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Download Download The Neverending Story | PDF books PDF Online Download Here: soundofheaven.info?book= His only escape is reading books. When Bastian happens upon an old book called The Neverending Story, he's swept into the magical world of. Then, through the pages of an ancient, mysterious book, he discovers the enchanted world of Fantastica, and only Bastian himself can save the fairy people who.


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The Neverending Story by Michael Ende Translated from the German by Ralph Manheim Illustrated by Roswitha Quadflieg a.b.e-book v / See Notes at EOF. Michael Ende - The Neverending Story. Read more The Story of Byzantine Empire (The Story of the Nations) · Read more. Die unendliche Geschichte by Michael Ende, , Penguin Books edition, Paperback in Cover of: The Neverending Story | Michael Ende.

Cairon stamped his hooves two or three times. The first, having no legs or haunches, was obliged to walk on his hands. On the other hand, he was glad not to be there. There's no fever, no swelling, no rash, no inflammation. We can't even be sure that medical science can save her.

Be the first to like this. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. Book Details Author: Michael Ende Pages: Paperback Brand: Description Neverending Story 4. If you want to download this book, click link in the next page 5. Thank You For Visiting. He dragged them to the place under the skylight where the light was best. Not far away he found a pile of gray army blankets; they were dusty and ragged but that didn't matter now.

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He carried them over to his nest. He took off his wet coat and hung it on the clothes rack beside the skeleton. The skeleton jiggled and swayed, but Bastian had no fear of it, maybe because he was used to such things at home. He also removed his wet shoes. In his stocking feet he squatted down on the mats and wrapped himself in the gray blankets like an Indian. Beside him lay his school satchel -- and the copper-colored book. It passed through his mind that the rest of them down in the classroom would be having history just then.

Maybe they'd be writing a composition on some deadly dull subject. Bastian looked at the book. Oh, I know it's full of letters printed on paper, but all the same, something must be happening, because as soon as I open it, there's a whole story with people I don't know yet and all kinds of adventures and deeds and battles.

And sometimes there are storms at sea, or it takes you to strange cities and countries. All those things are somehow shut up in a book.

Of course you have to read it to find out. But it's already there, that's the funny thing. I just wish I knew how it could be. He settled himself, picked up the book, opened it to the first page, and began to read The Neverending Story I Fantastica in Danger ll the beasts in Howling Forest were safe in their caves, nests, and burrows. It was midnight, the storm wind was whistling through the tops of the great ancient trees.

The towering trunks creaked and groaned. Suddenly a faint light came zigzagging through the woods, stopped here and there, trembling fitfully, flew up into the air, rested on a branch, and a moment later hurried on. It was a glittering sphere about the size of a child's ball; it moved in long leaps, touched the ground now and then, then bounded up again. But it wasn't a ball. It was a will-o'-the-wisp. It had lost its way. And that's something quite unusual even in Fantastica, because ordinarily will-o'-the-wisps make others lose their way.

Inside this ball of light there was a small, exceedingly active figure, which ran and jumped with all its might. It was neither male nor female, for such distinctions don't exist among will-o'-the-wisps.

In its right hand it carried a tiny white flag, which glittered behind it. That meant it was either a messenger or a flag-of-truce bearer. You'd think it would have bumped into a tree, leaping like that in the darkness, but there was no danger of that, for will-o'-the-wisps are incredibly nimble and can change directions in the middle of a leap. That explains the zigzagging, but in a general sort of way it moved in a definite direction.

Up to the moment when it came to a jutting crag and started back in a fright. Whimpering like a puppy, it sat down on the fork of a tree and pondered awhile before venturing out and cautiously looking around the crag. Up ahead it saw a clearing in the woods, and there in the light of a campfire sat three figures of different sizes and shapes.

A giant, who looked as if the whole of him were made of gray stone, lay stretched out on his belly. He was almost ten feet long. Propped up on one elbow, he was looking into the fire. In his weather-beaten stone face, which seemed strangely small in comparison with his powerful shoulders, his teeth stood out like a row of steel chisels. The will-o'-the-wisp recognized him as belonging to the family of rock chewers.

These were creatures who lived in a mountain range inconceivably far from Howling Forest -- but they not only lived in the mountain range, they also lived on it, for little by little they were eating it up. Rocks were their only food. Luckily a little went a long way. They could live for weeks and months on a single bite of this -- for them -- extremely nutritious fare.

