In love. [Her] face was burning. She didn't want [him] to say what she herself never put into words. In love - it sounded like a sickness without any cure, and wasn't that just how it sometimes felt?
She was gone. And his heart was beating too loud and too fast. Into nothingness.
She had thought the chewing and digesting were meant literally and wondered, horrified, why Mo had hung on his workshop door the words of someone who vandalized books.
No. Nothing could make it easier. You lost what you loved. That was death, here as well as there.
So often it is words or pictures that first tell us what we long for.
The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.
Girl. Woman. So much more vulnerable. Strong and yet weak. A heart that knew no armor.
They're my children, my inky children, and I look after them well.
Sometimes Dustfinger thought Basta's constant fear of curses and sudden disaster probably arose from his terror of the darkness within himself, which made him assume that the rest of the world must be exactly the same. Dustfinger.
Perhaps she was more like him than he'd thought: Her home, too, had consisted of paper and printer's ink. She probably felt as lost as he did in the real world.
He still looked so sad. Not a sign of the laughter that once used to be as much a part of his face as his black eyes. The smile he gave her now was only a sad shadow of it.
It's bad enough sitting in a car, never mind driving it.
Let's be off before he gets his great horsey teeth into my poor lines of verse!
It was far easier to believe in unhappiness than in happiness.
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?
She'd been so certain she knew every crevice of his heart, but Jacob was like a country she'd only traveled through halfway.
I want to see thirst In the syllables, Touch fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.
Fox squeezed past him, feeling his warmth like a home.
It's a cruel world, don't you think?
That bloody bastard! That thrice accursed son of a bitch!
The truth's not pretty of course. No one likes to look it in the face.
Yes, everything will be all right, thanks to Elinor! She could have sung and danced (not that she was much of a dancer and she was sitting in a car).
Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?
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.
In books I meet the dead as if they were alive, in books I see what is yet to come … All things decay and pass with time … all fame would fall victim to oblivion if God had not given mortal men the book to aid them.
I will try to write books until I drop dead.
He pressed his fist to where his heart had once beaten, and I did the same. I'm sure I looked like a total idiot, but I think we all do when we're really happy. Except for Longspee. He just looked fabulous being happy.
This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends.
The road went ever more steeply downhill. Overhead, the branches of the trees intertwined. It was a still, windless morning, cloudy and damp.
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.
Her grandmother cursed the pain as she hobbled down the corridor. I soon learned Zelda always swears using strange plant names: stinkwort, nettlemuck, skunkbush, sumac. She seemed to have an endless supply of those.
Nobody loves only once.
Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.
Is there anything in the world better than words on the page? Magic signs, the voices of the dead, building blocks to make wonderful worlds better than this one, comforters, companions in loneliness. Keepers of secrets, speakers of the truth...all those glorious words.
What was this yearning, tearing at her insides like hunger and thirst? It couldn't be love. Love was warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this was dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and it was hungry. So hungry. It must have some other name, just as there couldn't be the same word for life and death, or for moon and sun.
Only in books could you find pity, comfort, happiness – and love. Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn't ask anything in return, they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly. Love, truth, beauty, wisdom and consolation against death.
Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page any more than they begin on the first page.
A book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.
I hope you drop dead! She screamed as Basta hauled her out of the room. I hope you burn to death! I hope you suffocate in your own smoke!
And my father always took me to the library. We were both book addicts.
Neither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.
Her heart pounded as he kissed her. Or was it his heart? She hadn't been able to tell the difference ever since he'd freed her from that trap.
I think we should sometimes read stories where everything's different from our world, don't you agree? There's nothing's like it for teaching us to wonder why trees are green and not red, and why we have five fingers rather than six.
The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.
EShe wanted to compare Meggie to a hero from some story, but all the heroes she could think of were men, and anyway none of them seemed to her brave enough for comparison with a girl standing there perfectly straight, scrutinizing Capricorn's men with her chin jutting out defiantly.
If you keep pretending you're in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you're in.
First he sees her only in his dreams. Skin as white as moonlight. Eyes like water drowning you. Hair like spider webs. Fairy.
Fire and water," he said, "don't really mix. You could say they're incompatible. But when they do love each other, they love passionately.
