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The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon

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Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Age: 55 †
Born: 1964
Born: September 25
Died: 2020
Died: June 19
Novelist
Publicist
Screenwriter
Barcelona
Spain
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Truth
Author
Character
Hidden
Persons
Leaves
Person
Empty
Way
Truly
Always
Behinds
Ink
Think
Behind
Trail
Thinking
Fiction
Trails

More quotes by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

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A good liar knows that the most efficient lie is always a truth that has had a key piece removed from it.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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... , listening to the storm outside as it left the city, knowing that I was going to lose her but also knowing that, for a few minutes, we had belonged to one another, and to nobody else.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I've always thought that anyone who needs to join a herd so badly must be a bit of a sheep himself.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Does the madman know he is mad? Or are the madmen those who insist o. Convincing him of his unreason in order to safeguard their own idea of reality?
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I looked up towards the immensity of the labyrinth. How does one choose a single book among so many? Isaac shrugged his shoulders. 'Some like to believe it's the book that chooses the person...destiny, in other words.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I prefer you like this, when you're in a foul mood, because you tell the truth.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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The rain was still crashing down, angrily machine-gunning the large windows it poured through the gutters up in the tower and funneled along the flat roof, sounding like footsteps on the ceiling.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I leafed through the pages, inhaling the enchanted scent of promise that comes with all new books, and stopped to read the start of a sentence that caught my eye.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Remember me, even if it's only in a corner and secretly. Don't let me go.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Normal people bring children into the world we novelists bring books. We are condemned to put our whole lives into them, even though they hardly ever thank us for it. We are condemned to die in their pages and sometimes even to let our books be the ones who, in the end, will take our lives.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you see here has been somebody’s best friend.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Silence makes idiots seem wise even for a minute.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I had never known the pleasure of reading, of exploring the recesses of the soul, of letting myself be carried away by imagination, beauty, and the mystery of fiction and language. For me all those things were born with that novel.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Never trust anyone, Daniel, especially the people you admire. Those are the ones who will make you suffer the worst blows.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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They had parted as boys, and now life presented one of them with a fugitive and the other with a dying man. Both wondered whether this was due to the cards they'd been dealt or to the way they had played them.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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Julian spoke with the clear, unequivocal lucidity of madmen who have escaped the hypocrisy of having to abide by a reality that makes no sense.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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I can't die yet, doctor. Not yet. I have things to do. Afterwords I'll have a whole lifetime in which to die.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable ever-smaller dolls within. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors, its identity fragmented into endless reflections.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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The teachers tried everything, even pleading, but Tomas was in the habit of addressing them only in Latin, a language he spoke with papal fluency and in which he did not stammer. Sooner or later they all resigned in despair, fearing he might be possessed: he might be spouting demonic instructions in Aramaic at them, for all they knew.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon
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In those days, Christmas still retained a certain aura of magic and mystery. The powdery light of winter, the hopeful expressions of people who lived among shadows and silence, lent that setting a slight air of promise in which at least children and those who had learned the art of forgetting could still believe.
Carlos Ruiz Zafon