Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.
Cornelia FunkeRead
Words were useless. At times, they might sound wonderful, but they let you down the moment you really needed them. You could never find the right words, never, and where would you look for them? The heart is as silent as a fish, however much the tongue tries to give it a voice.
Interpretation
Words can often fail to express true feelings and emotions.
In this quote, Cornelia Funke emphasizes the limitations of verbal communication, particularly when it comes to conveying deep emotions. She suggests that despite the beauty or eloquence of words, they may ultimately fall short during moments of emotional need, drawing a parallel between the silent heart and the struggle of the tongue to articulate its true feelings.
In practice
During a heartfelt eulogy where expressing deep sorrow is difficult.
Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.
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.
Children are caterpillars and adults are butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it felt like being a caterpillar.
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?
Why do grown-ups think it's easier for children to bear secrets than the truth? Don't they know about the horror stories we imagine to explain the secrets?
The biography of a writer - or even the autobiography - will always have this incompleteness.
All of our reasoning ends in surrender to feeling.
There is no such thing as chance; and what seem to us merest accident springs from the deepest source of destiny.
Reality, however utopian, is something from which people feel the need of taking pretty frequent holidays.
The notion is called wabi-sabi life, like the cherry blossom, it is beautiful because of its impermanence, not in spite of it, more exquisite for the inevitability of loss.
People destined to meet will do so, apparently by chance, at precisely the right moment.
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