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“Words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.”  — Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

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“The birds were falling silent in the trees, as if the approach of night had stifled their voices, and the nearby mountains were turning black. You might have thought the setting sun had singed them.”  – Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

“You want to go back, don’t you? But you can’t find the door, the door hidden among the letters on the page!”  — Orpheus, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

“Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? … As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells…and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower…both strange and familiar.”
— Mo, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

 

“Death is all silence. Even poets have no words once they have passed the door Death closes behind us.”  – Fenoglio, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

“Eternal?” Fenoglio made the word sound as if there could be nothing more ridiculous in the world. “Nothing’s eternal – and what happier fate could words have than to be sung by minstrels? Yes, of course they change the words, they sing them slightly differently every time, but isn’t that in itself wonderful? A story wearing another dress every time you hear it – what could be better? A story that grows and puts out flowers like a living thing! But look at the stories people press into books! They may last longer, yes, but they breathe only when someone opens the book. They are pressed between the pages, and only a voice can bring them back to life! Then they throw off sparks, Balbulus! Then they go free as birds flying out into the world.”  – Fenoglio, Inkspell by Cornelia Funke

 

The years were not kind to parchment and paper; a book had many enemies, and in time it withered like a human body. “Which tells us, Meggie,” Mo always said, “that a book is a living thing!”
— Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

 

Words were useless. At times they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.  – Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

The words were like a noose going around her neck, drawing tighter with every word, until she could scarcely breathe.  — Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

 

“The whole secret, Meggie,” Mo had once told her, “is in the breathing. It gives your voice strength and fills it with your life. And not just yours. Sometimes it feels as if when you take a breath you are breathing in everything around you, everything that makes up the world and moves it, and then it all flows into the words.”    – Cornelia Funke, Inkspell

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