There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
— Cornelia Funke
The most controversy Cornelia Funke quotes that may be undiscovered and unusual
The world was a terrible place, cruel, pitiless, dark as a bad dream.
Not a good place to live. Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness - and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.
The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.
Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.
A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.
You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings.
Some books should be tasted, some devoured, but only a few should be chewed and digested thoroughly.
I have two Iceland horses, a very hairy dog called Looney, and a guinea pig.
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?
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.
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.
Why would we ever want to go back when your world is so accommodating with your telephones and your guns and what's that sticky stuff called ...duct tape.
The heart was a weak, changeable thing, bent on nothing but love, and there could be no more fatal mistake than to make it your master. Reason must be in charge. It comforted you for the heart's foolishness, it sang mocking songs about love, derided it as a whim of nature, transient as flowers. So why did she still keep following her heart?
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.
Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but don't come back, ok?
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.
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?
But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story.
It's a good idea to have your own books with you in a strange place
Writing stories is a kind of magic, too.
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.
I live in Hamburg; that's in the north. And I live on the outskirts of town. It looks like countryside.
I always wanted to ride a dragon myself, so I decided to do this for a year in my imagination.
I like a composer called Henry Purcell, and I love to listen to Neil Young.
Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.
My daughter, Anna, is almost 15, and my son, Ben, is almost 10.
I don't like to eat the same dish every day, so I read very different things.
The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
My grandmother told stories; she was very good at that.
Words were useless. At times, they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.
I always thought it hadn't influenced me very much, but I heard from many people from England that many motives from German fairytales are to be found in my books.
My children were all made from paper and printer's ink.
And I plan to write a sequel to Dragon Rider.
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.
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.
All books are in safe hands with me. They're my children, my inky children, and I look after them well. I keep the sunlight away from their pages, I dust and protect them from hungry hookworms and grubby human fingers.
Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?
Everything gets to me. I'm very sentimental.
My wife loves written words ... you know, words that stick to parchment and paper like dead flies, and it seems my father felt the same - but I want to hear words! Remember that when you are looking for the right words: You must ask yourself what they SOUND like! Glowing with passion, dark with sorrow, sweet with love, that's what I want. - Cosimo
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?
Life was more difficult in Inkheart, yet it seemed to Meggie that with every new day Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful.
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?
What's that sticky stuff called? Basta: Duct tape. Yes, duct tape. I love duct tape.
We're all liars when it serves our purpose.
I love to read aloud.
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?
Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.
Perhaps there's another, much larger story behind the printed one, a story that changes just as our own world does. And the letters on the page tell us only as much as we'd see peering through a keyhole. Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.
A thousand enemies outside the house are better than one within. Arab proverb