Cornelia Funke

“Some books should be tasted,some devoured but only few should be chewed and digested thouroughly”

“Worte taugen nichts. Ja, manchmal klangen sie wunderbar, aber sie liessen einen im Stich, sobald man sie wirklich brauchte. Nie fand man die richtigen, niemals, aber wo sollte man auch nach ihnen suchen? Das Herz ist stumm wie ein Fish, auch wenn die Zunge sich noch so viel Muehe gibt, ihm eine Stimme zu geben.”

“She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?”

“A story is a labyrinth, it looks as if there were several ways to go, but only one is right, and there's a nasty surprise ready to punish you for every false step.”

“Una storia cambia continuamente vestito. Una storia cresce e germoglia come un qualcosa di vivo! Quelle che vengono chiuse nei libri, invece? Sì, magari vivono più a lungo, ma prendono vita solo quando i libri vengono aperti. Sono suoni pressati tra i fogli, e solo una voce può dar loro fiato!”

“- Nulla è eterno, Balbulus. E che cosa c'è di meglio, per le parole, che essere cantate in giro? Sì, certo, ogni volta mutano, hanno una melodia diversa. Ma non è questo il bello?”

“- E allora? Tutti gli scrittori sono svitati!”

“We all know what fun it can be to get right into a book and live there for a while, but falling out of a story and suddenly finding yourself in this world doesn't seem to be much fun at all.”

“What are stories for if we don't learn from them?”

“But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story.”

“He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.”

“Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.”

“The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It's easy to forget that when you're indoors, protected by light and solid walls.”

“Every book should begin with attractive endpapers. Preferably in a dark colour: dark red or dark blue, depending on the binding. When you open the book it's like going to the theatre. First you see the curtain. Then it's pulled aside and the show begins.”

“She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books - looks as if she likes them better than human company.”

“„Wenn du ein Buch auf eine Reise mitnimmst“, hatte Mo gesagt, als er ihr das erste in die Kiste gelegt hatte, „dann geschieht etwas Seltsames: Das Buch wird anfangen, deine Erinnerungen zu sammeln. Du wirst es später nur aufschlagen müssen und schon wirst du wieder dort sein, wo du zuerst darin gelesen hast. Schon mit den ersten Wörtern wird alles zurückkommen: die Bilder, die Gerüche, das Eis, das du beim Lesen gegessen hast… Glaub mir, Bücher sind wie Fliegenpapier. An nichts haften Erinnerungen so gut wie an bedruckten Seiten.“Vermutlich hatte er damit Recht. Doch Meggie nahm ihre Bücher noch aus einem anderen Grund auf jede Reise mit. Sie waren ihr Zuhause in der Fremde – vertraute Stimmen, Freunde, die sich nie mit ihr stritten, kluge, mächtige Freunde, verwegen und mit allen Wassern der Welt gewaschen, weit gereist, abenteuererprobt.”

“Manche Bücher müssen gekostet werden,manche verschlingt man,nur einige wenige kaut man und verdaut sie ganz.”

“It's a world full of terror and beauty (here her writing became so small Meggie could hardly make it out) and I could always understand why Dustfinger felt homesick for it.The last sentence worried Meggie, but when she looked anxiously at her mother, Teresa smiled and reached for her hand. I was far, far more homesick for you two, she wrote on the palm of it, and Meggie closed her fingers over the words as if to hold them fast. She read them again and again on the long drive back to Elinor's house, and it was many days before they faded.”

“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 doesn't even stop to ask if his story there has a happy ending!""Well, that's no different from real life," remarked Elinor gloomily. "You never know if things will turn out well. Just now our own story looks like it's coming to a bad end.”

“So it's happened, I kept thinking, you're in the middle of a story exactly as you've always wanted, and it's horrible. Fear tastes quite different when you're not just reading about it, Meggie, and playing hero wasn't half as much fun as I'd expected.”

