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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.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Price
Thinking
Drinking
Like
Pay
Stay
Bits
Next
Night
Piracy
Think

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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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This is where you and I are headed.... Look for us in history books and you'll find us in the margins. Look for us in legends and you might just find us celebrated
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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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Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they're after an image, not a person.
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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'll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But. . .can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, 'Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!
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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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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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You're ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.
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When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit.
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Yeah, but if I don't start my nervous pacing now, I'll never have it all done in time.
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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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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.
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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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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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The water caught the Falselight glimmer like layers of shifting, translucent mirrors and formed split-second works of art in the air, but men cursed it anyway, because it made their heads wet.
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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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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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