led his merry mob on a wild ride out of the canyons of Wall Street and into a massive office on Long Island. In this astounding and hilarious tell-all autobiography, Belfort narrates a story of greed, power, and excess no one could invent - the story of an ordinary guy who went from hustling Italian ices at sixteen to making hundreds of millions. Until it all came crashing down.


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Descriptions du produit

Extrait

Prologue
A Babe in the Woods


May 1, 1987

You’re lower than pond scum,” said my new boss, leading me through the boardroom of LF Rothschild for the first time.

“You got a problem with that, Jordan?”

“No,” I replied, “no problem.”

“Good,” snapped my boss, and he kept right on walking.

We were walking through a maze of brown mahogany desks and black telephone wire on the twenty-third floor of a glass-andaluminum tower that rose up forty-one stories above Manhattan’s fabled Fifth Avenue. The boardroom was a vast space, perhaps fifty by seventy feet. It was an oppressive space, loaded with desks, telephones, computer monitors, and some very obnoxious yuppies, seventy of them in all. They had their suit jackets off, and at this hour of morning–9:20 a.m.–they were leaning back in their seats, reading their Wall Street Journals, and congratulating themselves on being young Masters of the Universe.

Being a Master of the Universe; it seemed like a noble pursuit, and as I walked past the Masters, in my cheap blue suit and clodhopper shoes, I found myself wishing I were one of them. But my new boss was quick to remind me that I wasn’t. “Your job”–he looked at the plastic nametag on my cheap blue lapel–“Jordan Belfort, is a connector, which means you’ll be dialing the phone five hundred times a day, trying to get past secretaries. You’re not trying to sell anything or recommend anything or create anything. You’ re just trying to get business owners on the phone.” He paused for a brief instant, then spewed out more venom. “And when you do get one on the phone, all you’ll say is: ‘Hello, Mr. So and So, I have Scott holding for you,’ and then you pass the phone to me and start dialing again. Think you can handle that, or is that too complicated for you?”

“No, I can handle it,” I said confidently, as a wave of panic overtook me like a killer tsunami. The LF Rothschild training program was six months long. They would be tough months, grueling months, during which I would be at the very mercy of assholes like Scott, the yuppie scumbag who seemed to have bubbled up from the fiery depths of yuppie hell.

Sneaking peaks at him out of the corner of my eye, I came to the quick conclusion that Scott looked like a goldfish. He was bald and pale, and what little hair he did have left was a muddy orange. He was in his early thirties, on the tall side, and he had a narrow skull and pink, puffy lips. He wore a bow tie, which made him look ridiculous. Over his bulging brown eyeballs he wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, which made him look fishy–in the goldfish sense of the word.

“Good,” said the scumbag goldfish. “Now, here are the ground rules: There are no breaks, no personal calls, no sick days, no coming in late, and no loafing off. You get thirty minutes for lunch”–he paused for effect–“and you better be back on time, because there are fifty people waiting to take your desk if you fuck up.” He kept walking and talking as I followed one step behind, mesmerized by the thousands of orange diode stock quotes that came skidding across gray-colored computer monitors. At the front of the room, a wall of plate glass looked out over midtown Manhattan. Up ahead I could see the Empire State Building. It towered above everything, seeming to rise up to the heavens and scrape the sky. It was a sight to behold, a sight worthy of a young Master of the Universe. And, right now, that goal seemed further and further away.

“To tell you the truth,” sputtered Scott, “I don’t think you’re cut out for this job. You look like a kid, and Wall Street’s no place for kids. It’s a place for killers. A place for mercenaries. So in that sense you’re lucky I’m not the one who does the hiring around here.” He let out a few ironic chuckles.

I bit my lip and said nothing. The year was 1987, and yuppie assholes like Scott seemed to rule the world. Wall Street was in the midst of a raging bull market, and freshly minted millionaires were being spit out a dime a dozen. Money was cheap, and a guy named Michael Milken had invented something called “junk bonds,” which had changed the way corporate America went about its business. It was a time of unbridled greed, a time of wanton excess. It was the era of the yuppie.

As we neared his desk, my yuppie nemesis turned to me and said, “I’ll say it again, Jordan: You’re the lowest of the low. You’re not even a cold caller yet; you’re a connector.” Disdain dripped off the very word. “And ’til you pass your Series Seven, connecting will be your entire universe. And that is why you are lower than pond scum. You got a problem with that?”

