Quotes from Scott Lynch

I'm done losing. Do you fucking hear me? I am done losing. Spare me your precious self-pity, because this isn't a stage and I didn't pay two coppers to cry my eyes out over anyone's death speech. You don't fucking get one, understand? I don't care if you cough up buckets of blood. Buckets I can carry. I don't care if you howl like a dog for months. You're going to eat and drink and keep fighting.

Just because we like to drink doesn't mean we want to run the tavern

You have a crush, I think." "Do I?" Locke had a vague idea of what that word meant, and somehow it didn't seem right. It didn't seem enough. "It's not meant to belittle your feelings, lad. A crush can come on hot and sharp like an illness.

he had a bloody gash across his throat and a physiker was trying to sew it up, Lamora would steal the needle and thread

Locke struggled to keep his head clear; the combination of nervous excitement and fatigue always made him feel as though he was sliding along an inch or two above the ground, his feet not quite reaching all the way down.

Non c'è libertà come la libertà di essere sempre sottovalutati.

I suppose we are all lumps of coal destined for one furnace or another.

this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.

Of course, I'm a stark staring hypocrite for telling you not to take it personally. It's easy to prescribe remedies for our own weaknesses when they're comfortably ensconced in other people.

You see us wrong, who see with your eyes, And hear nothing true though straining your years. What thieves of wonder are these poor senses.

This man is my boatswain.

Morning's for sweat, and night's for regret

You see us wrong, who see with your eyes, And hear nothing true though straining your ears. What thieves of wonder are these poor senses.

You manage to survive me in my poorer moods.' 'Ah,' said Jean, 'but when a woman has your heart, she doesn't have poor moods. Only interesting moods . . . and more interesting moods.

There's a few things I want to ask him. Philosophical questions. Like, 'How does it feel to be dangled out a window by a rope tied around your balls, motherfucker?

I've read quite a bit! "History and biography, mostly what Chains prescribed for you." "What could possibly be wrong with those subjects?" "As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living in the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them.

Archmagi and demons were routine tasks, but Housemind would not tempt the displeasure of a librarian Like black holes, they were a cosmic force better circumvented than challenged.

You've reached that certain age where many boys seem to just sort of fold up their better judgment and set it aside for a few years.

You needed a bath," Jean interrupted. "You were covered in self-pity.

there's no talking sense to sentiment

There is no last of the pain," said Bug. "It always hurts. Always." Locke

even tired she had that unfeigned natural poise which, in certain girls, makes young boys feel like something on the order of an insect beneath a heel.

These physikers are handy things," said Locke, adjusting his (formerly Meraggio's) coat cuffs, "but I think next time we should pay a bit extra for the silent version, Jean." "And then you may dress your own wounds, sir, and apply your own poultices—though I daresay it would be quicker and easier for the pair of you to simply dig your own graves and take your ease in them until your inevitable transition to a more quiet state of affairs!

Know something? I'd lay even odds that between the people following us and the people hunting us, we've become this city's principal means of employment. Tal Verrar's entire economy is now based on fucking with us.