Love Quote by Cornelia Funke

Taste is doing quiet character work here: Cornelia Funke pairs Henry Purcell, a Baroque composer associated with courtly precision and sacred drama, with Neil Young, the ragged prophet of folk-rock intimacy. The sentence is almost aggressively plain, which is part of its charm. No manifesto, no aesthetic theory, just a small, declarative map of what moves her. That understatement reads like an authorial tell: Funke builds fantastical worlds, but she tends to ground them in tactile details and everyday appetites. Music becomes another sensory anchor.

The verb choices matter. She "likes" Purcell but "loves" Neil Young. Purcell is admiration: a canonized craftsperson whose work you respect, study, even borrow structure from. Young is attachment: an artist you return to when you need weather, not architecture. It sketches a two-engine creative life - discipline and drift, formality and grit - without spelling it out.

There’s also a subtle cultural flex, delivered without swagger. Purcell signals a European, historically literate ear; Neil Young signals porousness to the messy, democratic sprawl of Anglo-American pop. In a literary context, that mixture pushes back against the idea that serious taste must be consistent or properly elevated. Funke is claiming permission to be eclectic, and by extension granting it to readers: you can love what you love, across centuries, without apologizing or turning it into a personality brand.