A story with no end to read. "A story with no end" Michael Ende

Back in the summer I started reading the book “The Story with No End” by the German author Michael Ende and only recently finished reading it.
This is a fairy tale about a boy, Bastian, who finds himself in the land of Fantasy, where he meets amazing characters and unpredictable adventures. And with the help of new friends: the brave green-skinned boy Atreyu and the Dragon of Happiness Falkor, Bastian tries to save Fantasia from death. This is a fairy tale about love, friendship and devotion, about the importance of accepting oneself. I think that the story will be interesting not only for children. Everyone will find something of their own in this book, even because everyone has their own imagination.

When I started reading the book, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere I had already heard/seen something similar. I went on the Internet. Certainly! This is an old movie from my childhood, “The Neverending Story” from 1984! I remember passing around this video cassette, with a white “dog” and a boy sitting astride it on the cover. Unfortunately, I didn’t have such a cassette and I saw this film only in some snippets and still didn’t know that it was not a white dog, but a real Dragon of Happiness :-). And now, almost 30 years later, I downloaded this film. I really liked it. No worse than a book - different. I highly recommend it if you haven't...
Then I read that the story in the film does not end as in the book because the author Michael Ende did not give permission to film a sequel. Due to many discrepancies with the original, he did not like what was filmed. I liked both the movie and the book. Steven Spielberg is said to be a big fan of the film and the original movie Amulet "Aurene" is kept in his office in a glass case. The film, of course, among other things, admires the possibilities of the foreign film industry of the 80s - fantastic for that time! One final flight on Falkor is worth it! There were no computer technologies yet; they used a blue screen and film overlay.
I found a video about how they filmed “The Neverending Story”, though only in German, but even without knowing the language a lot is clear. By the way, at the time of filming the book itself had not yet been translated into English. But now it is a global bestseller and can be bought in many countries around the world.

Today you can fly on the white Dragon Falkor at the Bavarian Film Studio in Munich.

Author	Book	Description	Year	Price	Book type
Ende M.		A fairy tale with a fascinating, sometimes dramatic plot, full of incredible, fantastic adventures. Its author, Michael Ende (1929–1995), is perhaps the most famous children's writer in Germany... - Machaon, (format: 84x108/32, 351 pp.) Endless story	2018	395	paper book
Ende M.		A fairy tale with a fascinating, sometimes dramatic plot, full of incredible, fantastic adventures. Its author, Michael Ende (1929 1995), is perhaps the most famous children's writer in Germany... - Machaon, (format: 150x220, 496 pp.) Endless story	2018	188	paper book
Michael Ende		A fairy tale with a fascinating, sometimes dramatic plot, full of incredible, fantastic adventures. Its author, Michael Ende (1929–1995), is perhaps the most famous children's writer in Germany - (format: 145x215 mm, 496 pp.)	2018	189	paper book
Vladislav Bulahtin	The girl who doesn't exist	320 pp. An ordinary Muscovite with the unusual name Fairy is offered a strange job: to inform people that they are dead. Capital playboy Sanya Korablev meets a girl with whom it is impossible... - AST, (format: 84x108/32, 320 pages) More than 10	2010	180	paper book
Vladislav Bulahtin	The girl who doesn't exist	An ordinary Muscovite with the unusual name Fairy is offered a strange job: to inform people that they are dead. Capital playboy Sanya Korablev meets a girl who cannot be contacted by phone... - AST, Astrel, (format: 84x108/32, 320 pages)	2010	120	paper book
Andrey Akritov	Groundhog Night. An intensely emotional story, a psychological story	A night that has no end... A world bounded by walls... Time is the most dangerous enemy... What happens to us when circumstances challenge us, and life itself turns into a closed loop from the sunset... - Publishing solutions, (format: 84x108/32, 351 pp. ) eBook		88	eBook
Osho	Clay Lamps: 60 Parables and Stories That Will Light Your Heart. Hitting the rock. Enlightenment - a journey without beginning or end (number of volumes: 3)	Clay Lamps: 60 Parables and Stories That Will Light Your Heart. This book is one of a kind. Osho wrote it himself. He not only gave spiritual lectures, but also composed short stories and parables... - All, (format: 84x108/32, 351 pp.)	2017	1036	paper book
Mikhail Baryatinsky		“There is no land for us beyond the Volga!” - with this slogan, the Red Army accomplished the impossible in Stalingrad, not only resisting the crushing blows of the Wehrmacht, but also launching a decisive counteroffensive... - Yauza, e-book	2012	79.99	eBook
Fry Max		In this book the reader will find the story of Sir Melifaro of Echo. Although, with the same success, here could be the story of Akhum Naban Duan Ganabak from Nowhere, or rather, from that part of From Everywhere, which is easy to talk about... - Amphora, EXO Chronicles	2012	544	paper book
Mikhail Baryatinsky	The Battle of Stalingrad. “There is no land for us beyond the Volga!”	“There is no land for us beyond the Volga!” - with this slogan, the Red Army accomplished the impossible in Stalingrad, not only resisting the crushing blows of the Wehrmacht, but also launching a decisive counteroffensive... - Eksmo, (format: 84x108/32, 320 pages)	2012	220	paper book
Max Fry	Glutton-laughing. The Story Told by Sir Melifaro	In this book the reader will find the story of Sir Melifaro of Echo. Although, with the same success, here could be the story of Akhum Naban Duan Ganabak from Nowhere, or rather, from that part of From Everywhere, about which it is easy... - Amphora, (format: 84x108/32, 352 pp.) Chronicles of Echo	2010	296	paper book
Max Fry	Chronicles of Echo 6. Laughing Glutton. The Story Told by Sir Melifaro	In this book the reader will find the story of Sir Melifaro of Echo. Although, with the same success, here could be the story of Akhum Naban Duan Ganabak from Nowhere, or rather, from that part of From Everywhere, about which it is easy... - AMPHORA, (format: 84x108/32, 351 pp.) EXO Chronicles	2012	412	paper book

