Quote

What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Instead
Called
Everything
Escapism
Real
Monotony
Made
Slap
Life
Unhappy
World
Ten
People
Pages

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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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My children were all made from paper and printer's ink.
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We all know what fun it can be to get right into a book and live there for a while, but falling out of a story and suddenly finding yourself in this world doesn't seem to be much fun at all.
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You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.
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Every reader knows about the feeling that characters in books seem more real than real people.
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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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Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but don't come back, ok?
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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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Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?
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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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Meggie Folchart: Having writer's block? Maybe I can help. Fenoglio: Oh yes, that's right. You want to be a writer, don't you? Meggie Folchart: You say that as if it's a bad thing. Fenoglio: Oh no, it's just a lonely thing. Sometimes the world you create on the page seems more friendly and alive than the world you actually live in.
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Everyone is small at night.
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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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There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.
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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.
Cornelia Funke
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a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.
Cornelia Funke
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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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Words,words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.
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Believe, believe, believe
Cornelia Funke