Without A Past You Can't Have A

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

Life Holds One Great But Quite Commonplace Mystery. Though Shared By Each Of Us And Known To All, Seldom Rates A Second Thought. That Mystery, Which Most Of Us Take For Granted And Never Think Twice About, Is Time. Calendars And Clocks Exist To Measure Time, But That Signifies Little Because We All Know That An Hour Can Seem As Eternity Or Pass In A Flash, According To How We Spend It. Time Is Life Itself, And Life Resides In The Human Heart.

Wishes Cannot Be Summoned Up Or Kept Away At Will. They Come From Deeper Within Us Than Good Or Bad Intentions. And They Spring Up Unannounced.

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.