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The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages.

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 65
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Pages
Reading
Back
Pressing
Book
Lure
Pillow
Printed
Cover
Ears

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Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse!
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Believe, believe, believe
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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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Sometimes, when you're so sad you don't know what to do, it helps to be angry.
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Go back and rid the word of that book. Fill it with words before spring comes, or winter will never end for you. And I will take not only your life for the Adderhead's but your daughter's, too, because she helped you bind the book. Do you undersand, Bluejay Why two? asked Mo hoarsely. How can you ask for two lives in return for one?
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Reality is a fragile thing.
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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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What a plague love is!
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Words,words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.
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The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
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My daughter, Anna, is almost 15, and my son, Ben, is almost 10.
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There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
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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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Every reader knows about the feeling that characters in books seem more real than real people.
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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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He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. His skin was wet with rain. When she didn't pull away, he took her face between his hands and kissed her again, on her forehead, on her nose, on her mouth once more. You will come, won't you? Promisse! he whispered.
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My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.
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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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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.
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Are you really going to catch us and take us back to Esther? We don’t belong to her, you know.” Embarrassed, Victor stared at his shoes. “Well, children all have to belong to somebody,” he muttered. “Do you belong to someone?” “That’s different.” “Because you’re a grown-up?
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