It's asking us our names," Falkor reported.
"I'm Atreyu!" Atreyu cried.
"I'm Falkor!" cried Falkor.
The boy without a name was silent.
Atreyu looked at him, then took him by the hand and cried: "He's Bastian Balthazar Bux!"
"It asks," Falkor translated, "why he doesn't speak for himself."
"He can't," said Atreyu. "He has forgotten everything."
Falkor listened again to the roaring of the fountain.
"Without memory, it says, he cannot come in. The snakes won't let him through."
Atreyu replied: "I have stored up everything he told us about himself and his world. I vouch for him."
Falkor listened.
"It wants to know by what right?"
"I am his friend," said Atreyu.
Mots clés friendship
Only the right name gives beings and things their reality. A wrong name makes everything unreal. That's what lies do.
Michael EndeReluctantly Bastian's thoughts turned back to reality. He was glad the Neverending Story had nothing to do with that.
He didn't like books in which dull, cranky writers describe humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people. Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he read about it? Besides, he couldn't stand it when a writer tried to convince him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were always trying to do just that.
Bastian liked books that were exciting or funny, or that made him dream. Books where made-up characters had marvelous adventures, books that made him imagine all sorts of things.
Because one thing he was good at, possibly the only thing, was imagining things so clearly that he almost saw and heard them.
Its whole expanse was covered with tall, juicy grass, and when the wind blew, great waves passed over it with a sound like troubled water. (The Grassy Ocean)
Michael EndeAfficher la citation en allemand
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One may enter the literary parlor via just about any door, be it the prison door, the madhouse door, or the brothel door. There is but one door one may not enter it through, which is the child room door. The critics will never forgive you such. The great Rudyard Kipling is one of a number of people to have suffered from this. I keep wondering to myself what this peculiar contempt towards anything related to childhood is all about.
Michael EndeMots clés wisdom literature childhood children-s-books good-sense adults children-s
There are many kinds of joy, but they all lead to one: the joy to be loved.
Michael EndeMots clés fantasy fairy-tales allan-bard michael-ende
Wer niemals ganze Nachmittage lang mit glühenden Ohren und verstrubbeltem Haar über einem Buch saß und las und las und die Welt um sich her vergaß, nicht mehr merkte, daß er hungrig wurde oder fror -
Wer niemals heimlich beim Schein einer Taschenlampe unter der Bettdecke gelesen hat, weil Vater oder Mutter oder sonst irgendeine besorgte Person einem das Licht ausknipste mit der gutgemeinten Begründung, man müsse jetzt schlafen, da man doch morgen so früh aus den Federn sollte -
Wer niemals offen oder im geheimen bitterliche Tränen vergossen hat, weil eine wunderbare Geschichte zu Ende ging und man Abschied nehmen mußte von den Gestalten, mit denen man gemeinsam so viele Abenteuer erlebt hatte, die man liebte und bewunderte, um die man gebangt und für die man gehofft hatte, und ohne deren Gesellschaft einem das Leben leer und sinnlos schien -
Wer nichts von alledem aus eigener Erfahrung kennt, nun, der wird wahrscheinlich nicht begreifen können, was Bastian jetzt tat.
Mots clés reading books german
Those who still think that listening isn’t an art should see if they can do it half as well.
Michael EndeQuesto, ecco, proprio questo era ciò che lui aveva sognato tanto spesso e che sempre aveva desiderato da quando era caduto in preda alla sua passione: una storia che non dovesse mai avere fine. Il libro di tutti i libri.
Michael EndeMots clés book-lovers
That brings me to the real reason for the title: Where does that which happens during reading a book take place? (...) Does not every reader, whether he wants it or not, bring (...) his own experiences and thoughts into the process of reading? (...) Is not every book a mirror in which the reader is reflected, whether he knows it or not? And is not every reader a mirror in which the book is reflected?
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