There Are Many Kinds Of Joy, But

Nothing Can Happen More Than Once, But Everything Must Happen One Day; Over Hill And Dale, Wood And Stream, My Dying Voice Will Blow Away. . .

People? People Have Been Obsolete For Years, They've Made The World A Place Where There's No Room Left For Their Own Kind.

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.

As They Advanced (towards The Fountain) One After Another Of Bastian's Fastastican Gifts Fell Away From Him. The Strong, Handsome, Fearless Hero Became The Small, Fat, Timid Boy. (...) But Then He Jumped Into The Crystal-clear Water... He Drank Till His Thrist Was Quenched. And Joy Filled Him From Head To Foot, The Joy Of Living And The Joy Of Being Himself. He Was New Born. And The Best Part Of It Was That He Was Now The Very Person He Wanted To Be. If He Had Been Free To Choose, He Would Have Chosen To Be No One Else.

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.