Stephen: I have at different times in my life, sold sand to an Arab and ice to an Eskimo.
Bloom: What was your childhood like?
Penelope Stamp: I make cameras out of watermelons.
Stephen: The perfect con is one where everyone involved gets just what they wanted.
Stephen: That's my new favorite camel.
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.
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: Can I get a 'wow'?
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 collect hobbies. I see someone doing something I like, and I get books and learn how to do it.
The Curator: The Curator: Madam, your smile is the sun and fallen men like me, we need the sun.
Narrator: Another home, another main street. Stephen looked around, then summed the burgh up thusly...
Young Stephen: Bloom, we've hit a one hat town. One theater. One car wash. One café. One park. One cat. Which, through some mishap, had one leg.
Bloom: Trying to get something real by telling yourself stories is a trap.
Penelope Stamp: I don't know about "truths." A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells, the less you know.
Bloom: Do you feel cheated?
Penelope Stamp: The trick to not feeling cheated is to learn how to cheat.
Bloom: Eat your waffles, fat man.
Penelope Stamp: There is no such thing as an unwritten life, only a badly written one.
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.
Stephen: We're a genius, Bloom.
Stephen: Have at thee, you ham-headed bastards.
