Cornelia Funke

“What a coward she was after all! She tried to think of some hero out of one of her books,someone whose skin she could slip into, to make her feel stronger, bigger, braver. Why couldshe remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? Sheusually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people andanimals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear killseverything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”

“It's bad enough sitting in a car, never mind driving it.”

“Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth...all those glorious words.”

“Buku-buku akan mencintai siapapun yang membukanya, memberi kita perlindungan dan persahabatan serta tidak menuntut apa pun sebagai balasan. Buku-buku tak pernah pergi meninggalkan kita, sekali pun, bahkan meski kita memperlakukannya dengan buruk.”

“Tapi suatu saat nanti dia mungkin akan semiskin tikus karena membelanjakan semua uangnya untuk membeli buku. Aku takut dia juga tak akan ragu menjual jiwanya jika ada iblis yang bisa memberikan buku yang diinginkannya”

“The heart was a weak, changeable thing, bent on nothing but love, and there could be no more fatal mistake than to make it your master. Reason must be in charge. It comforted you for the heart's foolishness, it sang mocking songs about love, derided it as a whim of nature, transient as flowers. So why did she still keep following her heart?”

“Ist es nicht seltsam, wie viel dicker ein Buch wird, wenn man es mehrmals liest? [...] Als würde jedes Mal etwas zwischen den Seiten kleben bleiben. Gefühle, Gedanken, Geräusche, Gerüche ... Und wenn du dann nach vielen Jahren wieder in dem Buch blätterst, entdeckst du dich selbst darin, etwas jünger, etwas anders, als hätte das Buch dich aufbewahrt, wie eine gepresste Blüte, fremd und vertraut zugleich.”

“He felt Death reaching out to him. But all of a sudden there was something else, too: words. Words that relieved the pain, cooled his brow, and spoke of love, nothing but love... It was his daughter's voice, and the White Women withdrew their pale hands as if they had burned themselves on her love.”

“-You forgot something important!-What?-It's under my sweater!-WHAT?!-Me!”

“It will be dark in a few hours," she said at last, anxiously. "Suppose you don't finnish it in time?" "I have finnished!" he snapped, irritated. "I've finnished a dozen times already, but I'm not happy with it." He lowered his voice to a wisper brfore he went on. "There are so many questions. Suppose the Shadow turns on you or me or the prisners once he's killed Capricorn? And is killing Capricorn really the only solution? What's going to happen to his men afterward? What do I do with them?" "What do you think? The Shadow must kill them all!" Meggie whispered back. "How else are we ever going to get back home or rescue my mother?" "Good heavens, what a heartless creature you are!" he wispered . "Kill them all! Haven't you seen how young some of them are?" He shook his head. "No! I'm not a mass murderer, I'm a writer! I'm sure I can think of some less bloodthirsty ending." And he began writing again . . . and crossing out words . . . and writing more, while outside the sun sank lower and lower until its rays were gliding the hilltops.”

“The fairy had flown over to the window and was peering curiously out at the alley. "Forget it. Stay here," said Dustfinger. "Please. Believe me, it's no place for you out there." She looked at him quizzically, then folded her wings and knelt on the windowsill. And there she stayed, as if she coudln't decide between the hot room and the strange freedom to be found outside.”

“Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same.”

“Yes, everything will be all right, thanks to Elinor! She could have sung and danced (not that she was much of a dancer and she was sitting in a car).”

“The Magpie took off her glove and looked scornfully at him. "Basta likes to use snakes to scare woman that reject his advances. It didn't work with Resa. How did it go exactly - didn't she finally put the snake outside your door, Basta?”

“Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful," murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life.”

“Please," she whispered as she opened the book, "please get me out of here just for an hour or so, please take me far, far away”

“Yes, Mo would come. Meggie could think of nothing else as Fenoglio led her away with him, his arm around her as if he could really protect her from Capricorn and Basta and all the others. But he couldn't. Would Mo be able to protect her? Of course not. He mustn't come, she thought. Please. Perhaps he won't be able to find his way in again! He mustn't come. Yet there was nothing she wanted more, nothing in the whole wide world.”

“Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?”

“As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.”

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

“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.”

“The poem you brought yesterday,’ said Balbulus in a bored voice as he bent over his work again, ‘it was good. You ought to write such things more often, but I know you prefer writing stories for children or songs for the Motley Folk. And why? Just for the wind to sing your words? The spoken word is nothing, it hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal!’‘Eternal?’ Fenoglio made the word sound as if there could be nothing more ridiculous in the world. ‘Nothing is eternal- and what happier fate could words have than to be sung by minstrels? Yes, of course they change the words, they sing them slightly differently every time, but isn’t that in itself wonderful? A story wearing another dress every time you hear it- what could be better? A story that grows and puts out flowers like a living thing! But look at the stories people press in books! They may last longer, yes, but they breathe only when someone opens the book. They are sound pressed between the pages, and only a voice can bring them back to life! Then they throw off sparks, Balbulus! Then they go free as birds flying out into the world. Perhaps you’re right, and the paper makes them immortal. But why should I care? Will I live on, neatly pressed between the pages with my words? Nonsense! We’re none of us immortal; even the finest words don’t change that, do they?”

“Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.”

“Her skin smelled of autumn and the wind.Don't Jacob...But it was too late. Clara didn't flinch as he pulled her close. He grabbed her hair, kissed her mouth, and he felt her heart beating as fast as his own....Let her go, Jacob. But he kissed her again, and it was his name she whispered, not Will's.”

“Words are immortal - Elinor”

“Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.”

“You really don't understand the first thing about writing...for one thing, early in the morning is the worst possible time. the brain is like a wet sponge at that hour. And for another, real writing is a question of staring into space and waiting for the right ideas.”

“Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?”

“It was much easier for him now that he was smaller to negotiate his way through his crammed shop but he still tried to swagger past the shelves like he used to in the past. The attempt looked so strange that Scipio started to mimic him behind his back. "What's the silly giggling about?" Barbarossa asked when Prosper and Renzo bust out laughing.”

“Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?”

“What's that sticky stuff called?Basta: Duct tape. Yes, duct tape. I love duct tape.”

“Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but don't come back, ok?”

“Ah,yes!That...Silvertongue!" Orpheus spoke the name in a disparaging tone, as if he couldn't believe that anyone really deserved it.Yes, that's what he's called. How do you know?" There was no mistaking Dustfinger's surprise. The hellhound snuffled at Farid's bare toes. Orpheus shrugged. "Sooner or later you get to hear of everyone who can breate life into letters on a page.”

“yes, books are like flypapers. Memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.”

“Accursed, blasted, heartless things [books]! Full of empty promises, full of false lures, always making you hungry, never satisfying you, never!”

“Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?”

“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 that way.”

“Memories, so sweet and bitter.. they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time came when they began to fade, turning faint and blurred, only an ache to be quickly pushed away because it went to your heart. For what was the use of remembering all you had lost?”

“Bücher müssen schwer sein, weil die ganze Welt in ihnen steckt.”

“You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings.”

“I'm perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. It's a lot safer.”

“Ich bin ein Bücherfresser”

“A longing for books [is] nothing compared with what you [can] feel for human beings. The books [tell] you about that feeling. The books [speak] of love, and it [is] wonderful to listen to them, but they [are] no substitute for love itself.”

“Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”

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

“Neither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.”

“Where did the love come from? What was it made of?”

“She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?”

“Nobody loves only once.”

“Reality is a fragile thing.”