“Absolutely not,” I replied. “It’s the perfect job for me, because I am lower than pond scum.” I shrugged innocently.

Unlike Scott, I don’t look like a goldfish, which made me feel proud as he stared at me, searching my face for irony. I’m on the short side, though, and at the age of twenty-four I still had the soft boyish features of an adolescent. It was the sort of face that made it difficult for me to get into a bar without getting proofed. I had a full head of light brown hair, smooth olive skin, and a pair of big blue eyes. Not altogether bad-looking.

But, alas, I hadn’t been lying to Scott when I’d told him that I felt lower than pond scum. In point of fact, I did. The problem was that I had just run my first business venture into the ground, and my self-esteem had been run into the ground with it. It had been an ill-conceived venture into the meat and seafood industry, and by the time it was over I had found myself on the ass end of twenty-six truck leases–all of which I’d personally guaranteed, and all of which were now in default. So the banks were after me, as was some belligerent woman from American Express–a bearded, three-hundred-pounder by the sound of her–who was threatening to personally kick my ass if I didn’t pay up. I had considered changing my phone number, but I was so far behind on my phone bill that NYNEX was after me too.

We reached Scott’ s desk and he offered me the seat next to his, along with some kind words of encouragement. “Look at the bright side,” he quipped. “If by some miracle you don’t get fired for laziness, stupidness, insolence, or tardiness, then you migt actually become a stockbroker one day.” He smirked at his own humor. “And just so you know, last year I made over three hundred thousand dollars, and the other guy you’ll be working for made over a million.”

Over a million? I could only imagine what an asshole the other guy was. With a sinking heart, I asked, “Who’s the other guy?”

“Why?” asked my yuppie tormentor. “What’s it to you?”

Sweet Jesus! I thought. Only speak when spoken to, you nincompoop! It was like being in the Marines. In fact, I was getting the distinct impression that this bastard’s favorite movie was An Officer and a Gentleman, and he was playing out a Lou Gossett fantasy on me–pretending he was a drill sergeant in charge of a substandard Marine. But I kept that thought to myself, and all I said was, “Uh, nothing, I was just, uh, curious.”

“His name is Mark Hanna, and you’ll meet him soon enough.”

With that, he handed me a stack of three-by-five index cards, each of them having the name and phone number of a wealthy business owner on it. “Smile and dial,” he instructed, “and don’t pick up your fucking head ’til twelve.” Then he sat down at his own desk, picked up a copy of The Wall Street Journal, and put his black crocodile dress shoes on the desktop and started reading.

I was about to pick up the phone when I felt a beefy hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and with a single glance I knew it was Mark Hanna. He reeked of success, like a true Master of the Universe. He was a big guy–about six-one, two-twenty, and most of it muscle. He had jet-black hair, dark intense eyes, thick fleshy features, and a fair smattering of acne scars. He was handsome, in a downtown sort of way, giving off the hip whiff of Greenwich Village. I felt the charisma oozing off him.

“Jordan?” he said, in a remarkably soothing tone.

“Yeah, that’s me,” I replied, in the tone of the doomed. “Pond scum first-class, at your service!”

He laughed warmly, and the shoulder pads of his $2,000 gray pin-striped suit rose and fell with each chuckle. Then, in a voice louder than necessary, he said, “Yeah, well, I see you got your first dose of the village asshole!” He motioned his head toward Scott. I nodded imperceptibly. He winked back. “No worry: I’m the senior broker here; he’s just a worthless piker. So disregard everything he said and anything he might ever say in the future.”

Try as I might, I couldn’ t help but glance over at Scott, who was now muttering the words: “Fuck you, Hanna!”

Mark didn’t take offense, though. He simply shrugged and stepped around my desk, putting his great bulk between Scott and me, and he said, “Don’t let him bother you. I hear you’re a first-class salesman. In a year from now that moron will be kissing yo... --Ce texte fait référence à l'édition Broché .

