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.

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.

They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to one another.

Difficult" and "impossible" are cousins often mistaken for one another, with very little in common." (Locke Lamora to Requin)

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.

We like what we like, we want what we want, and nobody needs to give us permission to feel that way!

Throwing blondes at Locke Lamora was not unlike throwing lettuce at sharks.