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Quote by Cornelia Funke

“Es schneite, als sie ans Seeufer ins Freie traten, und hinter ihnen verschwand die Burg zwischen den wirbelden Flecken, als löse sie sich auf in Weiß. Die Welt um sie her war so still, als hätte sie alle Worte aufgebraucht, als wäre nun alles erzählt, was es in dieser Welt zu erzählen gab.”

Quote by Cornelia Funke

Book:Inkdeath
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Work

Inkdeath

In 'Inkdeath,' readers are transported to a world where ink is not just a medium for writing but a fundamental force. The story delves into the lives of characters who must navigate a society where magic and ink are intertwined, facing challenges that test their abilities and resilience. more

Author

Cornelia Funke
Cornelia Funke

Cornelia Funke, born on December 10, 1958, is a renowned German children's literature author. Her works are highly praised for their rich imagination, unique narrative style, and profound humanistic concerns. Funke's writing covers a variety of themes including fantasy, adventure, and growth, and has won the hearts of readers worldwide. more

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“The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The first part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been horses stabled in the barn they would have stamped and champed and broken it to pieces. If there had been a crowd of guests, even a handful of guests bedded down for the night, their restless breathing and mingled snores would have gently thawed the silence like a warm spring wind. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. Inside the Waystone a man huddled in his deep, sweet-smelling bed. Motionless, waiting for sleep, he lay wide-eyed in the dark. In doing this he added a small, frightened silence to the larger, hollow one. They made an alloy of sorts, a harmony. The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the thick stone walls of the empty taproom and in the flat, grey metal of the sword that hung behind the bar. It was in the dim candlelight that filled an upstairs room with dancing shadows. It was in the mad pattern of a crumpled memoir that lay fallen and un-forgotten atop the desk. And it was in the hands of the man who sat there, pointedly ignoring the pages he had written and discarded long ago. The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the weary calm that comes from knowing many things. The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.”

Silence
Book:The Name of the Wind
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