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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.

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Names
Hope
Poison
Killing
Friend
Name
Called

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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it
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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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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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Are you smarter than a pig, Locke?” “On occasion,” said Locke. “There are contrary opinions.
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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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Cold walls do not a prison make, nor iron bands a bondsman.
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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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It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.
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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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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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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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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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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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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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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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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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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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