Throwback Thursdays: Inkheart

I’ve always been a fan of the fantastic and the fairytale. I love mysticism and whimsy and enchantment. But I’ve found, over the years, that it’s the smallest twists that capture me. Something so simple and apparent that you walk away, shaking your head, murmuring that you should have thought of that. Something that sits right in front of your nose your whole life, so that when someone finally points it out to you, you’re overcome by a strange sense of nostalgia.

I love the stories that tap into something deep and primal. They make me pause, if only for a moment, and consider whether or not there really is such a thing as magic.

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Magical world of ‘Inkheart.’[/caption]

German author Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart is one such story. It follows young Maggie Folchart as she discovers that her seemingly ordinary father, Mo, hides a very unique talent: the ability to read characters and objects out of their books. Mo has been hiding from his gift and the repercussions that come with it for years, but he finds that he can’t run far or fast enough when the mysterious Dustfinger arrives on his doorstep, bringing with him foreboding tidings of a dark force that has been chasing Mo (and his “silver tongue”) for years. Mo wakes Maggie early the next morning, packing her and a few meager belongings into their camper, and the two hit the road, destined for an adventure much larger than either of them could have ever imagined.

I first encountered this book when I was in middle school. Coincidentally, my mother chose to read it out loud to me and my three younger siblings before we went to bed. We’d all gather on one of our twin-sized cots, piled on top of each other like puppies in a litter. Mom would read chapter after chapter until her voice would start to crack and fade. Without fail, we’d beg her to read just one more chapter, promising that we wouldn’t be too tired in the morning. Sometimes she’d give in, coughing and clearing her throat in between sentences, but often she would close the book and gently nudge us to our respective beds, kissing us each on the forehead before turning out the lights and welcoming sleep into our rooms.

But even after she left and my sister started snoring from the other side of the room, I would lie awake, my mind locked inside the magical world of Inkheart. The story was so real to me. Somewhere deep inside of me, I’d always secretly dreamed of reading my favorite characters out of their books. How wonderful it would be to drink a warm cup of tea with Jane Eyre or go adventuring with Peter Pan in the forest behind my house! I was thrilled to realize that someone else, halfway across the world, had been dreaming the same thing when she sat down to write her book.

The magic of the idea itself leaked into every aspect of Funke’s writing. Every detail, every word, is a puzzle piece that builds a perfectly quirky and imaginative world. Little things that would seem completely ordinary in any other context now felt imbued with a special kind of magic: Mo’s profession as a bookbinder; Dustfinger’s pet marten, Gwin; Maggie’s great-aunt Elinor’s dusty library. Everything comes together to weave a story so rich and exciting that by the time we finished reading the book, it felt as though my siblings, mother, and I had been there on the journey ourselves.

It’s been a few years since those cozy nights when Mom read to us, but I still remember Inkheart’s beautiful simplicity from time to time and shake my head. “I should have thought of that,” I say. And when I’m all alone, wrapped in my technicolor quilts with a book in my lap, I clear my throat and read aloud, believing that if I read the words exactly right, the lines between page and reality will blur, and my favorite characters will come out to play.