There weren't very many rock chewers, and besides it was a large mountain range. But since these giants had been there a long time -they lived to a greater age than most of the inhabitants of Fantastica -- those mountains had come, over the years, to look very strange -- like an enormous Swiss cheese, full of holes and grottoes.

And that is why they were known as the Cheesiewheezies. But the rock chewers not only fed on stone, they made everything they needed out of it: So it was not surprising that the vehicle of this particular giant, which was now leaning against a tree behind him, was a sort of bicycle made entirely of this material, with two wheels that looked like enormous millstones. On the whole, it suggested a steamroller with pedals. The second figure, who was sitting to the right of the first, was a little night-hob.

No more than twice the size of the will-o'-the-wisp, he looked like a pitch-black, furry caterpillar sitting up. He had little pink hands, with which he gestured violently as he spoke, and below his tousled black hair two big round eyes glowed like moons in what was presumably his face.

Since there were night-hobs of all shapes and sizes in every part of Fantastica, it was hard to tell by the sight of him whether this one had come from far or near. But one could guess that he was traveling, because the usual mount of the night-hobs, a large bat, wrapped in its wings like a closed umbrella, was hanging head-down from a nearby branch.

It took the will-o'-the-wisp some time to discover the third person on the left side of the fire, for he was so small as to be scarcely discernible from that distance. He was one of the tinies, a delicately built little fellow in a bright-colored suit and a top hat. The will-o'-the-wisp knew next to nothing about tinies.

But it had once heard that these people built whole cities in the branches of trees and that the houses were connected by stairways, ropeladders, and ramps. But the tinies lived in an entirely different part of the boundless Fantastican Empire, even farther away than the rock chewers. Which made it all the more amazing that the mount which had evidently carried the tiny all this way was, of all things, a snail.

Its pink shell was surmounted by a gleaming silver saddle, and its bridle, as well as the reins fastened to its feelers, glittered like silver threads. The will-o'-the-wisp couldn't get over it that three such different creatures should be sitting there so peacefully, for harmony between different species was by no means the rule in Fantastica.

Battles and wars were frequent, and certain of the species had been known to feud for hundreds of years. Moreover, not all the inhabitants of Fantastica were good and honorable, there were also thieving, wicked, and cruel ones. The will-o'-thewisp itself belonged to a family that was hardly reputed for truthfulness or reliability. After observing the scene in the firelight for some time, the will-o'-the-wisp noticed that each of the three had something white, either a flag or a white scarf worn across his chest.

Which meant that they were messengers or flag-of-truce bearers, and that of course accounted for the peaceful atmosphere. Could they be traveling on the same business as the will-o'-the-wisp? What they were saying couldn't be heard from a distance because of the howling wind in the treetops. But since they respected one another as messengers, mightn't they recognize the will-o'-the-wisp in the same capacity and refrain from harming him?

It had to ask someone the way, and there seemed little likelihood of finding a better opportunity at this hour in the middle of the woods. So plucking up courage, it ventured out of its hiding place and hovered trembling in mid-air, waving its white flag. The rock chewer, whose face was turned in that direction, was first to notice the will-o'-the-wisp. The tiny removed his red top hat, made a slight bow, and twittered: We, too, are messengers.

Won't you be seated? My name is Blubb. Will-o'-the-wisps find it most unpleasant to be looked full in the face. I only wanted to ask if by any chance you knew the way to the Ivory Tower. The will-o'-the-wisp sat down in the empty place. I don't know if any of those present has heard of it.

It's called Moldymoor. Actually, it's still happening. It's hard to describe -the way it began was -- well, in the east of our country there's a lake -- that is, there was a lake -- Lake Foamingbroth we called it. Well, the way it began was like this. One day Lake Foamingbroth wasn't there anymore -- it was gone. But there isn't.

Where the lake used to be there's nothing -- absolutely nothing. Now do you see? This is nothing at all. It's -- it's like -- oh, there's no word for it.

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And then all of a sudden Foggle, the father of the frogs, who lived in Lake Foamingbroth with his family, was gone too. Some of the inhabitants started running away. But little by little the same thing happened to other parts of Moldymoor. It usually started with just a little chunk, no bigger than a partridge egg. But then these chunks got bigger and bigger. If somebody put his foot into one of them by mistake, the foot -- or hand -- or whatever else he put in -- would be gone too.

