Desperate? So what? I'm desperate, too!" Fenoglio snapped at her. "My story is foundering in misfortune, and these hands here," he said holding them out to her, "don't want to write anymore! I'm afraid of words Meggie! 'Once they were like honey, now they're poison, pure poison! But what is a writer who doesn't love words anymore? What have I come to? This story is devouring me, crushing me, and I'm it's creator!
Cornelia FunkeThe night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It's easy to forget that when you're indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
Cornelia FunkeNeither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.
Cornelia FunkeMany [book] even lay flat in the floor open. Their spines upward. Elinor couldn't bear to look! Didn't the monster know that was the way to break a book's neck?
Cornelia FunkeThe Fairy's dress rustled as she turned. Human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
Cornelia FunkeDustfinger inspected his reddened fingers and felt the taut skin. โHe might tell me how my story ends,โ he murmured. Meggie looked at him in astonishment. โYou mean you donโt know?โ Dustfinger smiled. Meggie still didnโt particularly like his smile. It seemed to appear only to hide something else. โWhatโs so unusual about that, princess?โ he asked quietly. โDo you know how your story ends?โ Meggie had no answer for that.
Cornelia Funke