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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?

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 65
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Didn
Suddenly
Part
Rise
Done
Quite
Every
Water
Like
Fear
Black
Brackish
Lost
Terribly
Felt
Belong

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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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I just did a picture book called The Wildest Brother on Earth, and you will find both of my children in there.
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She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?
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Don't let it worry you, not being able to speak,'Dustfinger had often told her. 'People tend not to listen anyway, right?
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A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.
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I love to read aloud.
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But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story.
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Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?
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Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful, murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life.
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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.
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Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth...all those glorious words.
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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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When you open a book it's like going to the theater first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins.
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Many [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?
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You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.
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There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.
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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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The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
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Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.
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When it came to hiding, even Gwin had nothing to teach Dustfinger. A strange sense of curiosity had always driven him to explore the hidden, forgotten corners of this and any other place, and all that knowledge had now come in useful.
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