Quotes by Cornelia Funke

When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.

All writers are insane!

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

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.

What was this yearning, tearing at her insides like hunger and thirst? It couldnt be love. Love was warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this was dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it was hungry. So hungry. It must have some other name, just as there couldnt be the same word for life and death, or for moon and sun

Stories always go on. They dont end on the last page any more than they begin on the first page

What are stories for if we dont learn from them?

Im perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. Its a lot safer.

So its happened, I kept thinking, youre in the middle of a story exactly as youve always wanted, and its horrible. Fear tastes quite different when youre not just reading about it, Meggie, and playing hero wasnt half as much fun as Id expected.

Unlike me, he realized that Dustfinger would do anything in return for such a promise. All he wants is to go back to his own world. He doesnt even stop to ask if his story there has a happy ending!Well, thats no different from real life, remarked Elinor gloomily. You never know if things will turn out well. Just now our own story looks like its coming to a bad end.

I will try to write books until I drop dead.

That bloody bastard! That thrice accursed son of a bitch!

Night was fading over the fields as if the rain had washed the darkness out of the hem of its garment.

Secrets... nothing eats away at love faster.

What was she hoping to gain from his death? That it would numb the pain of his betrayal, or heal her injured pride? Her red sister didnt know much about love.

She felt as if the grave stones were whispering those names to her as she walked past... Those stones that bore no names seemed like closed mouths, sad mouths that forgotten how to speak. But perhaps the dead didnt mind what their names had once been?

It was a chilly morning after the nights rain, and the sun hung in the sky like a pale coin lost by someone high up in the clouds.

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.

For him that stealeth, or borroweth and returneth not, this book from its owner, let it change into a serpent in his hand and rend him. Let him be struck with palsy, and all his members blasted. Let him languish in pain, crying aloud for mercy, and let there be no surcease to this agony till he sing in dissolution. Let bookworms gnaw his entrails in token of the worm that dieth not, and when at last he goeth to his last punishment, let the flames of hell consume him for

Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on weather or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her.