Quotes from Cornelia Funke

Mortimer! Orpheus produced a derisive smile, although with some difficulty. Is your head buried so deep in your wine jug that you don't know what's going on in this world of yours? He's not doing any reading now. The bookbinder prefers to play the outlaw these days - the role you created especially for him.

The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with weary feet, Until it joins some larger way Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

The rain pummeled the old Dragon bones as though to provide the rhythm to the song of their mortality, but death was not what they had on their minds—or wasn't love sometimes called the small death?

Abenteuer kann man doch nicht planen wie Ballett oder so was. Die warten um die Ecke und - zack! - plötzlich sind sie da!

No te preocupes por no poder hablar -solía decirle Dedo Polvoriento-. La gente no suele prestar atención.

Ketakutan membunuh segalanya. Akal, hati dan juga fantasi

There is a sort of busy worm, That will the fairest book deform. Their tasteless tooth will tear and taint The poet, patriot, sage or saint, Nor sparing wit nor learning. Now, if you'd know the reason why, The best of reasons I'll supply: 'Tis bread to the poor vermin. J. Doraston, quoted by W. Blades

an odd thing happens: The book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will all come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while you were reading it … yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." He

Was waren sie doch alle für Schauspieler! Alle, wie sie dastanden. Aber was spielten sie? Das, was die anderen sehen wollten? Das, was sie selbst gern sein wollten?

How could it be true that [he] was dead, and how would it feel to have him dead in her heart forever?

Vielleicht hat sich doch alles geändert. Vielleicht gibt es hinter der gedruckten Geschichte eine andere, viel grössere Geschichte, die sich ebenso wandelt, wie unsere Welt es tut? Und die Buchstaben verraten uns darüber gerade so viel wie ein Blick durch ein Schlüsselloch. Vielleicht sind sie nicht mehr als der Deckel zu einem Topf, der viel mehr enthält als wir lesen können.

Nichts war grausamer als ein Herz aus Fleisch und Blut, weil es wusste, was Schmerzen bereitet.

Aber diesesmal war ihre eigene Geschichte zu stark, um sich von der erfundenen vertreiben zu lassen.

Every soldier had to battle his weaker self. His weaker self had brought Donnersmarck to his knees, trembling. He had screamed it away, he had outrun it, he had drowned it in the blood of others. And he had always defeated it.

Oh yes, he was an idiot. He'd always been frightened by how much he needed her. And now it was too late.

Isn't there at lest a bloody light switch somewhere in this hole? Oh, to hell with it, I feel as if I've fallen into some far-fetched adventure story where the villians wear black eye patches and throw knives. Damn, damn, damn! Meggie had already noticed that Elinor swore a lot, and the more upset she was the worse her language became.

That was what made fighting so easy - you could always choose death rather than captivity.

One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring-clean…. It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came out from under his workbench as he swept. Beginnings of creatures, bits that looked useful but had seemed wrong, ideas that he'd mislaid and forgotten…. There was even a tiny lump of sun. He scratched his head. What could be done with all this rubbish? Ted Hughes, "Leftovers," from The Dreamfighter

The Weaver wove herself from the thread of night, hair of moonlight, skin of stars. So old. Without beginning or end.

Guilt is a strong motivator, sometimes even stronger than love.

She had thought the chewing and digesting were meant literally and wondered, horrified, why Mo had hung on his workshop door the words of someone who vandalized books.

The Fairy looked at the broken glass around her feet. Her shattered cage. And the one who'd put her in it was far, far away. But, no, she had caged herself.

You make peace with one sister only to declare war on the other. It's always like that with peace, isn't it? Always to someone's detriment, already sowing the seed for the next war.

They (books) were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powerful friends - daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had traveled far and wide.