This is from the Red Dwarf novel. A character, Rimmer, is reflecting on why he never made it in life.
Red Dwarf Novel wrote:
He'd never had a break, Never. And so much of his life was luck.
Luck.
If Napoleon had been born Welsh, would his destiny have been the same? If he'd been raised in Colwyn Bay, would he have been a great general? Of course he wouldn't. He'd have married a sheep and worked in a local Fish and Chips shop. But no - he'd had the luck to be born Corsica, just at the right moment in history when the French were looking for a short, brilliant Fascist dictator.
Luck.
Van Gogh. Wasn't it sheer good fortune that Van gogh was raving mad? Wasn't that why his cornfields looked like they did? Wasn't that why he did several hundred paintings of his old boots? Wasn't that why his paintings were so innovative? Because he had the happy luck to be born with a leak in his think tank?
Luck!
And what about John Merrick? The jammy bastard-born looking like an elephant. How can you fail? You just stand around while people goggle at you, and you rake it in.
Rimmer was too normal, that was his problem. Too ordinary, and normal, healthy and bland. A bit of madness, a spot of deafness, the looks of an elephant, a birthplace like Corsica, and he could have been somebody.
Interesting, no?
_________________
I was sad when I found that she left
But then I found
That I could speak to her,
In a way
And sadness turned to comfort
We all go there