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.’

If such things have not been part of your own experience, you probably won’t understand what Bastian did next. Staring at the title of the book, he turned hot and cold, cold and hot. Here was just what he had dreamed of, what he had longed for ever since the passion for books had taken hold of him: A story that never ended!

The will-o’-the-wisp recognized him as belonging to the family of rock chewers. These were creatures who lived in a mountain range inconceivably far from Howling Forest – but they not only lived in the mountain range, they also lived on it, for little by little they were eating it up. Rocks were their only food.

Where the lake used to be there’s nothing – absolutely nothing. Now do you see?’ ‘A hole?’ the rock chewer grunted. ‘No, not a hole,’ said the will-o’-the-wisp despairingly. ‘A hole, after all, is something. This is nothing at all.’

Thus she was respected by all the creatures of the Empire, and her health was of equal concern to them all. For her death would have meant the end of them all, the end of the boundless Fantastican realm.

For ten days and nights I have galloped almost without rest to reach you. But now – I almost wish I hadn’t got here.

You must let what happens happen. Everything must be equal in your eyes, good and evil, beautiful and ugly, foolish and wise, just as it is in the eyes of the Childlike Empress. You may only search and inquire, never judge.

Three bark trolls emerged from the woods and came toward him. A cold shiver ran down his spine at the sight of them. The first, having no legs or haunches, was obliged to walk on his hands. The second had a hole in his chest, so big you could see through it. The third hopped on his right foot, because the whole left half of him was missing, as if he had been cut through the middle.

Desperately Atreyu pulled at the bridle, but the horse sank deeper and deeper. When only his head emerged from the black water, Atreyu took it in his arms.

‘Sakes alive!’ Morla gurgled. ‘We’re old, son, much too old. Lived long enough. Seen too much. When you know as much as we do, nothing matters. Things just repeat. Day and night, summer and winter. The world is empty and aimless. Everything circles around. Whatever starts up must pass away, whatever is born must die. It all cancels out, good and bad, beautiful and ugly. Everything’s empty. Nothing is real. Nothing matters.’

Luckdragons are creatures of air, warmth, and pure joy. Despite their great size, they are as light as a summer cloud, and consequently need no wings for flying. They swim in the air of heaven as fish swim in water. Seen from the earth, they look like slow lightning flashes. The most amazing thing about them is their song.

But was it only a story? How did it happen that Ygramul, and probably Atreyu as well, had heard Bastian’s cry of terror? Little by little, this book was beginning to give him a spooky feeling.

From now on you’ll succeed in everything you attempt. Because I’m a luckdragon. Even when I was caught in the web, I didn’t give up hope. And as you see, I was right.’

Opposite of Artax

Maybe it will be better if you ask questions. I tend to lose myself in details. Just fire away.’ ‘All right,’ said Atreyu. ‘Who or what is Uyulala?’ Engywook gave him an angry look. ‘Botheration!’ he spluttered. ‘You’re so blunt, so direct. Just like my old woman. Couldn’t you start with something else?’

Since then I’ve come to the conclusion that the sphinxes’ decision is based on pure chance and that no principle whatever is involved. But my wife calls my conclusion scandalous, un-Fantastican, and absolutely unscientific.’

But if no one has told you who or what Uyulala is, there must be a reason. And before I know what that reason is, I can’t decide whether someone who hasn’t seen her with his own eyes has a right to know.’ ‘In that case, get away from me!’ screamed the gnome,

What he saw was something quite unexpected, which wasn’t the least bit terrifying, but which baffled him completely. He saw a fat little boy with a pale face – a boy his own age – and this little boy was sitting on a pile of mats, reading a book. The little boy had large, sad-looking eyes, and he was wrapped in frayed gray blankets. Behind him a few motionless animals could be distinguished in the half-light – an eagle, an owl, and a fox – and farther off there was something that looked like a white skeleton. He couldn’t make out exactly what it was.

Suddenly the stone gate was in ruins, but none of us saw or heard a thing. I even went over and examined the wreckage. And do you know what I found? The fragments are as old as the hills and overgrown with gray moss, as if they had been lying there for hundreds of years, as if the Great Riddle Gate had never existed.’

‘Woman!’ Engywook fumed at her. ‘What you see before you is not a poor old Engywook, but a tragic figure.’

So there was a way from the one world to the other! ‘For them it is near, but for us too far, Never can we go out to them.’ Yes, those were Uyulala’s words. Humans, the children of man, had forgotten the way. But mightn’t just one of them, a single one, remember?

Atreyu saw that the spooks in the field ahead of him were twitching and quivering. Their limbs were convulsed and their mouths were wide open, as though they had wanted to scream or laugh, though not a sound came out of them. And then all at once – like leaves driven by a gust of wind – they rushed toward the Nothing. They leapt, they rolled, they flung themselves into it.

Atreyu wandered through the deathly stillness of a deserted city. The place seemed to be under a curse, a city of haunted castles and houses, inhabited only by ghosts. Like everything else in this country, the streets were crooked.

‘More stories are told about this country and this city than about any other. Surely you’ve heard of Spook City and the Land of Ghosts?’

But what are you here? What are you creatures of Fantastica? Dreams, poetic inventions, characters in a neverending story. Do you think you’re real? Well yes, here in your world you are. But when you’ve been through the Nothing, you won’t be real anymore.

When it comes to controlling human beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts.

