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: 66
Born: 1958
Born: December 10
Author
Illustrator
Screenwriter
Writer
Stills
Dreams
Tokens
Still
Behinds
Lashes
Littles
Return
Closed
Wanted
Behind
Fairy
Little
Perhaps
Tales
Sometimes
Leave
Dust
Clung
Like
Happiness
Somewhere
Token
Dream
Gold
Eyelids

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I wish you luck,' she said, kissing him on the cheek. He still had the most beautiful eyes of any boy she'd ever seen. But now her heart beat so much faster for someone else.
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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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She had found him and was bringing back his thanks. Nor did she forget to mention that he had assured her that she was indeed the most beautiful fairy he had ever set eyes on.
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Hope. Nothing is more intoxicating.
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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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I wish I had more time to visit schools.
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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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There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.
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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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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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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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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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What a plague love is!
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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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Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?
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I like a composer called Henry Purcell, and I love to listen to Neil Young.
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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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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.
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She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.
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Believe, believe, believe
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