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You're ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Pints
Glass
Glasses
Ten
Crazy
Pint

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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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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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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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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it
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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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It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.
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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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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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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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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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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.
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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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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 can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.
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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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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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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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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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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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