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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.

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Tears
Taste
Fall
Helping
Salty
Back
Asleep
Come
Helps
Sometimes
Lips
Angry

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Words are immortal - Elinor
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Reality is a fragile thing.
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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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Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?
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Life was more difficult in Inkheart, yet it seemed to Meggie that with every new day Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful.
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My son always says I like very weird music.
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Everyone is small at night.
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My children were all made from paper and printer's ink.
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And I plan to write a sequel to Dragon Rider.
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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 have two Iceland horses, a very hairy dog called Looney, and a guinea pig.
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There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
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I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up.
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My wife loves written words ... you know, words that stick to parchment and paper like dead flies, and it seems my father felt the same - but I want to hear words! Remember that when you are looking for the right words: You must ask yourself what they SOUND like! Glowing with passion, dark with sorrow, sweet with love, that's what I want. - Cosimo
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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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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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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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Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.
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A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.
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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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