She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?
She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don’t dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?
If you keep pretending you’re in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you’re in.
She is a real bookworm. I think she lives on print. Her whole house is full of books – looks as if she likes them better than human company.
All books are in safe hands with me. They’re my children, my inky children, and I look after them well. I keep the sunlight away from their pages, I dust and protect them from hungry hookworms and grubby human fingers.
He longed for the deep as she longed for the night sky and for white lilies floating on water – although she still tried to convince herself that love alone could feed her soul.
Every reader knows about the feeling that characters in books seem more real than real people.
If I was a book, I would like to be a library book, so I would be taken home by all different sorts of kids.
Mortimer’s face twisted when the Piper pressed his knife against his ribs. Oh yes, he’s obviously made the wrong enemies in this story, thought Orpheus. And the wrong friends. But that was high-minded heroes for you. Stupid.
The truth’s not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?
Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness and love.
I always wanted to ride a dragon myself, so I decided to do this for a year in my imagination.
In love – it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn’t that just how it sometimes felt?
She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.
We’re all liars when it serves our purpose.
There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
The Fairy’s dress rustled as she turned. Human women dressed like flowers, layers of petals around a mortal, rotting core.
The spoken word is nothing. It hardly lives longer than an insect! Only the written word is eternal. – Balbulus.
What was a slap for ten pages of escapism, ten pages far from everything that made him unhappy, ten pages of real life instead of the monotony that other people called the real world?