“Wir sind alle Lügner, wenn es uns nützt.”

“Let's run away to Venice, and hide out in an old movie theater. We can dye our hair blonde, so no one will ever find us!”

“Many [book] even lay flat in the floor open. Their spines upward. Elinor couldn't bear to look! Didn't the monster know that was the way to break a book's neck?”

“(...)depois de acordar de um pesadelo, nada a sossegava mais do que a respiração do pai, ali ao seu lado, e o folhear das páginas. Nada conseguia espantar mais rapidamente os sonhos maus do que o sussurrar do papel impresso.”

“Come Mo aveva detto un giorno, scrivere storie, in fin dei conti, ha un po' a che fare con la magia.”

“I libri amavano tutti coloro che li aprivano, offrivano protezione e amicizia senza pretendere nulla in cambio. Non ti abbandonavano mai, nemmeno quando li maltrattavi.”

“Da dove devo cominciare? Intanto, va chiarita subito una cosa fondamentale: un romanziere non scrive mai tutto quello che sa sui suoi personaggi. I lettori non devono venire a sapere tutto. Alcuni aspetti è meglio che restino un segreto fra lo scrittore e le sue creature.”

“- Voglio dire che io fiuto le belle storie a chilometri di distanza. Quindi non tenti di nascondermene una. Sputi fuori, forza, e in cambio si guadagna una fetta di questo fantastico dolce con i buchi - soggiunse in tono scherzoso.”

“Mai prima di allora, però, aveva incontrato qualcuno che scriveva le frasi che ne riempivano le pagine. Persino di alcuni dei suoi libri preferiti non sapeva nemmeno il nome dell'autore, né tanto meno aveva idea di che aspetto avesse. Sempre e solo i personaggi scaturiti da quelle magiche parole aveva visto con gli occhi della fantasia, mai chi stava dietro, chi li aveva inventati.”

“E Mo cominciò a riempire la quiete notturna di parole. Le attirava fuori dalle pagine come se non stessero aspettando altro che la sua voce: lunghe e corte, aspre e dolci, sibilanti e gutturali. Danzavano per la stanza, solleticavano la pelle, dipingevano figure di vetro colorato nel vuoto.”

“Ciò che un libro avrebbe potuto raccontarle non l'aveva mai intimorita. Anzi, di solito non vedeva l'ora di lasciarsi trasportare in un mondo nuovo, inesplorato, e la sua curiosità era tale che si metteva a leggere nei momenti meno opportuni.”

“Depose sul tavolo la cartella in cui teneva i risguardi da inserire prima del frontespizio e prese a sfogliarli con aria assente. «Ogni libro dovrebbe cominciare con una pagina vuota» aveva detto una volta a Meggie. «Meglio se scura: rosso scuro, blu scuro, a seconda del colore della copertina. Quando apri il libro, è come se fossi a teatro. Il sipario copre il palcoscenico. Tu lo tiri da parte e ha inizio la rappresentazione.»”

“I libri la rincuoravano quando era triste e scacciavano la noia mentre Mo tagliava, rilegava, incollava pagine ormai logore, rese fragili da anni e anni d'uso sotto le innumerevoli dita che le avevano sfogliate.”

“«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.»”

“Lì i libri erano ammassati dappertutto. Non erano solo sugli scaffali come nelle altre case, no: da loro erano accatastati sotto i tavoli, sulle sedie, negli angoli più remoti. Ce n'erano in cucina e in bagno, sul televisore e nell'armadio; pile basse e pile alte. Grossi, piccoli, vecchi, nuovi... libri e ancora libri. Accoglievano Meggie sulla tavola apparecchiata per la colazione, invitanti; l'aiutavano a scacciare la noia... e qualche volta la mandavano lunga distesa per terra!”

