Penelope Stamp: I think you're constipated, in your fucking soul... I think you might have a really big load of grumpy petrified poop up your soul's ass.
Penelope Stamp: This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing, and even love the person she was trapped with. And i told myself this story until it became true. Now, did doing this help me escape a wasted life? Or did it blind me so I didn't want to escape it? I don't know, but either way I was the one telling my own story...
Penelope Stamp: There is no such thing as an unwritten life, only a badly written one.
Penelope Stamp: I don't know about "truths." A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells, the less you know.
Stephen: You were the only audience I ever needed.
Stephen: I'm not thrilled they set this in Mexico. There could be legitimate reasons, but Mexico's- and I don't like to simplistically vilify an entire country- but Mexico's a horrible place.
Stephen: Have at thee, you ham-headed bastards!
Stephen: The perfect con is one where everyone involved gets just what they wanted.
The Curator: Your smile is the sun, ma chère. And fallen men, we need the sun.
Stephen: [Opening a gate at the zoo] Is this the bathroom? Nnnnno. This is camels.
Penelope Stamp: I collect hobbies. I see someone doing something I like, and I get books and learn how to do it.
Stephen: We're a genius, Bloom.
Stephen: That's my new favorite camel.
The Curator: The Curator: Madam, your smile is the sun and fallen men like me, we need the sun.
Stephen: I have at different times in my life, sold sand to an Arab and ice to an Eskimo.
Bang Bang: [after blowing up the Prague castle] Fuck me...
Stephen: Tastes like tinfoil.
Stephen: Can I get a 'wow'?
Bloom: Trying to get something real by telling yourself stories is a trap.
Bloom: You don't understand what my brother does. He writes his cons the way dead Russians write novels, with thematic arcs and embedded symbolism and shit. And he wrote me as the vulnerable anti-hero. And that's why you think you want to kiss me. It's a con.
Bloom: Eat your waffles, fat man.
Bloom: There's actually a nack to this. If you're trying to fast-track to a mark's sympathies, there's nothing quite as effective as having your first conversation be from a hospital bed... they put you in.
Penelope Stamp: A thunderstorm! I LOVE thunderstorms!
Young Stephen: Let 'em melt.
[he and Bloom walk away in slo mo. A Rod Stewart song starts playing]
Penelope Stamp: I know I'm pretending to be a smuggler ba ba ba... BUT what you don't know is that I'm a real smuggler because I tell it like I own it. You know what your problem is? You just gotta stop thinking and just enjoy the ride man.
Penelope Stamp: I think a little real danger might suit me, so, uh, if you three want to join my smugglers gang, I'll uh, y'know, uh... consider it.
Narrator: As far as con man stories go, I think I've heard them all. Of grifters, ropers, faro-fixers; tails drawn long and tall. But if one bears a bookmark in the confidence man's tome, it would be that of Penelope, and of the brothers Bloom.
Stephen: In my story you don't get the money, or the sunset, or the girl.
Diamond Dog: Our hero must face the Minotaur before he escapes the maze.
Penelope Stamp: He said to me, there's no such thing as an unwritten life. Just a badly written one.
Bloom: Oh God.
Penelope Stamp: I love you Bloom. You know what we're gonna do? We're gonna live. Like we're telling the best story in the whole world.
Penelope Stamp: Are you ready?
Bloom: [narrating] And Stephen said something else one. The perfect con is one where everyone involved gets just the thing they wanted.
Bloom: I can't wake up next to another stranger, who thinks they know me, or even wants to know me, cause I don't know - who - I'm thirty five years old, and I, I'm useless, I'm crippled, I don't, I've only ever lived life through these roles that aren't me, that are written for me by you.
Stephen: Tell me what you want.
Bloom: Why? So you can write me a role in a story where I get it? You're not listening to me. I want a real... thing, I wanna do things how I don't know are gonna work out, a-I, want, a...
Stephen: You want an unwritten life.
Narrator: and being who he wasn't, could be as he wished to be
Young Stephen: [precociously observing] Playground bourgeoisies.
Penelope Stamp: I'm an epileptic photographer.