Revue de presse

What separates Jordan's story from others like it, is the brutal honesty. (Leonardo DiCaprio)

Raw and frequently hilarious. (The New York Times)

Reads like a cross between Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities and Scorsese's Goodfellas ... Laugh-out-loud funny. (The Sunday Times)

an incredible - and strangely compelling - story of shocking greed and power. (The Sunday Telegraph)

The wicked Wolf of Wall Street ... Cocaine. Girls. James Bond cars. Billion-dollar deals and jail for fraud ... the outrageous memoirs of the real Gordon Gekko. (The Daily Mail)

This book reads like The Financial World presented by Ozzy Osbourne ... One reads a book like this for tales of excess, and Belfort certainly delivers, to the point where you long for a night in with Dad's Army and something eggy on a plate. (The Mail on Sunday)

A truly fascinating read. (Daily Express)

Gleefully crass and terribly sad [but] you actually feel for the guy. (Rolling Stone)

A rollicking tale of [Jordan Belfort's] rise to riches as head of the infamous boiler room Stratton Oakmont ... Proof that there are indeed second acts in American lives. (Forbes)

A cocky bad boy of finance recalls ... [his] career as a master of his own universe ... A hell of a read. (Kirkus)

A memoir that reads like fiction ... [about a] vast amount of sex, drugs and risky physical behavior Belfort managed to survive. (Publishers Weekly)

For those not completely familiar with Wall Street, this is an important read. Think of it as a tour of the sort of underbelly of the financial market scene, the dark side of which, in some form, is always out there. For those more experienced, this can be, plain and simple, a fun read. (TheStreet.com)

Détails sur le produit

  • Broché: 528 pages
  • Editeur : Two Roads (19 décembre 2013)
  • ISBN-10: 1444778129
  • ISBN-13: 978-1444778120
  • Dimensions du produit: 19,6 x 13 x 3,6 cm
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 1.7 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (3 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: 143.288 en Livres anglais et étrangers (Voir les 100 premiers en Livres anglais et étrangers)
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1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 ennuyeux 25 janvier 2014
Par Smugglers
Format:Broché|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Les premieres pages sont passionnantes et puis c'est tout . Des longueurs de description de la maison, des pseudo sentiments des personnages : lassant . . .
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2 internautes sur 3 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Inintéressant 16 juillet 2009
Par Lady Lama TOP 500 COMMENTATEURS VOIX VINE
Format:Relié|Achat authentifié par Amazon
J'avais acheté ce livre suite à une bonne critique dans un magazine et j'ai été très déçue.
Le livre m'est tombé des mains. L'histoire se passe dans le milieu de la finance, comme dans American Psycho. Je pense que j'ai tellement aimé le bouquin de Bret Easton Ellis que je ne pouvais que voir les défauts de ce livre : écriture passe partout, histoire plus faiblarde (OK, celle-ci est une sorte d'autobiographie...) et surtout "héros" pathétique. Quant aux personnages secondaires, ils apparaissent complètement caricaturaux.
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1 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Décevant 2 septembre 2011
Par Taieb
Format:Broché
Pour tout dire, je me suis arrêté au trois quart... et pourtant je suis ami avec Jordan sur Facebook. Il faut vraiment préférer "Finance Connection", qui lui est passionnant et financièrement plus juste et précis (financièrement entendre monde financier).
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Amazon.com: 3.6 étoiles sur 5  678 commentaires
185 internautes sur 217 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
2.0 étoiles sur 5 Well, At Least He Loves Himself 25 novembre 2007
Par R. Spell - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat authentifié par Amazon
I love business/Wall Street books as I work at a regional investment firm. Also, the movie "Boiler Room" is one of my favorites and supposedly this is the firm it was modeled after. Unfortunately this guy tries to be too cute in his writing style and he's not nearly as funny as he thinks. He wants to impress you with his drug use and his wild life and also manages to get in quite a bit about his business. BTW, he does appear to be very talented as a chop shop owner/manager and just from a few tidbits you can see he knows the aggressive sales techniques necessary to be successful. But this book is confusing, boring, too long, and has very few interesting points. The author tells you what he wants you to hear, then gets to the end of the story and runs out of time without completing the full story. For example, after going on forever about his beautiful wife and drug use, after rehab they divorce. But instead of completing the story for full disclosure it's about two pages with no mention of fault or what really happened.

