100 Best Cornelia Funke Quotes & Sayings
Author of children’s fiction
Cornelia Funke is a German illustrator who writes fantasy books and novels for all ages. She is best known for the Inkheart Trilogy which was described as ‘delectably transfixing’ by the critics. For several years, Funke was known as the bestselling writer of children’s fiction until 2002, when she released her German book ‘
Herr der Diebe’ (The Thief Lord) in the US. The book received an overwhelming response by the American audience. Soon, she became renowned as a multiple award-winning storyteller. Her other notable works include Inkspell, Dragon Writer and Kleiner Werwolf that fetched her several laurels and worldwide recognition. She won many prestigious prizes for her excellent penmanship including the 2008 Roswitha Prize, 2006 Booksense Book of the Year for Children’s Literature. She also received the Sakura Medal awarded by the Japanese international students group in 2006. Funke specializes in Adventure and Fantasy genres. Owing to her creative writing talents, most of her German works have now been translated into English. Till now, more than 20 million copies of her books have sold worldwide. The Time magazine listed her as the 100 most influential people of 2005. Funke inspires aspiring authors and readers to read, develop curiosity and explore the world around them. Her social works have a major influence on her writing style. We have curated a collection of Cornelia Funke’s best quotes through her writings and life. Here is a collection of some thought-provoking and relevant quotes by Cornelia Funke.
Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page. Books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside them. So what? All writers are lunatics! 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? Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination. This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you secruity and friendship and didn't ask for anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly. It's a good idea to have your own books with you in a strange place Women were different, no doubt about it. Men broke so much more quickly. Grief didn't break women. Instead it wore them down, it hollowed them out very slowly. The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure. Sometimes, when you're so sad you don't know what to do, it helps to be angry. Writing stories is a kind of magic, too. You know a great many things in dreams, often despite the evidence of your eyes. You just know them. Sometimes it's a good thing we don't remember things half as well as books do. Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once. When you open a book it's like going to the theater first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins. Nothing is more frightening than a fear you cannot name. Fire and water," he said, "don't really mix. You could say they're incompatible. But when they do love each other, they love passionately. Hope. Nothing is more intoxicating. A reader doesn't really see the characters in a story; he feels them. I prefer a story that has the good sense to stay on the page where it belongs.
- Elinor A book always keeps something of its owner between its pages. Nothing is more terrifying than fearlessness. Mo could paint pictures in the empty air with his voice alone. You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings. My children were all made from paper and printer's ink... I wish you luck,' she said, kissing him on the cheek. He still had the most beautiful eyes of any boy she'd ever seen. But now her heart beat so much faster for someone else. Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose? There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife. Life was more difficult in Inkheart, yet it seemed to Meggie that with every new day Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful.. In love - it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn't that just how it sometimes felt? If you keep pretending you're in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you're in. Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else. Weren’t all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other! Sometimes, when you’re sad you don’t know what to do, it helps to be angry. But then the tears come back again all the same, and you fall asleep with the salty taste of them on your lips. The book she had been reading was under her pillow, pressing its cover against her ear as if to lure her back into its printed pages. Read – and be curious. And if somebody says to you: 'Things are this way. You can't change it' - don't believe a word. Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar. It [the book] was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider's web and enchantingly beautiful.. You are crazy!" whispered Meggie. "You're a total lunatic!"
But her opinion did not impress Fenoglio in the slightest. "So what? All writers are lunatics! She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy. The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face. Perhaps because this time not fear but love made him read. 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? The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox. -You forgot something important!
-It's under my sweater!
-Me! We're all liars when it serves our purpose. Some books should be tasted,some devoured but only few should be chewed and digested thouroughly 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 Believe me. Sometimes when life looks to be at its grimmest, there's a light hidden at the heart of things.
Clive Barker, Abarat Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness? Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil. The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. - Balbulus Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened.
He was home again. What are stories for if we don't learn from them? Reality is a fragile thing. Why would we ever want to go back when your world is so accommodating with your telephones and your guns and what's that sticky stuff called ...duct tape. Words are immortal - Elinor 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. Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful," murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life. Stories never really end, Meggie, even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page. Farid had brought an invisible guest with him.
Fear. They wouldn't tell Scipio how much of the counterfeit cash was left since, as Riccio put it, 'You're a detective now, after all. What's that sticky stuff called?
Basta: Duct tape.
Yes, duct tape. I love duct tape. Nothing chased nightmares away faster than the rustle of printed paper. Beauty and fear make uneasy companions Don't let it worry you, not being able to speak,'Dustfinger had often told her. 'People tend not to listen anyway, right? Killing is easy," said Mo, "Dying is harder... He longed for the deep as she longed for the night sky and for white lilies floating on water -- although she still tried to convince herself that love alone could feed her soul. My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last. Believe, believe, believe Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse! As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too. I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up. She had found him and was bringing back his thanks. Nor did she forget to mention that he had assured her that she was indeed the most beautiful fairy he had ever set eyes on. He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish. Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar? 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! But after all, the villains are the salt in the soup of a story. Yes, I do enjoy walking at night. The world’s more to my liking then, not so loud, not so fast, not so crowded, and a good deal more mysterious. 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. I'm perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. It's a lot safer. When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer. Writing stories is a type of magic too. How fast the ears learned to tell what sounds meant, much faster than it took the eyes to decipher written words. 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. Everyone is small at night. It's a cruel world, don't you think? It's the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die - sometimes the very best people. That's the way of the world. Quite suddenly Meggie felt fear rise in her like black brackish water, she felt lost, terribly lost, she felt it in every part of her. She didn't belong here! What had she done? Words,words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.
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.
She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?
With every new day, Fenoglio's story was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as spider's webs and enchantingly beautiful
The Fairy's dress rustled as she turned. Human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
Hey, don't take this the wrong way, but don't come back, ok?
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? 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.