‘When your turn comes to jump into the Nothing, you too will be a nameless servant of power, with no will of your own. Who knows what use they will make of you? Maybe you’ll help them persuade people to buy things they don’t need, or hate things they know nothing about, or hold beliefs that make them easy to handle, or doubt the truths that might save them.

There are two ways of crossing the dividing line between Fantastica and the human world, a right one and a wrong one. When Fantasticans are cruelly dragged across it, that’s the wrong way. When humans, children of man, come to our world of their own free will, that’s the right way.

‘Only the right name gives beings and things their reality,’ she said. ‘A wrong name makes everything unreal. That’s what lies do.’

Bastian was thinking of how it would be if he suddenly stood before them in all his fatness, with his bowlegs and his pasty face. He could literally see the disappointment in the Childlike Empress’s face

I really thought the Old Man would start telling the Neverending Story from the beginning. ‘Suddenly the door was opened so violently that a little cluster of brass bells tinkled wildly, taking quite some time to calm down. The cause of this hubbub was a fat little boy of ten or twelve.

In that moment Bastian made a profound discovery. You wish for something, you’ve wanted it for years, and you’re sure you want it, as long as you know you can’t have it. But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing.

‘You must go from wish to wish. What you don’t wish for will always be beyond your reach. That is what the words ‘far’ and ‘near’ mean in Fantastica. And wishing to leave a place is not enough. You must wish to go somewhere else and let your wishes guide you.’

‘It means that you must do what you really and truly want. And nothing is more difficult.’

‘Bastian Balthazar Bux,’ he said, smiling blissfully. ‘You have given us more than a story and more than all the stories in the world. You have given us our own history.

LIBRARY OF THE COLLECTED WORKS OF BASTIAN BALTHAZAR BUX Atreyu looked around in amazement. Bastian saw to his delight that his friend was overcome with admiration. ‘Is it true,’ asked Atreyu, pointing at the silver shelves all around, ‘that you made up all those stories?’ ‘Yes,’ said Bastian, slipping Al Tsahir into his pocket.

‘Back in your world,’ he said slowly, ‘you used to tell lots of stories, some to her and some to yourself.’ ‘How do you know that, Atreyu?’ ‘You said so yourself. In Amarganth. And you also said that people made fun of you for it.’ Bastian stared into the fire. ‘That’s true,’ he muttered. ‘I did say that. But I don’t know why. I can’t remember.’

‘The amulet gives you great power, it makes all your wishes come true, but at the same time it takes something away: your memory of your world.’

We work to make amends to the world for our ugliness, and that comforts us a little.’ ‘But you’re not to blame for your ugliness,’ said Bastian. ‘Oh, there are different ways of being to blame,’ the Acharis replied. ‘In what you do. In what you think … We’re to blame for just living.’

With AURYN you can save us - we have only one thing to ask of you. Give us different bodies!’

‘The whatchamaycallim says we can’t do this.’ ‘Why does he say we can’t do it?’ asked a third. ‘Because you just can’t!’ Bastian screamed. ‘You can’t just smash everything up!’ ‘The whatchamaycallim says we can’t smash everything up,’ the first butterfly-clown informed the others. ‘We can too!’ said another, tearing a big chunk out of the tower. Hopping about like a lunatic, the first called down to Bastian: ‘We can too!’

clown called down to Bastian. ‘I didn’t say “he,” Bastian screamed, half fuming, half laughing. ‘I said I forbid you to wreck this tower.’ ‘He forbids us,’ said the first clown to the others, ‘to wreck this tower.’ ‘Who does?’ inquired one who had just turned up from the far end of the glen. ‘The whatchamaycallim,’ the others replied. ‘I don’t know any whatchamaycallim,’ said the newcomer.

‘I’d like to hear something about the children in your school,’ said the dragon. Bastian seemed bewildered. ‘What children?’ he asked. ‘The ones who made fun of you,’ said Falkor. ‘Children who made fun of me?’ Bastian repeated. ‘I don’t know of any children – and I’m sure no child would have dared to make fun of me.’

‘Traitor!’ cried Bastian. ‘You are my creature! I created the whole lot of you! Including you! So how can you rebel against me? Kneel down and beg forgiveness.’ ‘You’re mad!’ cried Atreyu. ‘You didn’t create anything! You owe everything to Moon Child! Give me AURYN!’

One day it struck him that the Yskalnari lived together so harmoniously, not because they blended different ways of thinking, but because they were so much alike that it cost them no effort to form a community. Indeed, they were incapable of quarreling or even disagreeing, because they did not regard themselves as individuals.

So he kept on wishing, but by then he had spent all his memories, and without memories it’s not possible to wish. So he had almost ceased to be a human and had almost become a Fantastican.

‘Now I’ve seen all the pictures,’ Bastian said one night. ‘None of them is for me.’ ‘That’s bad,’ said Yor.

‘Yes,’ said Bastian sadly. ‘But I used Al Tsahir for something else.’ ‘That’s bad,’ Yor said again.

‘Yes,’ said Atreyu, and nodded. ‘And now I recognize you. Now you look the way you did when I saw you in the Magic Mirror Gate.’

‘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.’

This is a secret that no one in Fantastica can know. When you think it over, you’ll see why. You can’t visit Moon Child a second time, that’s true. But if you can give her a new name, you’ll see her again. And however often you manage to do that, it will be the first and only time.’