Reviews about the book:

Pros: Very rare book. Amazing story. I read it for the first time when I was 25 (a children's story), but it was breathtaking. The translation by the extraordinary Liliana Lungina is beyond praise; the word lace comes to mind. This story is like lace. I’m reading to a 4.5 year old child, I think it’s too early for her, because there are no illustrations at all, but this is not a drawback, this is how it should be written in the book itself. Convenient format, good coated paper Disadvantages: None

Nabieva Zamira 0

Pros: Excellent publication, wonderful translation and lack of pictures

Alisa Kopeikina 0

Pros: A magnificent work that you can’t tear yourself away from. Comment: My favorite, well-read book from my childhood. I started reading it from the age of 9 and re-read it every year until I was 15. As an adult, I searched for it in bookstores for a long time and unsuccessfully; for some reason it is unfairly not reprinted. And finally found it here! Even after so many years, it is pleasant and very interesting to re-read it. The author created a very interesting, full of details, fairy-tale world, and the idea does not have many copies, like most modern books. The book is still for children and teenagers, but it will be interesting for adults to read too!

Tatiana 0

I learned about this book at the age of 12 - a friend lent it to me, among others. From the very first page she captivated me, and this charm did not dissipate even after a decade - a book that is equally amazing for a child and an adult, “History” tells about what is truly important in this life. I am sure that everyone will find something close to them in this book and will live this History together with its characters, each of whom - whether he is kind or not - makes Fantasy Fantasy. This translation is beautiful, but is rarely published, so the reissue was a real gift for me, because it was in this translation that I had been looking for “History” for the last eight years. And who knows, maybe now it’s me who will open the way to the Ivory Tower for someone?

Evpak Olga 0

This is the best fantasy story I have ever read in my life. I read it two years ago in electronic form, wanted to buy it, and discovered that it had not been published in print for a very long time. I waited and finally got it! I ordered 16 copies at once - as gifts for friends, because I think that everyone should have a chance to read this masterpiece, and better yet, just by turning the pages. Yes, the publication is ordinary, for reading, without frills, but in conditions of complete absence this is absolutely satisfactory. And then you look and collectible-chic ones will appear... As for the film based on the book, it’s like heaven and earth. The film is based only on the first part of the book, a very simplified retelling for children. It's a cute, funny movie, but you can't use it as a guide to the book. The book is several orders of magnitude smarter and more meaningful. Moreover, Ende’s most important things, incredibly beautiful and unusually deep, are in the second part of the book. I am happy for those who will read this fairy tale for the first time! :-)

Michael Ende

Michael Andreas Helmut Ende
Michael Andreas Helmuth Ende
Date of Birth:
Date of death:

TSINIKUB IKVAL NIYAZOKH

REDNAEROK DARNOK LRAK

On that gray, chilly November morning, the rain poured down like buckets. Drops ran down the curves of the letters, along the glass, and through it nothing was visible except the damp-stained wall of the house on the opposite side of the street.

Suddenly someone opened the door so impulsively that the cluster of copper bells hanging near the lintel began to ring furiously and could not calm down for a long time.

