The Neverending Story

by Michael Ende

Once again she started on her way to find the Old Man of Wandering Mountain, once again she climbed the ladder of letters and entered the egg, once again the conversation between her and the Old Man was related word for word, and once again the Old Man of Wandering Mountain began to write and tell the Neverending Story.

This book was the Neverending Story, which he himself had read in the attic. Maybe his present adventures and sufferings were in the book even now. And maybe someone else would read the book someday — maybe someone was reading it at that very moment.

‘There won’t be time for our talk. But don’t worry, and wait for the day. What has always happened will happen once again. And perhaps you will be able to tell me why.’

‘Here there is only life and death, only Perilin and Goab, but no story. You must live your story. You cannot remain here.’

Live your story.

What you don’t wish for will always be beyond your reach.

‘It seems strange that we can’t just wish what we please. Where do our wishes come from? What is a wish anyway?’

‘It requires the greatest honesty and vigilance, because there’s no other journey on which it’s so easy to lose yourself forever.’

‘When a person is only half an ass like me, and not a complete one, she senses certain things.

that you, in your world, are famous for your stories. Is that the truth?’ ‘Yes,’ said Bastian. ‘They even made fun of me for it.’

Bastian himself could hardly believe it. Everything in his story had become reality (or had it always been? Grograman would probably have said: both!).

‘Yes,’ said Atreyu. ‘It gives you the means, but it takes away your purpose.’

‘What do you think, Atreyu?’ he whispered. Atreyu was silent for a while. Then he replied: ‘I only wonder what it may have cost you.’

Always listen to your best friend.

‘Thank you very much for minding my business all the time.

Hah. The Madwoman

A person’s reason for doing someone a good turn matters as much as the good turn itself.

To be wise was to be above joy and sorrow, fear and pity, ambition and humiliation. It was to hate nothing and to love nothing, and above all to be utterly indifferent to the love and hate of others. A truly wise man attached no importance to anything. Nothing could upset him and nothing could harm him. Yes, to be like that would be his final wish, the wish that would bring him to what he really wanted.

But there is another, more likely explanation: Atreyu was fighting not for himself, but for his friend, whom he was trying to save by defeating him.

Nothing can change for them, because they themselves can’t change anymore.’

What he had hoped was his ruin and what he had feared his salvation.

But wishes cannot be summoned up or kept away at will. They come from deeper within us than good or bad intentions. And they spring up unannounced.

And because of being alone, he yearned to belong to some sort of community, to be taken into a group, not as a master or victor or as any special sort of person, but merely as one among many, perhaps as the smallest or least important, provided his membership in the community was unquestioned.

In this community of Yskalnari there was harmony, but no love.

Take comfort for the trials you’ve had. We’ll have you just the way you are.’

There were not only good wishes but bad ones as well, but the Childlike Empress drew no distinction; in her eyes all things in her empire are equally good and important.

And that was very important to the little boy, because up until then he had always wanted to be someone other than he was, but he didn’t want to change.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe so. You went the way of wishes, and that is never straight. You went the long way around, but that was your way.

‘Must I lose everything?’ ‘Nothing is lost,’ she said. ‘Everything is transformed.’

But like all true transformations, it was as slow and gentle as the growth of a plant.

And the best part of it was that he was now the very person he wanted to be. If he had been free to choose, he would have chosen to be no one else. Because now he knew that there were thousands and thousands of forms of joy in the world, but that all were essentially one and the same, namely, the joy of being able to love.

And much later, long after Bastian had returned to his world, in his maturity and even in his old age, this joy never left him entirely. Even in the hardest moments of his life he preserved a lightheartedness that made him smile and that comforted others.

What did he care if Mr Coreander punished him for stealing it, or reported him to the police? A person who had ridden on the back of the Many-Colored Death didn’t scare so easily.

‘Every real story is a Neverending Story.’

‘There are many doors to Fantastica, my boy. There are other such magic books. A lot of people read them without noticing. It all depends on who gets his hands on such books.’ ‘Then the Neverending Story is different for different people?’ ‘That’s right,’

you will show many others the way to Fantastica, and they will bring us the Water of Life.’