“Det var kejsarinnans far som hade stiftat en lag, att föremål, djur och människor med magiska egenskaper var skyldiga att rapporteras. För det var ju inte lätt att regera i en värld där ett guldträd kunde göra en tiggare till kung och talande djur viskade rebelliska visdomsord till skogsarbetarna.”

“När det gällde traditioner kunde man inte argumentera med dvärgar, lika lite som med präster om religion.”

“Are you really going to catch us and take us back to Esther? We don’t belong to her, you know.” Embarrassed, Victor stared at his shoes. “Well, children all have to belong to somebody,” he muttered. “Do you belong to someone?”“That’s different.”“Because you’re a grown-up?”

“My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.”

“I hope you drop dead!” She screamed as Basta hauled her out of the room. “I hope you burn to death! I hope you suffocate in your own smoke!” Basta laughed as he closed the door. “Just listen to this little wildcat!” He said. “I think I’ll have to watch my step with you around!”

“I’m sorry, Silvertongue, but the fact is I don’t believe anyone. You ought to know that by now. We’re all liars when it serves our purpose.”

“What’s so unusual about that, princess?” he asked quietly. “Do you know how your story ends?”

“Can’t you imagine? Haven’t you told her about the place enough?” He tried the handle again, as if that could change anything. Meggie had covered the whole door with quotations. They looked to him now like magic spells written on the white paint in childish hand. Take me to another world! Go on! I know you can do it. My father has shown me how. Odd that your heart didn’t simply stop when it hurt so much.”

“Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?”

“The wrong words. They were true a hundred times over, yet they sounded like a lie. Hadn't he always know it? Words were useless. At times they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moments you really needed them . You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is a silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.”

“There is no need," Capricorn finally began, raising his voice, "for me to explain to most of you why the three prisoners you see there are to be punished. For the rest, it is enough for me to say it is for treachery, loose talk, and stupidity. One may argue, of course, over whether or not stupidity is a crime deserving of death. I think it is, for it can have exactly the same consequences as treachery.”

“claimed to be the man who wrote a certain book – what was its name again?""Inkheart." Fenoglio rubbed his aching back. "Its title is Inkheart because it's about a manwhose wicked heart is as black as ink, filled with darkness and evil. I still like the title.”

“Sometimes, when I went to the spring to wash early in the morning," he murmured, "there'd be tiny fairies flitting around above the water, not much bigger than the butterflies you have here, and blue as violet petals. They liked to fly into my hair. Sometimes they spat in my face. They weren't very friendly, but they shone like glowworms by night. I sometimes caught one and put it in a jar. If I let it out at night before going to sleep I had wonderful dreams.""Capricorn said there were trolls and giants, too," said Meggie quietly.Dustfinger gave her a thoughtful look. "Yes, there were," he said. "But Capricorn wasn't particularly fond of them. He'd have liked to do away with them all. He had them hunted. He hunted anything that could run.""It must be a dangerous world." Meggie was trying to imagine it all: the giants, the trolls, and the fairies. Mo had once given her a book about fairies.Dustfinger shrugged. "Yes, it's dangerous, so what? This world's dangerous, too, isn't it?”

“I know you all think I'm a magician, but I'm not. The magic comes out of the booksthemselves, and I have no more idea than you or any of your men how it works.”

“Yes, every evening. Your mother enjoyed it. That evening she chose Inkheart. She always did like tales of adventure – stories full of brightness and darkness. She could tell you the names of all King Arthur's knights, and she knew everything about Beowulf and Grendel, the ancient gods and the not-quite-so-ancient heroes. She liked pirate stories, too, but most of all she loved books that had at least a knight or a dragon or a fairy in them. She was always on the dragon's side, by the way. There didn't seem to be any of them in Inkheart, but there was any amount of brightness and darkness, fairies and goblins. Your mother liked goblins as well: hobgoblins, bugaboos, the Fenoderee, the folletti with their butterfly wings, she knew them all. So we gave you a pile of picture books, sat down on the rug beside you, and I began to read.”