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Beauty and fear make uneasy companions

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Beauty
Fear
Make
Companions
Uneasy
Companion

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Everyone is small at night.
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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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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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What are stories for if we don't learn from them?
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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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I like a composer called Henry Purcell, and I love to listen to Neil Young.
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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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He longed for the deep as she longed for the night sky and for white lilies floating on water -- although she still tried to convince herself that love alone could feed her soul.
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Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness.
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You know a great many things in dreams, often despite the evidence of your eyes. You just know them.
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And my father always took me to the library. We were both book addicts.
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Reality is a fragile thing.
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The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
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Sometimes, when you’re sad you don’t know what to do, it helps to be angry. But then the tears come back again all the same, and you fall asleep with the salty taste of them on your lips.
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But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story.
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Women were different, no doubt about it. Men broke so much more quickly. Grief didn't break women. Instead it wore them down, it hollowed them out very slowly.
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The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
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Mortimer's face twisted when the Piper pressed his knife against his ribs. Oh yes, he's obviously made the wrong enemies in this story, thought Orpheus. And the wrong friends. But that was high-minded heroes for you. Stupid.
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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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