The Neverending Story

by Michael Ende

‘My name is Bastian,’ said the boy. ‘Bastian Balthazar Bux.’ ‘That’s a rather odd name,’ the man grumbled. ‘All those Bs. Oh well, you can’t help it. You didn’t choose it. My name is Carl Conrad Coreander.’ ‘That makes three Cs.’ ‘Hmm,’ the man grumbled. ‘Quite right.’

wonder,’ he said to himself, ‘what’s in a book while it’s closed. Oh, I know it’s full of letters printed on paper, but all the same, something must be happening, because as soon as I open it, there’s a whole story with people I don’t know yet and all kinds of adventures and deeds and battles. And sometimes there are storms at sea, or it takes you to strange cities and countries. All those things are somehow shut up in a book. Of course you have to read it to find out. But it’s already there, that’s the funny thing. I just wish I knew how it could be.’

‘Holy horseshoes!’

Again the floor creaked. What if there were ghosts in this attic! ‘Nonsense!’ said Bastian none too loudly. ‘There’s no such thing! Everyone knows that.’ Then why were there so many stories about them? Maybe all the people who say ghosts don’t exist are just afraid to admit that they do.

‘You ask me what you will be there. But what are you here? What are you creatures of Fantastica? Dreams, poetic inventions, characters in a neverending story.