“My children were all made from paper and printer's ink...”

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

“Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper.”

“From the tower battlements, Dustfinger looked down on a lake as black as night, where the reflection of the castle swam in a sea of stars. The wind passing over his unscarred face was cold from the snow of the surrounding mountains, and Dustfinger relished life as if he were tasting it for the first time. The longing it brought, and the desire. All the bitterness, all the sweetness, even if it was only for a while, never for more than a while, everything gained and lost, lost and found again.”

“My wife loves written words ... you know, words that stick to parchment and paper like dead flies, and it seems my father felt the same - but I want to hear words! Remember that when you are looking for the right words: You must ask yourself what they SOUND like! Glowing with passion, dark with sorrow, sweet with love, that's what I want. - Cosimo”

“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.”

“What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?”