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My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it

Scott Lynch

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Scott Lynch
Age: 46
Born: 1978
Born: April 2
Author
Novelist
Writer
St Paul
Minnesota
Disinterest
Bricks
Tangible
Bullshit
Make

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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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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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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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It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery.
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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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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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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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To us — richer and cleverer than everyone else!
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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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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 you can't cheat the game, you'd best find a means to cheat the players.
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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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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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Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they're after an image, not a person.
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Any man can fart in a closed room and say that he commands the wind
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My name's Jean Tannen, and I'm the ambush.
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If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.
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