All writers are insane!

— Cornelia Funke

And there stood Basta with his foot already on another dead body, smiling. Why not? He had hit his target, and it was the target he had been aiming for all along: Dust finger’s heart, his stupid heart. It broke in two as he held Farid in his arms, it simply broke in two, although he had taken such good care of it all these years.

— Cornelia Funke

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

— Cornelia Funke

Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

— Cornelia Funke

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

— Cornelia Funke

Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask for anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.

— Cornelia Funke

Children, they're the same everywhere. Greedy little creatures but the best listeners in the world -any world. The very best of all.

— Cornelia Funke

Courage was something John Reckless only ever wished he had. Courage was not a given; it was acquired, earned. You had to take the difficult paths, and John had always picked the easy ones.

— Cornelia Funke

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

— Cornelia Funke

Dust finger inspected his reddened fingers and felt the taut skin. ‘He might tell me how my story ends,’ he murmured. Maggie looked at him in astonishment. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Dust finger smiled. Maggie still didn’t particularly like his smile. It seemed to appear only to hide something else. ‘What’s so unusual about that, princess?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you know how your story ends?’ Maggie had no answer for that.

— Cornelia Funke