A veces, cuando uno no sabe qué hacer, un buen enfado ayuda.
Правда странно, что, если книжку прочитать несколько раз, она становится намного толще? - сказал Мо, когда они в последний день рождения Мегги вместе рассматривали эти её старинные сокровища в сундуке...
Потому что страх убивает, - как-то раз сказал ей Мо, - и разум, и сердце, и фантазию.
Истории никогда не кончаются, Мегги, - сказал он ей однажды. - Хотя книжки любят делать вид, будто это не так. Истории продолжаются, они не заканчиваются на последней странице, как и начинаются не на...
You're the one who says books have to be heavy because the whole world's inside of them, said Meggie...
You know, it's a funny thing about writers. Most people don't stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago--they don't expect to m...
Yes, every evening. Your mother enjoyed it. That evening she chose Inkheart. She always did like tales of adventure – stories full of brightness and darkness. She could tell you the names of all King...
When you open a book it's like going to the theater first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins.
Well what does it matter,' he muttered when he was out in the corridor. 'Who wants to know the end of a story in advance?
Vielleicht hat sich doch alles geändert. Vielleicht gibt es hinter der gedruckten Geschichte eine andere, viel grössere Geschichte, die sich ebenso wandelt, wie unsere Welt es tut? Und die Buchstaben...
Time is a horse that runs in the heart, a horse Without a rider on a road at night. The mind sits listening and hears it pass.
There it was, that familiar fear, love’s terrible price.
The fairy had flown over to the window and was peering curiously out at the alley. Forget it. Stay here, said Dustfinger. Please. Believe me, it's no place for you out there. She looked at him quizzic...
The Bluebeard’s terrible parting gift had been to make desire rhyme with death and fear.
That was what made fighting so easy - you could always choose death rather than captivity.
Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.
Sometimes Fox thought all the men she knew had the dreams and wishes of nine-year-old boys—at least all the men she liked.
No, it wasn’t quite true that John had no conscience at all. Everyone had one. But there were many voices in his head that had an easier time reaching him: his ambition, his desire for fame and succes...
My darling, she said at last, are you sure you don’t mind being a mouse for the rest of your life? I don’t mind at all, I said. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody...
Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.