|
5e114ad
|
Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.
|
|
caterpillar
funke
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
2f2d8b2
|
Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
052ba41
|
Elinor had read countless stories in which the main characters fell sick at some point because they were so unhappy. She had always thought that a very romantic idea, but she'd dismissed it as a pure invention of the world of books. All those wilting heroes and heroines who suddenly gave up the ghost just because of unrequited love or longing for something they'd lost! Elinor had always enjoyed their sufferings--as a reader will. After all,..
|
|
reading
stories
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
4175019
|
Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and it was wonderful to listen to them, but they were no substitute for love itself. They couldn't kiss her like Meggie, they couldn't hug her like Resa, they couldn't laugh like Mortimer. Poor books, poor Elinor.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
c750a4f
|
If you keep pretending you're in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you're in.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
b4c2e50
|
The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
88d6113
|
Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.
|
|
memories
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
5ce1f26
|
In love - it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn't that just how it sometimes felt?
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
5218c85
|
It [the book] was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful..
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
d9f67b5
|
This world,' she said. 'Do you really like it?' What a question! Farid never asked himself such things. He was glad to be with Dustfinger again and didn't mind where that was. It's a cruel world, don't you think?' Meggie went on. 'Mo often told me I forget how cruel it is too easily.' With his burned fingers, Farid stroke her fair hair. It shone even in the dark. 'They're all cruel,' he said. 'The world I come from, the world you come from,..
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
3c77113
|
Weren't all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!
|
|
reading
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
6b0daaf
|
Dustfinger inspected his reddened fingers and felt the taut skin. 'He might tell me how my story ends,' he murmured. Meggie looked at him in astonishment. 'You mean you don't know?' Dustfinger smiled. Meggie still didn't particularly like his smile. It seemed to appear only to hide something else. 'What's so unusual about that, princess?' he asked quietly. 'Do you know how your story ends?' Meggie had no answer for that.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
c698ffb
|
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.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
ec75452
|
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.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
33ddf38
|
Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
624cd0e
|
Some books should be tasted,some devoured but only few should be chewed and digested thouroughly
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
fcc66a2
|
She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn't taste bad, but she was still unhappy.
|
|
stories
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
43c7a1f
|
You crazy!" whispered Meggie. "You're a total lunatic!" But her opinion did not impress Fenoglio in the slightest. "So what? All writers are lunatics!"
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
eb57427
|
Every book should begin with attractive endpapers. Preferably in a dark colour: dark red or dark blue, depending on the binding. When you open the book it's like going to the theatre. First you see the curtain. Then it's pulled aside and the show begins.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
120f870
|
You forgot something important! -What? -It's under my sweater! -WHAT?! -Me!
|
|
sweet
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
c0798d4
|
What are stories for if we don't learn from them?
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
b2e7e86
|
Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.
|
|
bright
night
devil
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
9684063
|
Please," she whispered as she opened the book, "please get me out of here just for an hour or so, please take me far, far away"
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
420736f
|
The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
c1cc7dc
|
Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
6d5a305
|
Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened. He was home again.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
387aab4
|
perhaps because this time not fear but love made him read.
|
|
elinor
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
4e20754
|
And he will have a great aunt called Elinor who tells him there's a world not like this one. A world with neither fairies nor glass men, but with animals who carry their young in a pouch in front of their bellies, and birds with wings that beat so fast it sounds like the humming of a bumblebee, with carriages that drive along without any horses and pictures that move on their own accord... She will tell him that even the most powerful men d..
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
a4b73fd
|
The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. - Balbulus
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
902fd38
|
believe me. Sometimes when life looks to be at its grimmest, there's a light hidden at the heart of things. Clive Barker, Abarat
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
42f3222
|
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."
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
5ee14e3
|
Desperate? So what? I'm desperate, too!" Fenoglio snapped at her. "My story is foundering in misfortune, and these hands here," he said holding them out to her, "don't want to write anymore! I'm afraid of words Meggie! 'Once they were like honey, now they're poison, pure poison! But what is a writer who doesn't love words anymore? What have I come to? This story is devouring me, crushing me, and I'm it's creator!"
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
dcafdb8
|
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 |
|
c517f9e
|
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.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
6527e84
|
Nobody loves only once.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
9e6562e
|
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.
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
2bb1ecf
|
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?
|
|
fairy-tales
lovely
sleep
dreams
inspirational
inkheart
sleeping
dreaming
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
e64de96
|
Words are immortal - Elinor
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
3acc88b
|
Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful," murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life."
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
e8171d0
|
So Mo began filling the silence with words. He lured them out of the pages as if they had only been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words. They danced through the room, painting stained glass pictures, tickling the skin. Even when Meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although Mo had closed the book long ago. Words that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, wo..
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
6a80bec
|
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.
|
|
counterfeit
detective
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
36ddcce
|
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 |
|
2d1d2f2
|
He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.
|
|
grown-up
wish
|
Cornelia Funke |
|
d22c8bc
|
My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story," said Dustfinger at last."
|
|
|
Cornelia Funke |