I know you all think I'm a magician, but I'm not. The magic comes out of the books
themselves, and I have no more idea than you or any of your men how it works.
claimed to be the man who wrote a certain book – what was its name again?"
"Inkheart." Fenoglio rubbed his aching back. "Its title is Inkheart because it's about a man
whose wicked heart is as black as ink, filled with darkness and evil. I still like the title.
The wrong words. They were true a hundred times over, yet they sounded like a lie. Hadn't he always know it? Words were useless. At times they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moments you really needed them . You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is a silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.
Cornelia FunkeSince when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?
Cornelia FunkeNär det gällde traditioner kunde man inte argumentera med dvärgar, lika lite som med präster om religion.
Cornelia FunkeDet var kejsarinnans far som hade stiftat en lag, att föremål, djur och människor med magiska egenskaper var skyldiga att rapporteras. För det var ju inte lätt att regera i en värld där ett guldträd kunde göra en tiggare till kung och talande djur viskade rebelliska visdomsord till skogsarbetarna.
Cornelia FunkeSo it's happened, I kept thinking, you're in the middle of a story exactly as you've always wanted, and it's horrible. Fear tastes quite different when you're not just reading about it, Meggie, and playing hero wasn't half as much fun as I'd expected.
Cornelia FunkeUnlike me, he realized that Dustfinger would do anything in return for such a promise. All he wants is to go back to his own world. He doesn't even stop to ask if his story there has a happy ending!"
"Well, that's no different from real life," remarked Elinor gloomily. "You never know if things will turn out well. Just now our own story looks like it's coming to a bad end.
Mots clés life story happy-endings
It's a world full of terror and beauty (here her writing became so small Meggie could hardly make it out) and I could always understand why Dustfinger felt homesick for it.
The last sentence worried Meggie, but when she looked anxiously at her mother, Teresa smiled and reached for her hand. I was far, far more homesick for you two, she wrote on the palm of it, and Meggie closed her fingers over the words as if to hold them fast. She read them again and again on the long drive back to Elinor's house, and it was many days before they faded.
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.
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