I like a composer called Henry Purcell, and I love to listen to Neil Young. — Cornelia Funke Copy Share Image
There was another reason [she] took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
“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… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. His skin was wet with rain. When she didn't pull… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
“For a moment Dustfinger felt as if he had never been away- as if he had simply had a bad dream, and the memory… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
Don't let it worry you, not being able to speak,'Dustfinger had often told her. 'People tend not to listen anyway, right? — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
“And he will have a great aunt called Elinor who tells him there's a world not like this one. A world with neither fairies… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
“Yes, Mo would come. Meggie could think of nothing else as Fenoglio led her away with him, his arm around her as if he… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
When it came to hiding, even Gwin had nothing to teach Dustfinger. A strange sense of curiosity had always driven him to explore the… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination. — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
Perhaps there's another, much larger story behind the printed one, a story that changes just as our own world does. And the letters on… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
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.… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
The night breathed through the apartment like a dark animal. The ticking of a clock. The groan of a floorboard as he slipped out… — Cornelia Funke Copy Share
