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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.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Abuse
Continue
Terms
Simply
Revoked
Term
Heaping
Upon
Layman
Body
Collapsed
Permission

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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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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 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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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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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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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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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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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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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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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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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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When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit.
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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.
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Are you smarter than a pig, Locke?” “On occasion,” said Locke. “There are contrary opinions.
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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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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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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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Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they're after an image, not a person.
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