Quote

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?

Cornelia Funke

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Cornelia Funke
Age: 65
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Dream
Gold
Eyelids
Stills
Dreams
Tokens
Still
Behinds
Lashes
Littles
Return
Closed
Wanted
Behind
Fairy
Little
Perhaps
Tales
Sometimes
Leave
Dust
Clung
Like
Happiness
Somewhere
Token

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The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
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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.
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There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
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He longed for the deep as she longed for the night sky and for white lilies floating on water -- although she still tried to convince herself that love alone could feed her soul.
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This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends.
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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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If I was a book, I would like to be a library book, so I would be taken home by all different sorts of kids.
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My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.
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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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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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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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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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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
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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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I love to read aloud.
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Everyone is small at night.
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Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same.
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The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. - Balbulus
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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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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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