Cornelia Funke Quotes

Yes, I do enjoy walking at night. The world’s more to my liking then, not so loud, not so fast, not so crowded, and a good deal more mysterious.

Nothing is more frightening than a fear you cannot name.

Memories, so sweet and bitter.. they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time came when they began to fade, turning faint and blurred, only an ache to be quickly pushed away because it went to your heart. For what was the use of remembering all you had lost?

a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.

I live in Hamburg; that's in the north. And I live on the outskirts of town. It looks like countryside.

Life was more difficult in Inkheart, yet it seemed to Meggie that with every new day Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful.

Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier?

What's the matter princess? Do you know the end of your story?

Every reader knows about the feeling that characters in books seem more real than real people.

Where did the love come from? What was it made of?

I will try to write books until I drop dead.

Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful," murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life.

I wish you luck,' she said, kissing him on the cheek. He still had the most beautiful eyes of any boy she'd ever seen. But now her heart beat so much faster for someone else.

Sometimes, when you're so sad you don't know what to do, it helps to be angry.

Her curiosity was too much for her. She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before.

They're all cruel,' he said. 'The world I come from, the world you come from, and this one, too. Maybe the people don't see the cruelty in your world right away, it's better hidden, but it's there all the same.

Are you really going to catch us and take us back to Esther? We don’t belong to her, you know.” Embarrassed, Victor stared at his shoes. “Well, children all have to belong to somebody,” he muttered. “Do you belong to someone?” “That’s different.” “Because you’re a grown-up?

I just did a picture book called The Wildest Brother on Earth, and you will find both of my children in there.

Farid had brought an invisible guest with him. Fear.

Let's run away to Venice, and hide out in an old movie theater. We can dye our hair blonde, so no one will ever find us!

Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?

You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings.

She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.

If you take a book with you on a journey," Mo had said when he put the first one in her box, "an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.

Reality is a fragile thing.

Every German child learns to speak English in school.

Read – and be curious. And if somebody says to you: 'Things are this way. You can't change it' - don't believe a word.

Why would we ever want to go back when your world is so accommodating with your telephones and your guns and what's that sticky stuff called ...duct tape.

There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.

My son always says I like very weird music.

Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.

Sometimes it's a good thing we don't remember things half as well as books do.

Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.

They wouldn't tell Scipio how much of the counterfeit cash was left since, as Riccio put it, 'You're a detective now, after all.

Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and it was wonderful to listen to them, but they were no substitute for love itself. They couldn't kiss her like Meggie, they couldn't hug her like Resa, they couldn't laugh like Mortimer. Poor books, poor Elinor.

you can not fully read a book without being alone. But through this very solitude you become intimately involved with people whom you might never have met otherwise, either because they have been dead for centuries or because they spoke languages you cannot understand. And, nonetheless, they have become your closest friends, your wisest advisors, the wizards that hypnotize you, the lovers you have always dreamed of. -Antonio munoz molinas, "the power of the pen

Words are immortal - Elinor

We're all liars when it serves our purpose.

Please," she whispered as she opened the book, "please get me out of here just for an hour or so, please take me far, far away

Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.

Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?

So Mo began filling the silence with words. He lured them out of the pages as if they had only been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words. They danced through the room, painting stained glass pictures, tickling the skin. Even when Meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although Mo had closed the book long ago. Words that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, words that built a wall to keep out bad dreams. And not a single bad dream came over that wall for the rest of the night.

A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.

My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.

I prefer a story that has the good sense to stay on the page where it belongs. - Elinor

He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.

Words were useless. At times, they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.