This commotion was caused by a small fat boy of about ten or eleven. A wet strand of dark brown hair fell into his eyes, and drops dripped from his soaking wet coat. He had a school bag hanging over his shoulder. The boy was pale, breathing irregularly, and although he had obviously been in a hurry until that moment, he froze in the doorway, as if rooted to the threshold.

The far end of the long, narrow room was in semi-darkness. Along the walls, up to the ceiling, were stacked shelves densely packed with books of various sizes and thicknesses. Stacks of tomes towered on the floor, and mountains of smaller books were piled on the table, all in antique leather bindings and with gold edges. At the far end of the room, behind a wall made of books the height of a man, a lamp was burning. And in its light rings of tobacco smoke appeared from time to time; rising, they became larger and larger, then blurred into the darkness. It was similar to the smoke signals with which the Indians convey all sorts of messages to each other from mountain to mountain. Someone was clearly sitting there. And, indeed, a grumpy voice came from behind the book wall:

Stare as much as you like, you can from the street, you can here, but just shut the door. Blowing!

The boy quietly closed the door behind him. Then he walked up to the wall of books and carefully looked behind it. There, in a leather Voltaire chair with a high back, already fairly worn, sat an elderly man, heavyset and stocky, in a wrinkled black suit, very worn and dusty. A colorful vest was clinging to his stomach. His head was as bald as a knee, only tufts of gray hair stuck out above his ears. His brown face, reminiscent of a bulldog's muzzle, had a potato-shaped nose, and gold-rimmed glasses sat tightly on it. The old man puffed on a curved pipe, and his lower lip was drawn back so much that he seemed lopsided. On his lap lay a thick book, which he had apparently just been reading - his plump finger was stuck between the pages as a bookmark.

With his other hand, he now took off his glasses and began to look at the fat boy standing in front of him in a wet coat - his coat was dripping. He looked at the boy intently, narrowing his eyes, which made his expression even more bulldog-like.

“Oh, you little thing,” he wheezed and, opening the book, went back into reading.

The boy did not know how to behave, and continued to stand, not taking his eyes off the wonderful old man. And he suddenly closed the book again and again laid the page with his index finger.

Keep in mind, my boy, I can’t stand children... Now, however, for some reason everyone rushes around with you like you’re a dirty bag, but keep in mind, this activity is not for me. Is it clear?.. For me, all children are screaming idiots, the punishment of the human race, they destroy everything they can get their hands on, stain books with jam, tear out pages, and they don’t give a damn about the fact that adults often feel lousy in their souls. I’m saying this so you can understand right away: you can’t really call me a friend of children. Besides, I don’t sell children’s books, and I won’t sell you books for adults, and don’t hope to! Well, now it’s as if everything about each other is clear to us.

He said all this in a grumpy tone and very indistinctly, because he did not take the pipe out of his mouth. Then he opened the book again and began to read.

The boy nodded silently and was about to leave, but suddenly it seemed to him that he could not endure all this without saying anything in response. He turned to the old man and said in a barely audible voice:

But not EVERYONE is like that.

The shop owner looked up at him and took off his glasses:

Are you still here?... Advise what needs to be done so that a idiot like you closes the door from the other side? Eh?.. What was so important that you were going to tell me?

“Nothing that important,” the boy whispered. - I just said that not all children are like you think.

That's it! - exclaimed the old man, raising his eyebrows with feigned amazement. - And we must assume that you are the happy exception?

Instead of answering, the fat boy silently shrugged and turned to the door.

Well, that's what I knew! - a grumpy voice came from behind him. - He’s also poorly brought up!.. Do you know, young man, that first of all, you should introduce yourself?

“My name is Bastian,” the boy said, turning around. - Bastian Balthazar Bugs.

“A very strange name,” the old man creaked. - Everything is “B”. True, this is not your fault, it’s not you who called yourself that... Well, sir, my name is Karl Conrad Coreander.

“And everything is “K” for you,” the boy said seriously.

“But it’s true,” the old man muttered and blew a few rings of smoke out of his pipe. - However, what does it matter what our names are? Because I hope we will never meet again. I would like to find out only one thing: why did you burst into my shop like mad? Looks like you're being chased. Were you fleeing from someone?

Bastian nodded. His face became even paler, his pupils dilated.

Didn't you rob the cash register in the store? - Mr. Coreander suggested. - Or maybe he knocked the old lady? Or something even worse - now everything can be expected from you. What, my boy, are the police chasing you?

Bastian shook his head.

Lay it out as it is,” Mr. Coreander ordered. - Who were you running from?

And who are they?

