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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Wall
Cages
Cold
Bands
Make
Walls
Iron
Bars
Prison
Caged
Angel
Incarceration
Band
Imprisonment

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When you can't cheat the game, you'd best find a means to cheat the players.
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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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Yeah, but if I don't start my nervous pacing now, I'll never have it all done in time.
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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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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command, the world mutters darkly about her moods.
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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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Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they're after an image, not a person.
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I can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.
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When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit.
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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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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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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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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it
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Are you smarter than a pig, Locke?” “On occasion,” said Locke. “There are contrary opinions.
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You're ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.
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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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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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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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