The synopsis of this book is exactly the type book I like: true stories of Wall Street. But this book is hugely disappointing and not worth the time. I'd take a pass on this one as it's not worth the time invested.
83 internautes sur 99 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 A fictional non-fiction story 12 janvier 2008
Par Enroh T Tam - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
I bought this book after reading an excerpt printed in Registered Rep magazine. I thought that the book would be built around the rise of the author's business, detailing how he earned his nickname; instead the entire book is based on his fall from greatness, and doesn't recount any of the rise.
I find this ironic in that during the fall the author was supposedly drugged up nearly 24/7 (which is the primary reason for his demise) to the point any other man would have overdosed, yet he depends upon his memory during this drug-induced haze for all of the details of his story.
The Author's Note hits the nail on the head: "...a true story based on my best recollections of various events in my life."
I'm sure there is plenty of truth in the book, but the bottom line is that Jordan Belfort can no longer make money spinning lies in the securities industry, so he is trying to make money spinning lies as an author instead.
If you want to read this book borrow it or buy it used.
60 internautes sur 72 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Rich and dysfunctional 22 septembre 2008
Par Amazon Customer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Broché
The even split between 1-start and 5-star reviews is very telling - you'll either love it or hate it, there seems to be very few in between. In short, the book is an over the top, fast paced, recount of non-stop drug abuse, sex, money laundering schemes, and stock manipulation. About halfway through the book I had to go online to confirm that this is, in fact, a non-fiction work - it reads more like a thriller.

If you're looking for stock market know-how, this is not the book that will teach you that, albeit the "chop stock" machinations on top of which Belfort built his empire are definitely an interesting historical artifact. Instead, this is a great tale of the lifestyle of the "rich and dysfunctional".

If you suspend your sense of reality, it is actually a quiet engaging book. Albeit personally, I am still shell-shocked from the thought that Belfort has lived and survived through all this.
168 internautes sur 214 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Don't bother 8 octobre 2007
Par I was there - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
Did anyone else lose count of how many times Mr. Belfort used the phrase "luscious loamy loins" in this book? The Duchess must have had some interesting private parts if they were indeed "loamy". Hmm.

This memoir is not worth reading unless you were an employee of Stratton Oakmont or had some kind of connection to the people mentioned in it. The book is mostly about Jordan's careless spending, complete disregard for others, and raging drug and prostitute habits. You don't even get the sense that he's remorseful about any of it in the end: it rather seems that Mr. Belfort is boasting about his bad behavior.

The beginning of the book details the rise of Jordan in the broker business and does have some interesting chapters. Then it takes a nose dive and turns into an ego trip down Mr. Belfort's memory lane. It gets painfully boring and quite unbelievable at points: Jordan describes miracle medical cures, his superhuman resistance to deadly doses of various drugs, ridiculous tawdry conversations... It's full of way-out-there stuff that makes you think maybe Jordan imagined these things in his drug-addled mind. Even if some of it is true, it's not very interesting and mostly I just felt embarassed for him and the people whose nasty habits he reveals in this tale.

Save your money, Jordan is a conceited bore.
123 internautes sur 156 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
1.0 étoiles sur 5 Really Bad! 12 octobre 2007
Par Loyd E. Eskildson - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
"The Wolf of Wall Street" is probably the worst book I've read all year. It consists of non-stop extreme drug use, promiscuous and pornographic sex, money laundering, and stock manipulation, while providing little or no explanation of how author Jordan Belfort built his firm and worked his financial machinations.

Other sources help fill in the blanks. Belfort's business, according to Business Week, was part of a $10 billion/year business that regulators lagged in controlling. "Chop stocks" (bought at a large discount) made up perhaps half the 1997 85 million-share daily volume of the OTC Bulletin Board, plus dozens of stocks on the NASDAQ Small Cap Market. Belfort would purchase a hidden stake in a relatively new firm that would then issue "letter" stock under Rule 144 of the securities laws, commonplace at many perfectly legitimate companies as a way of rewarding key employees and giving them an equity interest. Letter stock and warrants were also issued to compensate consultants in lieu of cash. And stock issued overseas, under Regulation S of the securities laws, is a widely recognized way of raising capital for emerging companies. Reg. S stock is cheap for a simple reason: Since it cannot be legally traded for two years, it is commonly issued at a steep discount. Rule 144 stock is also cheap because it is usually issued at little or no cost and must be held for one or two years.

Belfort would make large profits by ignoring the law and "laundering" the stocks by selling them long before the two years had expired. If customers were to see the stock (marked "restricted"), they might realize that it's not supposed to be sold to the public. So the chop houses had a simple solution: They didn't show the customers the stock. The shares were only a book entry, and the brokers were reluctant to resell it once bought by a customer. If forced to do so, they would by duping a new customer into purchasing the shares.

Belfort served 22 months in prison and has been banned from the securities industry. His firm was closed in 1996, and he is required to repay $110 million to investors at the rate of 50% of everything he now makes. So far less than $700,000 has been paid.
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