Guys from our class.

Why did you run from them?

They... They pester me all the time.

What are they doing?

They are waiting for me at the entrance to the school.

So what?

And they call you names, tease you...

And you tolerate all this? - Mr. Coreander looked disapprovingly at the boy. - Why don't you give someone a good whack?

Bastian looked up at him.

No, I can't stand it. And also... I don't know how to fight.

Can you do pull-ups on rings? - asked Mr. Coreander. - What about running, jumping, swimming, playing football, doing exercises? Can't you do anything?

The boy shook his head.

In short, are you a weakling?

Bastian shrugged.

But do you even have a language? Why are you silent when they mock you?

I tried to answer them once......

So what?

They caught me, threw me into a trash container and closed the lid. I screamed for two hours until they pulled me out of there.

“I see,” Mr. Coreander muttered. - And now you don’t dare tell them anything anymore?

Bastian nodded.

So it turns out that you are as cowardly as a hare!

Bastian lowered his eyes.

Maybe you're an upstart? First student? An excellent student?.. A teacher's favorite?.. So, what?

“No,” said Bastian, without raising his head. - I was left for the second year...

Dear God! - Mr. Coreander exclaimed. - It turns out that you are a total loser!

Bastian said nothing. He stood with his hands down, and his coat was dripping and dripping onto the floor.

How do they tease you? - Mr. Coreander asked.

Mar 6, 2017

A story with no end Michael Ende

(No ratings yet)

Title: A story with no end

About the book “The Story That Has No End” by Michael Ende

The novel “The Story with No End” was written in 1979. Its author is the German writer Michael Ende, who has published a number of children's fairy tales. It is interesting that in our country the translation of this novel as “The Neverending Story” or “The Endless Picture Book from A to Z” is more common.

Michal Ende was able to create an amazing fairy tale that embodies the dream of any child: to get inside his favorite work. This is exactly what happens to the main character, Bastian Balthasar Buchs.

The boy's life can hardly be called simple. His mother died, and his father is too focused on his problems to notice his son. Moreover, the appearance and character of the child are not at all conducive to establishing friendly relations: Bastian is fat, withdrawn, clumsy and clumsy. It is not surprising that he becomes the subject of ridicule among his peers and high school students. The boy's only friends are books, which he is ready to read for days.

One day, hiding in an antique shop from hooligans, Bastian discovers the book “The Story That Never Ends” and plunges headlong into the magical land of Fantasy. The wonderful state is threatened with death from the terrible Nothing, which is gaining strength due to the fact that children have stopped believing in fairy tales. Therefore, the Girl Queen dies slowly but surely. The brave little warrior Atreyu and his dragon Falkor are trying to save her. However, their efforts are in vain, because only a human child can rid Fantasia of Nothingness and breathe life into the Queen, giving her a completely new name.

Carried away by reading, Bastian realizes with genuine surprise that he has long been not just an observer, but also a direct participant in all the unfolding events. He receives from the Queen an amulet that makes his dreams come true, and begins his difficult journey through a magical land.

Will Bastian be able to save Fantasia? Can a little boy bear the burden of fulfilling all his desires, and will it turn him from a good hero into a villain? Is it possible to become happy by betraying friendship and love? To find out the answers, hurry up and start reading the novel “The Story That Has No End” right now.

The book “The Neverending Story” was first filmed in 1984. However, the cinematic version covers only the first part of the novel. The second half of the work became the script for the film “The NeverEnding Story 2.”

On our website about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free without registration or read online the book “The Story That Has No End” by Michael Ende in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Current page: 1 (book has 23 pages in total)

Michael Andreas Helmut Ende
A story with no end

TSINIKUB IKVAL NIYAZOKH
REDNAEROK DARNOK LRAK

On that gray, chilly November morning, the rain poured down like buckets. Drops ran down the curves of the letters, along the glass, and through it nothing was visible except the damp-stained wall of the house on the opposite side of the street.

Suddenly someone opened the door so impulsively that the cluster of copper bells hanging near the lintel began to ring furiously and could not calm down for a long time.

This commotion was caused by a small fat boy of about ten or eleven. A wet strand of dark brown hair fell into his eyes, and drops dripped from his soaking wet coat. He had a school bag hanging over his shoulder. The boy was pale, breathing irregularly, and although he had obviously been in a hurry until that moment, he froze in the doorway, as if rooted to the threshold.

