Quotes from Cornelia Funke

You can run, but I'll get you yet, do you hear? You, the fire-eater, Silvertongue and his hoity-toity daughter — and the old man who wrote those accursed words! I'll kill you all! One by one!

O ja, auch das hatte Elinor inzwischen begriffen: dass die Sehnsucht nach Büchern nichts war im Vergleich zu der Sehnsucht, die man nach Menschen haben konnte. Die Bücher erzählten von der Liebe, und es war wunderbar, ihnen zu lauschen, aber sie konnten nicht ersetzen, wovon sie erzählten.

You're paying the price now, Elinor,' she often told herself these days. Paying the price for the happiness of those last months. Didn't books always say that, too: that there's always a price to pay for happiness? How could she ever have thought she would simply find it and be allowed to keep it?

No, the story much have a happy ending. It wouldn't be right otherwise! She had never liked sad stories.

But nine years are a long time, and Meggie saw how careful they were with each other, like people on a narrow bridge crossing a wide, wide void.

So he had thrust her out of his heart as he always did with anyone who tried to stay there too long.

Quando ti porti dietro un libro avviene qualcosa di straordinario: le sue pagine raccoglieranno i tuoi ricordi. E un giorno ti basterà risfogliarle per tornare col pensiero al luogo dove le hai lette per la prima volta.

Heavens, what a plague love was! Anyone who claimed otherwise had never yet felt that wretched trembling of the heart.

For one short moment he had a crazy urge to lie down on one of the mattresses, to light a few of the many candles around the place, and to forget everything that had happened since his ninth birthday.

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

If, like Riccio, you didn't have parents, it was easy to imagine how wonderful they might have been. But what if you had parents and they weren't wonderful at all?

If you take a book with you on a journey, 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 reading it... yes, books are like flypaper—memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.

Love was a luxury you paid for with far too much pain.

I want to see thirst In the syllables, Touch fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream. Pablo Neruda, "Word," Five Decades T

The most painful aspect of exile was how home became a dream, cleansed of all that was bad. One never returned to the dream one had nurtured over centuries, but to a reality that would always look shabby compared to the romanticized memories.

Certi libri vanno assaporati lentamente, altri divorati in un sol boccone. E solo alcuni, pochi, vanno masticati per digerirli completamente.

worrying him, and he seemed to look straight through her as if his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. The foreboding in Meggie's heart grew, spreading black wings. 'Send him away, Mo!' she said

I am like a goldsmith hammering day and night Just so I can extend pain Into a gold ornament as thin as a cicada's wing Xi Murong

Perché gli adulti credevano che i bambini sopportassero meglio i misteri che la verità? Non sapevano quali storie terribili ci si andava a inventare, alle volte, per tentare di capire ciò che i grandi nascondevano?

Cara Elinor, evidentemente lei è nata nella storia sbagliata» osservò Dita di Polvere. Erano le prime parole che pronunciava dall'inizio del viaggio. «Nella storia sbagliata? Vorrà dire nell'epoca sbagliata. Sì, anch'io l'ho pensato spesso». «La chiami un po' come le pare» replicò lui.

Es ist immer dasselbe mit den gefährlichen Abenteuern, sie beginnen ganz harmlos.

Here is a small fact. You are going to die. Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass. Wallace Stephens

I think she'd sell her soul to the devil without thinking if he offered her the right book for it.