Coraline

by Neil Gaiman

“You’re sick,” said Coraline. “Sick and evil and weird.”

“Hush! And shush! Say nothing, for the beldam might be listening!”

She felt a cold hand touch her face, fingers running over it like the gentle beat of a moth’s wings.

“The names are the first things to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names.

“Flee, while there’s still air in your lungs and blood in your veins and warmth in your heart. Flee while you still have your mind and your soul.”

her hair was wriggling like lazy snakes on a warm day.

we love the sinner and we hate the sin.

“Wouldn’t you be happier if you won me, fair and square?”

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” asked Coraline. “I swear it,” said the other mother. “I swear it on my own mother’s grave.” “Does she have a grave?” asked Coraline. “Oh yes,” said the other mother. “I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.”

if she were nowhere, then she could be anywhere.

it is always easier to be afraid of something you cannot see.

Flee this place while your blood still flows.”

It was true: the other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves its gold.

Her black hair drifted about her head, as if it had a mind and a purpose all of its own.

It was so silent that Coraline imagined that she could hear the motes of dust drifting through the air.

She thought it might make it harder for things to jump out at her if she was whistling.

other children. Are they down here?” “There is nothing down here,” said the pale thing indistinctly. “Nothing but dust and damp and forgetting.”

“You’re just a thing she made and then threw away.”

This place smelled as if all the exotic foods in the world had been left out to go rotten.

you. Your other mother will build whole worlds for you to explore, and tear them down every night when you are done.

“Nothing will pass your lips that does not entirely delight you.”

“You really don’t understand, do you?” she said. “I don’t want whatever I want. Nobody does. Not really. What kind of fun would it be if I just got everything I ever wanted? Just like that, and it didn’t mean anything. What then?”

“You’re just a bad copy she made of the crazy old man upstairs.” “Not even that anymore,”

The other mother could not create. She could only transform, and twist, and change.

Her grandmother’s formal furniture was still there, and the painting on the wall of the strange fruit (but now the fruit in the painting had been eaten, and all that remained in the bowl was the browning core of an apple, several plum and peach stones, and the stem of what had formerly been a bunch of grapes).

The expression of delight on her face was a very bad thing to see.

This time what she touched felt hot and wet, as if she had put her hand in somebody’s mouth,

The sky had never seemed so sky, the world had never seemed so world.

“It is over and done with for us,”

“She hasn’t lost anything for so long. Be wise. Be brave. Be tricky.”

“Take comfort in this,” he whispered. “Th’art alive. Thou livest.”

How often do you get to say a name like “Mr. Bobo” aloud?

Oh—my twitchy witchy girl I think you are so nice, I give you bowls of porridge And I give you bowls of ice Cream. I give you lots of kisses, And I give you lots of hugs, But I never give you sandwiches With bugs In.