Those Who Still Think That Listening Isn’t

Momo Listened To Everyone And Everything - Even To The Rain And The Wind And The Pine Trees - And All Of Them Spoke To Her After Their Own Fashion.

If You Stop To Think About It, You’ll Have To Admit That All The Stories In The World Consist Essentially Of Twenty-six Letters. The Letters Are Always The Same, Only The Arrangement Varies. From Letters Words Are Formed, From Words Sentences, From Sentences Chapters, And From Chapters Stories.

If You Have Never Wept Bitter Tears Because A Wonderful Story Has Come To An End And You Must Take Your Leave Of The Characters With Whom You Have Shared So Many Adventures, Whom You Have Loved And Admired, For Whom You Have Hoped And Feared, And Without Whose Company Life Seems Empty And Meaningless. If Such Things Have Not Been Part Of Your Own Experience, You Probably Won't Understand What Bastian Did Next.

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.

Bastian Had Climbed A Dune Of Purplish-red Sand And All Around Him He Saw Nothing But Hill After Hill Of Every Imaginable Color. Each Hill Revealed A Shade Or Tint That Occured In No Other. The Nearest Was Cobalt Blue, Another Was Saffron Yellow, Then Came Crimson Red, Then Indigo, Apple Green, Sky Blue, Orange, Peach, Mauve, Turquoise Blue, Lilac, Moss Green, Ruby Red, Burnt Umber, Indian Yellow, Vermillion, Lapis Lazuli, And So On From Horizon To Horizon. And Between The Hill, Separating Color From Color, Flowed Streams Of Gold And Silver Sand.