Quote

Don't let it worry you, not being able to speak,'Dustfinger had often told her. 'People tend not to listen anyway, right?

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Able
Right
Anyway
People
Tend
Listen
Told
Worry
Often
Speak

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I wish I had more time to visit schools.
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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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What a plague love is!
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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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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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Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.
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Everyone is small at night.
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I always thought it hadn't influenced me very much, but I heard from many people from England that many motives from German fairytales are to be found in my books.
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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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He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.
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Accursed, blasted, heartless things [books]! Full of empty promises, full of false lures, always making you hungry, never satisfying you, never!
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Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.
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What are stories for if we don't learn from them?
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And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dustfinger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.
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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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There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.
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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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And I always read the English translation and always have conversations with my translator, for example about the names. I always have to approve it.
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Where did the love come from? What was it made of?
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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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