The far end of the long, narrow room was in semi-darkness. Along the walls, up to the ceiling, were stacked shelves densely packed with books of various sizes and thicknesses. Stacks of tomes towered on the floor, and mountains of smaller books were piled on the table, all in antique leather bindings and with gold edges. At the far end of the room, behind a wall made of books the height of a man, a lamp was burning. And in its light rings of tobacco smoke appeared from time to time; rising, they became larger and larger, then blurred into the darkness. It was similar to the smoke signals with which the Indians convey all sorts of messages to each other from mountain to mountain. Someone was clearly sitting there. And, indeed, a grumpy voice came from behind the book wall:

- Stare as much as you like, you can from the street, you can here, but just shut the door. Blowing!

The boy quietly closed the door behind him. Then he walked up to the wall of books and carefully looked behind it. There, in a leather Voltaire chair with a high back, already fairly worn, sat an elderly man, heavyset and stocky, in a wrinkled black suit, very worn and dusty. A colorful vest was clinging to his stomach. His head was as bald as a knee, only tufts of gray hair stuck out above his ears. His brown face, reminiscent of a bulldog's muzzle, had a potato-shaped nose, and gold-rimmed glasses sat tightly on it. The old man puffed on a curved pipe, and his lower lip was drawn back so much that he seemed lopsided. On his lap lay a thick book, which he had apparently just been reading - his plump finger was stuck between the pages as a bookmark.

With his other hand, he now took off his glasses and began to look at the fat boy standing in front of him in a wet coat - his coat was dripping. He looked at the boy intently, narrowing his eyes, which made his expression even more bulldog-like.

“Oh, you little thing,” he wheezed and, opening the book, went back into reading.

The boy did not know how to behave, and continued to stand, not taking his eyes off the wonderful old man. And he suddenly closed the book again and again laid the page with his index finger.

- Keep in mind, my boy, I can’t stand children... Now, however, for some reason everyone rushes around with you like you’re a dirty bag, but keep in mind, this activity is not for me. Is it clear?.. For me, all children are screaming idiots, the punishment of the human race, they destroy everything they can get their hands on, stain books with jam, tear out pages, and they don’t give a damn about the fact that adults often feel lousy in their souls. I’m saying this so you can understand right away: you can’t really call me a friend of children. Besides, I don’t sell children’s books, and I won’t sell you books for adults, and don’t hope to! Well, now it’s as if everything about each other is clear to us.

He said all this in a grumpy tone and very indistinctly, because he did not take the pipe out of his mouth. Then he opened the book again and began to read.

The boy nodded silently and was about to leave, but suddenly it seemed to him that he could not endure all this without saying anything in response. He turned to the old man and said in a barely audible voice:

– But not ALL of them are like that.

The shop owner looked up at him and took off his glasses:

– Are you still here?... Advise what needs to be done so that such a fool like you closes the door from the other side? Eh?.. What was so important that you were going to tell me?

“Nothing that important,” the boy whispered. “I just said that not all children are like you think.”

- That's it! – exclaimed the old man, raising his eyebrows with feigned amazement. – And we must assume that you are the lucky exception?

Instead of answering, the fat boy silently shrugged and turned to the door.

- Well, that’s what I knew! – a grumpy voice came from behind him. - He’s also poorly brought up!.. Do you know, young man, that first of all, you should introduce yourself?

“My name is Bastian,” the boy said, turning around. – Bastian Balthazar Bugs.

“It’s a very strange name,” the old man croaked. - Everything is “B”. True, this is not your fault, it’s not you who called yourself that... Well, sir, my name is Karl Conrad Coreander.

“And everything is “K” for you,” the boy remarked seriously.

“But that’s true,” the old man muttered and blew a few rings of smoke out of his pipe. - However, what does it matter what our names are? Because I hope we will never meet again. I would like to find out only one thing: why did you burst into my shop like mad? Looks like you're being chased. Were you fleeing from someone?

Bastian nodded. His face became even paler, his pupils dilated.

– Didn’t you rob the cash register in the store? - Mr. Coreander suggested. - Or maybe he knocked the old lady? Or something even worse - now everything can be expected from you. What, my boy, are the police chasing you?

Bastian shook his head.

“Say everything as it is,” Mr. Coreander ordered. -Who were you running from?

- From them.

-Who are they?

- Guys from our class.

- Why did you run from them?

- They... They pester me all the time.

-What are they doing?

“They are waiting for me at the entrance to the school.”

- So what?

- And they call you names, tease you...

- And you tolerate all this? - Mr. Coreander looked disapprovingly at the boy. “Why don’t you give someone a good whack?”

Bastian looked up at him.

- No, I can’t stand it. And also... I don't know how to fight.

