Quotes from Cornelia Funke

The stars shone down on her like flowers made of light, and their beauty hurt her weary heart.

Courage was not given; it was acquired, earned. You had to take the difficult paths.

They're my children, my inky children, and I look after them well.

He pressed his fist to where his heart had once beaten, and I did the same. I'm sure I looked like a total idiot, but I think we all do when we're really happy. Except for Longspee. He just looked fabulous being happy.

Fear was like a beast that only grew fiercer when one gave in to it.

Many of the snowflakes, he had told her, were tiny elves who kissed your face with icy lips before melting on your warm skin.

She was beginning to miss him when he wasn't near.

My voice had bayou gut them slipping out of their story like a bookmark forgotten by a reader between the pages

So often it is words or pictures that first tell us what we long for.

You soon get tired of what's extraordinary, dragon rider. It's often the most ordinary things that bring great happiness.

I was the Count of Monte Cristo, who would one day return from the terrible prison island to take revenge on all those who had sent him there. I was Napoléon, banished to die a lonely death on Saint Helena. I was Harry, locked up under the Dursleys' staircase.

They forked up in the air for him, like trees branching in the night, and rained down sparks. They roared and whispered with their crackling voices, they had danced when he said the word. The flames here were both tame and mutinous, strange, silent beasts that sometimes bit the hand that fed them. Only occasionally, on cold nights when there was nothing but the flames to stave off his loneliness, did he think he heard them calling to him, but they whispered words he didn't understand.

A strong and bitter book-sickness floods one's soul. How ignominious to be strapped to this ponderous mass of paper, print and dead man's sentiment. Would it not be better, finer, braver to leave the rubbish where it lies and walk out into the world a free untrammelled illiterate Superman?

And all was well.

You know, it's a funny thing about writers. Most people don't stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago—they don't expect to meet them in the street or out shopping. They know their stories but not their names, and certainly not their faces. And most writers like it

After all," she said, "many people here have little enough patience or understanding for their fellow human beings who are only superficially different than them—so how would it be for little people with blue skins who can fly?

Some of the other mudlarks also swore that Ofelia Fuente's mother was a Witch, but they said that about almost every woman, especially the ones who managed to make a living for themselves.

Courage was something John Reckless only ever wished he had. Courage was not a given; it was acquired, earned. You had to take the difficult paths, and John had always picked the easy ones.

Quando ti porti dietro un libro» le aveva rivelato Mo quando Meggie ci aveva messo dentro il primo «avviene qualcosa di straordinario: le sue pagine raccoglieranno i tuoi ricordi. E un giorno ti basterà risfogliarle per tornare con il pensiero al luogo dove le hai lette per la prima volta: le immagini, gli odori, il gelato che ti eri gustata... Credimi, i libri sono un po' come la carta moschicida: a nient'altro i ricordi restano attaccati come alla carta stampata.»

Fox could've kissed him on the mouth just to taste the smile on his lips. Forbidden. She'd almost forgotten.

Their dust was in high demand, as it gave sweet dreams, but Tabetha couldn't afford to get lost in them. Those dreams were only lies anyway, and waking up from them only made facing reality harder.

It was far easier to believe in unhappiness than in happiness.

Librarians. He'd never met one with a bad memory. He had a theory that words stuck to their minds like flies to flypaper.

Os livros eram o único lugar onde havia compaixão, consolo, alegria... e amor. Os livros amavam a todos que os abriam, ofereciam proteção e amizade sem exigir nada em troca, e nunca iam embora, nunca, mesmo quando não eram bem tratados. Amor, verdade, beleza, sabedoria e consolo perante a morte.