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!

— Cornelia Funke

What are stories for if we don't learn from them?

— Cornelia Funke

What was she hoping to gain from his death? That it would numb the pain of his betrayal, or heal her injured pride? Her red sister didn't know much about love.

— Cornelia Funke

What was this yearning, tearing at her insides like hunger and thirst? It couldn't be love. Love was warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this was dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it was hungry. So hungry. It must have some other name, just as there couldn't be the same word for life and death, or for moon and sun

— Cornelia Funke

When it came to hiding, even Win had nothing to teach Dust finger. A strange sense of curiosity had always driven him to explore the hidden, forgotten corners of this and any other place, and all that knowledge had now come in useful.

— Cornelia Funke

When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.

— Cornelia Funke

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?

— Cornelia Funke

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.

— Cornelia Funke

Words, words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.

— Cornelia Funke

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

— Cornelia Funke