– Can you do pull-ups using rings? - asked Mr. Coreander. – What about running, jumping, swimming, playing football, doing exercises? Can't you do anything?

The boy shook his head.

In short, are you a weakling?

Bastian shrugged.

- But do you at least have a language? Why are you silent when they mock you?

– I tried to answer them once......

- So what?

“They caught me, threw me into a dumpster and closed the lid. I screamed for two hours until they pulled me out of there.

“I see,” Mr. Coreander muttered. “And now you don’t dare tell them anything anymore?”

Bastian nodded.

So it turns out that you are as cowardly as a hare!

Bastian lowered his eyes.

- Maybe you're an upstart? First student? An excellent student?.. A teacher's favorite?.. So, what?

“No,” said Bastian, without raising his head. - I was left for the second year...

- Dear God! - Mr. Coreander exclaimed. - It turns out that you are a complete loser!

Bastian said nothing. He stood with his hands down, and his coat was dripping and dripping onto the floor.

- How do they tease you? – Mr. Coreander asked.

- Well... in different ways.

- For example?

- The fat fool fell down, got caught on the cornice, the cornice broke, the fool was torn...

“It’s not funny at all,” said Mr. Coreander. - How else?

Bastian did not answer immediately.

- Crazy. The brat. Yap. Whistler...

- Why crazy?

- Because I sometimes talk to myself.

-What are you talking to yourself about? Well, for example?

– I tell myself different stories. I invent wonderful names and words that don’t exist.

– And you tell yourself all this? For what?

Because I'm the only one interested in this.

Mister Coreander thought for a moment.

– How do your parents feel about this? Bastian did not answer immediately.

“Father…” he finally muttered. – Father is always silent. He does not care a straw.

- And your mother?

- She left us.

- Is that so? Are your parents separated?

No, said Bastian, she died.

At that moment the phone rang. Mr. Coreander rose heavily from his chair and shuffled into a small office at the back of the shop. He picked up the phone, and Bastian thought he was calling his name, but then the door closed, and he couldn’t hear anything else except indistinct muttering.

Bastian still stood motionless. He could not understand what had happened to him, why he began to tell everything, and so frankly. After all, he hated it when people got into his soul. And suddenly he had a fever... After all, he would be late for school! Well, yes, he needs to hurry, run as fast as he can! But he stood and stood, unable to decide on anything. Something was holding him here, but he couldn’t understand what.

Indistinct muttering was still muffled from the office - it was a long telephone conversation.

And then Bastian realized that all this time he had been looking at the thick book that Mr. Coreander had just held in his hands and now left on the leather chair. The boy simply could not take his eyes off her. It seemed as if some kind of magical power emanated from this book and powerfully attracted him.

Bastian walked up to the chair, slowly extended his hand, touched the binding, and at the same moment his chest sank - “click!” – it was as if the door of a trap had slammed shut. He had a vague feeling that from this touch something strange began to happen to him, which could not be stopped.

He took the book and looked at it from all sides. The binding was covered with copper-red silk and, when you turned the book slightly in your hands, it shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. Having quickly leafed through it, Bastian noticed that it was printed in two colors - red and green. There were no pictures at all, but the chapters began with huge, wonderful initial letters. He carefully examined the binding again and saw that it depicted two snakes, light and dark, clinging to each other’s tail, they formed an oval. And in this oval, in bizarre, broken letters, the title of the book is written:

"ENDLESS STORY".

Human passions are surprisingly mysterious, and children are no less subject to them than adults. Those whom they take possession of cannot really explain anything, and those who do not know passions cannot even imagine what it is. There are, for example, people who risk their lives to conquer some transcendental peak. But neither they themselves nor anyone else in the world could say why they needed it. Others literally go broke to win the heart of someone who doesn’t even want to hear about them. Still others cannot overcome the temptation to devour and drink everything they own, every last one. Others are ready to lose a fortune in gambling. And someone sacrifices everything for the sake of an obsession that is impossible to implement. There are people who are convinced that they will be happy only when they move to live in another place, and all their lives they rush around the world in search of a cherished corner. And some do not find peace until they gain power... In short, so many people, so many passions.

Bastian Balthazar Bags' passion was books.

Who has never sat over a book for long hours after school with burning ears and tousled hair... Who has never read avidly, forgetting about everything in the world, not noticing that he had long been hungry and numb from the cold... Who has never read secretly under the blanket by the light of a pocket flashlight, after the mother or father, or someone else in the household had long ago turned off the light, ordering them to go to sleep right away, because tomorrow they would not get up before dawn... Who has never shed openly or secretly bitter tears because some - a magnificent book and the time has come to say goodbye to its heroes, with whom I experienced so many unimaginable adventures, whom I managed to love forever, whom I never tired of admiring and was so worried about their fate and kept wondering whether they would be lucky or not, hoping with all my might that everything will come true... After all, without them now life is empty, devoid of any meaning...

