Quote

Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
First
Suddenly
Heart
Feeling
Quivering
Thing
Happiness
Miserably
Time
Happy
Trembling
Love
Feelings
Remembered
Stills
Vulnerable
Still
Unhappy
Firsts
Clearly

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Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.
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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.
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Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same.
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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
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She had only to open a door, nothing but a door between the words,just large enough for her and Farid to pass through.
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Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?
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Ten minutes can be a long time when you're waiting with a beating heart for something you don't understand, something you don't really want to know.
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My daughter, Anna, is almost 15, and my son, Ben, is almost 10.
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-You forgot something important! -What? -It's under my sweater! -WHAT?! -Me!
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I like a composer called Henry Purcell, and I love to listen to Neil Young.
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This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends.
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I think we should sometimes read stories where everything's different from our world, don't you agree? There's nothing's like it for teaching us to wonder why trees are green and not red, and why we have five fingers rather than six.' --spoken by The Bluejay, aka Mo the Bookbinder, from 'Inkdeath
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The Fairy's dress rustled as she turned. Human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
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You know, it's a funny thing about writers. Most people don't stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago--they don't expect to meet them in the street or out shopping. They know their stories but not their names, and certainly not their faces. And most writers like it that way.
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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.
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So it's happened, I kept thinking, you're in the middle of a story exactly as you've always wanted, and it's horrible. Fear tastes quite different when you're not just reading about it, Meggie, and playing hero wasn't half as much fun as I'd expected.
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Quite suddenly Meggie felt fear rise in her like black brackish water, she felt lost, terribly lost, she felt it in every part of her. She didn't belong here! What had she done?
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Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.
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The heart was a weak, changeable thing, bent on nothing but love, and there could be no more fatal mistake than to make it your master. Reason must be in charge. It comforted you for the heart's foolishness, it sang mocking songs about love, derided it as a whim of nature, transient as flowers. So why did she still keep following her heart?
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I have two Iceland horses, a very hairy dog called Looney, and a guinea pig.
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