Quotes from Michael Ende

In the end, it was only a few months that passed this way, and yet it was the longest period of time that Momo had ever lived through. Time can't simply be measured with a clock and a calendar, just as words alone can't describe the kind of loneliness Momo knew in these months.

Then alone,' she concluded, 'will you be truly free, free from all obstacles, free to do as you please. Weren't you trying to find out what you really and truly want? Well, now you know.

Hay seres que sin saber bien por qué, se sienten sin raíces en este mundo. Lo que los demás llaman realidad les parece un espejismo, un sueño confuso y a menudo angustioso. Se sienten condenados a vivir en este mundo como si se tratara de un exilio en tierra hostil. Con nostalgia incurable añoran otra realidad que creen recordar como una patria lejana, sin poder formular nada concreto sobre ella.

There is nothing more dangerous in life than dreams that come true...

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.

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.

Those who still think that listening isn't an art should see if they can do it half as well.

She would sit by herself in the middle of the old stoe amphitheatre, with the sky's starry vault overhead, and simply listen to the great silence around her.

Those who still think listening isn't an art should see if they can do it half as well.

Without a past you can't have a future.

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.

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.

When it comes to controlling human beings there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by beliefs. And beliefs can be manipulated. The power to manipulate beliefs is the only thing that counts.

Every real story is a never ending story.

Nothing is lost. . .Everything is transformed.

There are many kinds of joy, but they all lead to one: the joy to be loved.

People never seemed to notice that, by saving time, they were losing something else. No one cared to admit that life was becoming ever poorer, bleaker and more monotonous. The ones who felt this most keenly were the children, because no one had time for them any more. But time is life itself, and life resides in the human heart. And the more people saved, the less they had.

You must let what happens happen. Everything must be equal in your eyes, good and evil, beautiful and ugly, foolish and wise.

You wish for something, you've wanted it for years, and you're sure you want it, as long as you know you can't have it. But if all at once it looks as though your wish might come true, you suddenly find yourself wishing you had never wished for any such thing.

Once someone dreams a dream, it can't just drop out of existence. But if the dreamer can't remember it, what becomes of it? It lives on in Fantastica, deep under earth. There are forgotten dreams stored in many layers. The deeper one digs, the closer they are. All Fantastica rests on a foundation of forgotten dreams.

But that is another story and shall be told another time.

Strange as it may seem, horror loses its power to frighten when repeated too often.

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.

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.