So, anyone who has not experienced all this himself will probably never understand how Bastian did what he did.

Bastian looked at the title of the book without blinking, and he was thrown either hot or cold. Yes, this is exactly what he thought about so often, dreamed so passionately: “The Neverending Story”! Book of books!

He must get her at any cost.

Through thick and thin? Easy to say! Even if he could offer more for it than the three marks and fifty pfennigs that are in his pocket, it still wouldn’t work out - after all, the surly Mr. Coreander clearly stated that he does not sell anything to children. And even more so, he will never give anything. The situation seemed hopeless.

But still, Bastian knew that he could not leave without this book. Now it became clear to him: he had come here because of her - she had lured him in some mysterious way, because she wanted to be with him, and, in essence, she had always been, his book!

Bastian listened to the dull rumbling still coming from the office.

Without having time to realize what he was doing, Bastian grabbed the book, quickly put it in his bosom and pressed it to his chest with both hands. Without taking his eyes off the office door, he silently backed towards the exit. He carefully pressed the handle, afraid that the brass bells would ring, opened the glass door slightly and with difficulty squeezed through the narrow gap. Then he quietly closed the door behind him.

And he ran.

Notebooks, textbooks and a pencil case shook in his bag in time with his fast running. He had a stabbing pain in his side, but he continued to run with all his strength.

The rain lashed his face, streams of water flowed down his collar, his coat did not save Bastian from the chilly dampness, but he did not notice all this. He was hot, and not just from running.

Conscience, which had been silent in the bookstore, suddenly woke up and spoke. All the arguments to justify the action, which seemed so convincing, suddenly lost their strength and melted away, like a snowman when a fire-breathing dragon appears.

He stole! He is a thief!

What he did was even worse than ordinary theft. This book is probably the only and irreplaceable one. She was probably Mr. Coreander's main asset. Stealing a violinist's violin or a king's crown is not at all the same as robbing a cash register.

That's what he thought about as he ran, clutching the book tightly to his chest. But no matter what it threatens him with, he will never part with her. After all, besides her, he now has nothing.

Of course, he could no longer go home.

He tried to imagine his father, who was now sitting in a large room turned into a workshop, working. On the table in front of him are dozens of plaster casts of human jaws - after all, his father is a dental technician. Bastian had never wondered whether his father liked his profession - now for the first time it occurred to him. But now, apparently, he will never be able to ask his father about this.

If he comes home now, his father will immediately come out of the workshop in a white coat, most likely with a plaster jaw in his hand, and ask: “Are you back yet?” “Yes,” Bastian will answer. “What, no classes today?” He could see his father’s face frozen in sadness and understood that he could not lie to him. But he won’t be able to tell the truth either. No, there is no way out, you have to go wherever you look, as long as it’s away from home. A father should never know that his son has become a thief. However, he may not even notice that Bastian has disappeared. And, oddly enough, this thought even calmed the boy somewhat.

Bastian was no longer running. He walked slowly, breathing heavily, and suddenly saw at the end of the street - what do you think? - school building. It turns out that, without noticing it, he was walking along the usual road along which he hurried to school every morning. Now the street seemed deserted to him, although there were passers-by walking along it. But to someone who is very late, the area around the school always seems deserted. Bastian felt his fear growing with every step. He was always afraid of school - the place of his daily torment and troubles, he was afraid of teachers - and those who patiently urged him to finally come to his senses, and those who took out their bad mood on him. He was afraid of the students, who always laughed at him and never missed an opportunity to prove how incompetent and weak he was. School always seemed to Bastian like a prison in which he was imprisoned for many, many years until he grew up. And he had no other choice but to silently and obediently sit in class for the prescribed hours.

And when Bastian, in a soaked coat, walked along the echoing school corridor, where there was a smell of mastic. And the tense silence filled his ears like cotton wool, when he finally found himself in front of the door of his classroom, painted the same color of stale spinach as the walls around him, he clearly understood: he had nothing more to do in the classroom. After all, he will have to hide later anyway. If so, why not start right now?

Hide... but where?

Bastian read stories in various books about boys who were hired as cabin boys on a ship and sailed to distant lands in search of freedom and happiness. Some became pirates, others became heroes and after many years they returned back to their homeland, rich and famous, and no one recognized them.

