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“Make not, when you work a deed of shame, The scoundrel's plea, 'My forbears did the same.”
― Abu'l-Ala-Al-Ma'arri

“The pleasure of being a scoundrel can be adequately savored in silence.”
― Remy de Gourmont, The Angels of Perversity

“Who ever thought to put the word "hero" in heroin?”
― Anthony Liccione

“Is the prison that Mr. Scoundrel lives in at the end of his career a more uncomfortable place than the workhouse that Mr. Honesty lives in at the end of his career?”
― Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White

“I'm not interested. I never liked him. He's some sort scoundrel.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Black Prince

“Madrid. It was that time, the story of Don Zana 'The Marionette,' he with the hair of cream-colored string, he with the large and empty laugh like a slice of watermelon, the one of the

Tra-kay, tra-kay, tra-kay,
tra-kay, tra-kay, tra

on the tables, on the coffins. It was when there were geraniums on the balconies, sunflower-seed stands in the Moncloa, herds of yearling sheep in the vacant lots of the Guindalera. They were dragging their heavy wool, eating the grass among the rubbish, bleating to the neighborhood. Sometimes they stole into the patios; they ate up the parsley, a little green sprig of parsley, in the summer, in the watered shade of the patios, in the cool windows of the basements at foot level. Or they stepped on the spread-out sheets, undershirts, or pink chemises clinging to the ground like the gay shadow of a handsome young girl. Then, then was the story of Don Zana 'The Marionette.'

Don Zana was a good-looking, smiling man, thin, with wide angular shoulders. His chest was a trapezoid. He wore a white shirt, a jacket of green flannel, a bow tie, light trousers, and shoes of Corinthian red on his little dancing feet. This was Don Zana 'The Marionette,' the one who used to dance on the tables and the coffins. He awoke one morning, hanging in the dusty storeroom of a theater, next to a lady of the eighteenth century, with many white ringlets and a cornucopia of a face.

Don Zana broke the flower pots with his hand and he laughed at everything. He had a disagreeable voice, like the breaking of dry reeds; he talked more than anyone, and he got drunk at the little tables in the taverns. He would throw the cards into the air when he lost, and he didn't stoop over to pick them up. Many felt his dry, wooden slap; many listened to his odious songs, and all saw him dance on the tables. He liked to argue, to go visiting in houses. He would dance in the elevators and on the landings, spill ink wells, beat on pianos with his rigid little gloved hands.

The fruitseller's daughter fell in love with him and gave him apricots and plums. Don Zana kept the pits to make her believe he loved her. The girl cried when days passed without Don Zana's going by her street. One day he took her out for a walk. The fruitseller's daughter, with her quince-lips, still bloodless, ingenuously kissed that slice-of-watermelon laugh. She returned home crying and, without saying anything to anyone, died of bitterness.

Don Zana used to walk through the outskirts of Madrid and catch small dirty fish in the Manzanares. Then he would light a fire of dry leaves and fry them. He slept in a pension where no one else stayed. Every morning he would put on his bright red shoes and have them cleaned. He would breakfast on a large cup of chocolate and he would not return until night or dawn.”
― Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio, Adventures of the Ingenious Alfanhui

“Any gentleman can tell a lie; any scoundrel can talk truth.”
― Imogen Hermes Gowar, The Mermaid and Mrs. Hancock

“A scoundrel is an evil heliotrope turning always in the direction of the most powerful.”
― Umberto Eco, The Island of the Day Before

“Honest men cannot be expected to anticipate the actions of scoundrels.”
― Mary Street, The Confession of Fitzwilliam Darcy

“Doubt is the archenemy of love. He is the scoundrel who accused her to reason”
― Bangambiki Habyarimana, The Great Pearl of Wisdom

“As I listened to him describing the scene of the procurer seducing the young girl, I found myself torn between two conflicting emotions, between a powerful desire to laugh and an overwhelming surge of indignation. I was in agony. Again and again a roar of laughter prevented my rage bursting forth; again and again the rage rising in my heart became a roar of laughter. I was dumbfounded by such shrewdness and such depravity; by such soundness of ideas alternating with such falseness; by so general a perversity of feeling, so total a corruption, and so exceptional a candour. He saw how agitated I was. 'What's the matter?' he asked.

ME: Nothing.
HIM: I think you're upset.
ME: Indeed I am.
HIM: So what do you think I should do?
ME: Talk about something else. What a wretched fate, to have been born and to have fallen so low!
HIM: I agree. But don't let my state affect you too much. In opening my heart to you, it was not my intention to upset you. I've managed to save a little, while I was with those people. Remember I wanted for nothing, nothing whatsoever, and they also made me a small allowance for incidentals. [Here he began to strike himself on the forehead with his fist, bite his lips, and roll his eyes like a lunatic, then he said:] What's done is done. I've put a bit aside. Time's passed, so I'm that much to the good.
ME: You mean to the bad.
HIM: No, to the good. Live one day less, or have an ecu more, it's all the same. The important thing is to open your bowels easily, freely, enjoyably, copiously, every evening; 'o stercus pretiosum!' That's the grand outcome of life in every condition. At the final moment, we're all equally rich - Samuel Bernard who by dint of theft, pillage, and bankruptcy leaves twenty-seven millions in gold, and Rameau who'll leave nothing, Rameau for whom charity will provide the winding-sheet to wrap him in.”
― Denis Diderot

“Temptation knocks on everyone's door eventually - some ignore the scoundrel's approach, while others willingly admit that great impostor.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Men are scoundrels; they can get used to anything.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment