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Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 65
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Caterpillars
Butterfly
Since
Asks
Doe
Caterpillar

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What's the matter princess? Do you know the end of your story?
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What on earth have you packed in here? Bricks? asked Mo as he carried Meggie's book-box out of the house. You're the one who says books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside them, said Meggie.
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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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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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Her curiosity was too much for her. She felt almost as if she could hear the books whispering on the other side of the half-open door. They were promising her a thousand unknown stories, a thousand doors into worlds she had never seen before.
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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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He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.
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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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Beauty and fear make uneasy companions
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Fire and water, he said, don't really mix. You could say they're incompatible. But when they do love each other, they love passionately.
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I wish I had more time to visit schools.
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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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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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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
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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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How fast the ears learned to tell what sounds meant, much faster than it took the eyes to decipher written words.
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The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
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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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There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
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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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