There Were Thousands And Thousands Of Forms

All That Matters In Life," The Grey Man Went On, "is To Climb The Ladder Of Success, Amount To Something, Own Things. When A Person Climbs Higher Than The Rest, Amounts To More, Owns More Things, Everything Else Comes Automatically: Friendship, Love, Respect, Et Cetera..." "isn't There Anyone Who Loves You?" Momo Whispered.

A Story Can Be New And Yet Tell About Olden Times. The Past Comes Into Existence With The Story.

No Architect Troubled To Design Houses That Suited People Who Were To Live In Them, Because That Would Have Meant Building A Whole Range Of Different Houses. It Was Far Cheaper And, Above All, Timesaving To Make Them Identical.

Strange As It May Seem, Horror Loses Its Power To Frighten When Repeated Too Often.

He Wanted To Be Loved For Being Just What He Was. In This Community Of Yskalnari There Was Harmony, But No Love. He No Longer Wanted To Be The Greatest, Strongest Or Cleverest. He Had Left All That Far Behind. He Longed To Be Loved Just As He Was, Good Or Bad, Handsome Or Ugly, Clever Or Stupid, With All His Faults - Or Possibly Because Of Them. But What Was He Actually? He No Longer Knew. So Much Have Been Given To Him In Fantastica, And Now, Among All These Gifts And Powers, He Could No Longer Find Himself.