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Advice,' Doña Vorchenza chuckled. 'Advice. The years play a sort of alchemical trick, transmuting one's mutterings to a state of respectability. Give advice at forty and you're a nag. Give it at seventy and you're a sage.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
State
Seventy
Experience
Seventies
Give
Sage
States
Trick
Transmuting
Play
Forty
Alchemical
Giving
Tricks
Chuckled
Years
Advice
Muttering
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Respectability

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It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.
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Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin's service. All redheads. -You're just making that up, Jean.
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When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit.
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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it
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They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to one another.
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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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I think piracy is a bit like drinking. You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day.
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As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It’s not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination.
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Any man can fart in a closed room and say that he commands the wind
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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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Only one way to win when you're being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out, and hope the gods are fond of you.
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You simply collapsed, sir. In layman's terms, your body revoked its permission for you to continue heaping abuse upon it.
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You're ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.
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There are only three people in life you can never fool--pawnbrokers, whores, and your mother. Since your mother's dead, I've taken her place. Hence, I'm bullshit-proof.
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Maxilan, darling. Locke raised one eyebrow and smiled. I knew you were driven, but I had no idea you could smoulder. Come, take me now! Jean won't mind he'll avert his eyes like a gentleman.
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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.
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We’re a different sort of thief here, Lamora. Deception and misdirection are our tools. We don’t believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more.
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I think it’s fairly common for writers to be afflicted with two simultaneous yet contradictory delusions, the burning certainty that we’re unique geniuses, and the constant fear that we’re witless frauds who are speeding toward epic failure.
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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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What kind of knife is this?” Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains’ inspection. “It’s all wrong. You couldn’t kill anyone with this.
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