Cornelia Funke Quotes - Page 6

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Everyone is small at night.

Cornelia Funke

Night

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The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. - Balbulus

Cornelia Funke

Insects, Spoken Word, Written Word

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkspell”, p.289, Scholastic Inc.

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Who are you?' Mo looked at the White Women. Then he looked at Dustfinger's still face. Guess.' The bird ruffled up its golden feathers, and Mo saw that the mark on its breast was blood. You are Death.' Mo felt the word heavy on his tongue. Could any word be heavier?

Cornelia Funke

Blood, White, Bird

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.225, Scholastic Inc.

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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.

Cornelia Funke

People, World, Said

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkspell”, p.497, Scholastic Inc.

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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, words that built a wall to keep out bad dreams. And not a single bad dream came over that wall for the rest of the night.

Cornelia Funke

Dream, Wall, Book

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Fall, Tears, Taste

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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

Book, Kissing, Laughing

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.114, Scholastic Inc.

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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!

Cornelia Funke

Book, Order, Different

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Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.

Cornelia Funke

Paper, Nightmare, Faster

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkheart”, p.9, Scholastic Inc.

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I pledge to set out to live a thousand lives between printed pages. I pledge to use books as doors to other minds, old and young, girl and boy, man and animal. I pledge to use books to open windows to a thousand different worlds and to the thousand different faces of my own world. I pledge to use books to make my universe spread much wider than the world I live in every day. I pledge to treat my books like friends, visiting them all from time to time and keeping them close.

Cornelia Funke

Girl, Book, Men

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Gun, World, Want

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Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.

Cornelia Funke

Believe, Night, Devil

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkheart”, p.210, Scholastic Inc.

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Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

Cornelia Funke

Heart, Animal, Somewhere Else

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkheart”, p.127, Scholastic Inc.

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Stupid, Hero, Knives

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.472, Chicken House

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From the tower battlements, Dustfinger looked down on a lake as black as night, where the reflection of the castle swam in a sea of stars. The wind passing over his unscarred face was cold from the snow of the surrounding mountains, and Dustfinger relished life as if he were tasting it for the first time. The longing it brought, and the desire. All the bitterness, all the sweetness, even if it was only for a while, never for more than a while, everything gained and lost, lost and found again.

Cornelia Funke

Stars, Reflection, Night

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.491, Scholastic Inc.

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Book, Doe, Stories

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Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?

Cornelia Funke

Book, Pay, Inkdeath

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.113, Scholastic Inc.

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It was much easier for him now that he was smaller to negotiate his way through his crammed shop but he still tried to swagger past the shelves like he used to in the past. The attempt looked so strange that Scipio started to mimic him behind his back. "What's the silly giggling about?" Barbarossa asked when Prosper and Renzo bust out laughing.

Cornelia Funke

Silly, Past, Laughing

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Eye, Sound, Ears

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkdeath”, p.9, Scholastic Inc.

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Morning, Real, Writing

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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

Believe, Heart, Light

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Tintenblut”, p.309, Dressler Verlag

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you can not fully read a book without being alone. But through this very solitude you become intimately involved with people whom you might never have met otherwise, either because they have been dead for centuries or because they spoke languages you cannot understand. And, nonetheless, they have become your closest friends, your wisest advisors, the wizards that hypnotize you, the lovers you have always dreamed of. -Antonio munoz molinas, "the power of the pen

Cornelia Funke

Book, People, Solitude

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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.

Cornelia Funke

Curiosity, Strange, Forgotten

Cornelia Funke (2011). “Inkheart”, p.462, Scholastic Inc.

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What a plague love is!

Cornelia Funke

Love Is, Plague

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Reality is a fragile thing.

Cornelia Funke

Reality, Fragile Things, Fragile

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Born: December 10, 1958
Occupation: Author
Cite this Page: Citation

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