Penelope StampI 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.
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Penelope StampThis 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...
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Penelope StampThere is no such thing as an unwritten life, only a badly written one.
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Penelope StampI don't know about "truths." A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells, the less you know.
Stephen[Opening a gate at the zoo]Is this the bathroom? Nnnnno. This is camels.
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StephenI'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.
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The CuratorYour smile is the sun, ma chère. And fallen men, we need the sun.
BloomYou 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.
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Penelope StampI 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.
Penelope StampI 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.
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Bang Bang[after blowing up the Prague castle]Fuck me...
NarratorAs 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.
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[last lines]
Penelope StampHe said to me, there's no such thing as an unwritten life. Just a badly written one.
Bloom[narrating]And Stephen said something else one. The perfect con is one where everyone involved gets just the thing they wanted.
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Young Stephen[to Bloom, after finishing their first con]So how's it feel?
NarratorIn truth, young Bloom won't know for twenty years just how he felt.
[Beat]
NarratorAnd so, we'll skip ahead now in our story.
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BloomI 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.
BloomWhy? 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...
NarratorAnother home, another main street. Stephen looked around, then summed the burgh up thusly:
Young StephenBloom, we've hit a one hat town.
NarratorOne theater. One car wash. One café. One park. One cat. Which, through some mishap, had one leg.
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BloomThere'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.
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StephenSee, you've reached an unethical conclusion. You think you want out, but you don't. One last con.