But Bastian did not feel capable of such a thing. Even if he had decided to become a cabin boy, he probably would not have been hired, and besides, he did not have the slightest idea of ​​​​how to get to any port where there were ships suitable for carrying out such a desperate plan.

So where should we run?

And then it occurred to Bastian that there was, perhaps, one suitable place where, at least at first, they would not look for him, where he could sit out...

The attic was huge and dark. There was a pungent smell of dust and mothballs. There was not a single sound to be heard except the drumming of the rain on the iron roof. Mighty wooden rafters, blackened by time, rested at equal distances on the floor paved with slabs and supported the roof, getting lost somewhere in the darkness. From above, like holey nets, rags of cobwebs hung, slowly swaying in the draft wind. It seemed as if ghosts were flying under the roof. A dim whitish light seeped through the dormer window.

The only living creature in this room, where time seemed to stand still, was a small mouse that darted across the slabs, leaving traces of tiny claws on the layer of dust. Where she lowered her tail, a thin line was visible between the marks. Suddenly the mouse stood up on its hind legs, listened and - whew! – disappeared into the gap between the slabs.

The key in the large lock turned with a grinding sound, and the door slowly, creaking, opened. A strip of light momentarily crossed the floor, Bastian slipped into the attic and closed the door behind him. Then he inserted the key into the lock from the inside, turned it and sighed with relief only when he also pushed the latch in for good measure. Now it will truly be impossible to find him. And it’s unlikely that anyone will look for him here. People came up here very rarely - he knew that for sure. But if, by chance, someone wants to get here today or tomorrow, the door will be locked and the key is not there. And even if in the end the door can be opened, Bastian will have time to hide among all this rubbish a hundred times.

Gradually my eyes got used to the darkness. But he had already been here once. Six months ago, the commandant ordered him to lift a large basket with some old documents into the attic. It was then that he learned that the key was kept in a closet on the top landing. Since then he never thought about it. But now it immediately occurred to him.

Bastian had a hard time: his coat was soaked through, and it was very cold in the attic. First of all, he needs to find a place where he can sit comfortably, because here he will spend many days. How much exactly - he had not yet thought about this, nor, indeed, about the fact that he would soon want to eat and drink.

He walked around the attic.

There were all sorts of unnecessary objects standing and lying around. Broken shelves filled with old classroom magazines and transcript folders. Desks piled one on top of the other with lids covered in ink. A stand on which hangs at least a dozen old geographical maps. Peeling blackboards, rusty iron stoves, broken gymnastic equipment, for example, a “goat” with torn leather covering and tow sticking out, burst medicine balls, a stack of dirty quilted sports mats, and a little further away - dusty stuffed animals and birds with fur and feathers, moth-eaten: great owl, eagle and fox; behind them were a pile of broken retorts, a line of laboratory stands, an electrostatic machine, a skeleton hanging on what looked like a dress hanger, many drawers and cardboard boxes stuffed with old textbooks and scribbled notebooks. Having looked at all this, Bastian decided to choose a stack of sports mats as his residence. If you stretch out on them, you feel almost like you are on a sofa. He dragged the mats to the dormer window, where it was a little brighter, and saw here several folded gray soldier’s blankets, torn and thoroughly dusty, of course, but it was still possible to cover himself with them. Bastian placed them on top of the mats. Then he took off his wet coat and hung it on the skeleton, causing the bones of the arms and legs to twitch. But the boy was not afraid. Perhaps because he was used to artificial teeth and false jaws at home. He also took off his wet shoes. Wearing only his socks, Bastian sat cross-legged on the mat and pulled a gray cloth blanket over his shoulders, like an Indian at a wigwam. Nearby he placed a bag and a treasured book bound in copper-red.

Bastian thought about what was happening down there in their classroom. Probably there is a German lesson going on, and the children were asked to write an essay on some deadly boring topic.

Bastian looked at the book.

“I would like to know,” he reasoned to himself, “what is happening here, in this book, while it is still closed. Of course, there are a lot of letters printed on sheets of paper, but still something must be happening there, because before I have time to open it, some unknown story will immediately begin with unknown people involved in unknown adventures, and a struggle for something or against something, and sea storms, and foreign countries and unfamiliar cities. And all this is somehow secretly packaged under the cover of the book. Of course, in order to experience this story with the characters, you need to read it, but the events that will be discussed are already in the book... I would like to know how this happens?”

And suddenly Bastian was overcome by some kind of solemn mood.

He straightened up, grabbed the book, opened it to the first page and began reading THE NON-ENDING STORY.