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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.

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Detective
Detectives
Cash
Wouldn
Since
Left
Tell
Much
Counterfeit

More quotes by Cornelia Funke

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If I was a book, I would like to be a library book, so I would be taken home by all different sorts of kids.
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The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
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Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?
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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.
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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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Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?
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The night breathed through the apartment like a dark animal. The ticking of a clock. The groan of a floorboard as he slipped out of his room. All was drowned by its silence. But Jacob loved the night. He felt it on his skin like a promise. Like a cloak woven from freedom and danger.
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Believe, believe, believe
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Fire and water, he said, don't really mix. You could say they're incompatible. But when they do love each other, they love passionately.
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No prince had lived in those wretched hovels, no red-robed bishops, only farmers and laborers whose stories no one had written down, and now they were lost, buried under wild thyme and fast growing spurge.
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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.
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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
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It's a good idea to have your own books with you in a strange place
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He flung his arms around her neck, but only once he saw Silvertoungue's back was turned. He never knew with fathers. I'll save him, Meggie! he wispered in her ear. I'll bring Dustfinger back. This story will have a happy ending.I swear!
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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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He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.
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You know a great many things in dreams, often despite the evidence of your eyes. You just know them.
Cornelia Funke
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My daughter, Anna, is almost 15, and my son, Ben, is almost 10.
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Every reader knows about the feeling that characters in books seem more real than real people.
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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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