It didn't hurt -- it was just that a part of whoever it was would be missing. Some would even fall in on purpose if they got too close to the Nothing. It has an irresistible attraction -- the bigger the place, the stronger the pull. None of us could imagine what this terrible thing might be, what caused it, and what we could do about it.

And seeing that it didn't go away by itself but kept spreading, we finally decided to send a messenger to the Childlike Empress to ask her for advice and help. Well, I'm the messenger.

The Neverending Story

After a while, the night-hob sighed: It's the same where I come from. And I'm traveling on the exact same errand -- hoo hoo! We've met here entirely by chance. But each one of us is going to the Childlike Empress with the same message. But now that you've joined us, Blubb, you can light the way. And sure enough, the will-o'-the-wisp hadn't even heard the other messengers' last words, for it was already flitting through the forest in long leaps.

Because I, for one, fly. And whish! Away he flew. The rock chewer put out the campfire with the palm of his hand. Slowly the clatter receded in the distance. Gluckuk, the tiny, was last to set out.

He seized the silvery reins and said: Geeyap, old-timer, geeyap. And then there was nothing to be heard but the storm wind howling in the treetops. The clock in the belfry struck nine. Reluctantly Bastian's thought turned back to reality. He was glad the Neverending Story had nothing to do with that.

He didn't like books in which dull, cranky writers describe humdrum events in the very humdrum lives of humdrum people.

Reality gave him enough of that kind of thing, why should he read about it? Besides, he couldn't stand it when a writer tried to convince him of something. And these humdrum books, it seemed to him, were always trying to do just that.

Bastion liked books that were exciting or funny, or that made him dream. Books where made-up characters had marvelous adventures, books that made him imagine all sorts of things. Because one thing he was good at, possibly the only thing, was imagining things so clearly that he almost saw and heard them.

When he told himself stories, he sometimes forgot everything around him and awoke -- as though from a dream -- only when the story was finished. And this book was just like his own stories! In reading it, he had heard not only the creaking of the big trees and the howling of the wind in the treetops, but also the different voices of the four comical messengers. And he almost seemed to catch the smell of moss and forest earth.

Down in the classroom they were starting in on nature study. That consisted almost entirely in counting pistils and stamens. Bastian was glad to be up here in his hiding place, where he could read. This, he thought, was just the right book for him! A week later Vooshvazool, the little night-hob, arrived at his destination.

He was the first. Or rather, he thought he was first, because he was riding through the air. Just as the setting sun turned the clouds to liquid gold, he noticed that his bat was circling over the Labyrinth. That was the name of an enormous garden, extending from horizon to horizon and filled with the most bewitching scents and dreamlike colors. Broad avenues and narrow paths twined their way among copses, lawns, and beds of the rarest, strangest flowers in a design so artful and intricate that the whole plain resembled an enormous maze.

Of course, it had been designed only for pleasure and amusement, with no intention of endangering anyone, much less of warding off an enemy. It would have been useless for such purposes, and the Childlike Empress required no such protection, because in all the unbounded reaches of Fantastica there was no one who would have thought of attacking her. For that there was a reason, as we shall soon see. While gliding soundlessly over the flowery maze, the night-hob sighted all sorts of animals.

In a small clearing between lilacs and laburnum, a group of young unicorns was playing in the evening sun, and once, glancing under a giant bluebell, he even thought he saw the famous phoenix in its nest, but he wasn't quite certain, and such was his haste that he didn't want to turn back to make sure.

For at the center of the Labyrinth there now appeared, shimmering in fairy whiteness, the Ivory Tower, the heart of Fantastica and the residence of the Childlike Empress. The word "tower" might give someone who has never seen it the wrong idea.

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It had nothing of the church or castle about it. The Ivory Tower was as big as a whole city. From a distance it looked like a pointed mountain peak twisted like a snail shell. Its highest point was deep in the clouds. Only on coming closer could you notice that this great sugarloaf consisted of innumerable towers, turrets, domes, roofs, oriels, terraces, arches, stairways, and balustrades, all marvelously fitted together.

The whole was made of the whitest Fantastican ivory, so delicately carved in every detail that it might have been taken for the latticework of the finest lace.

These buildings housed the Childlike Empress's court, her chamberlains and maidservants, wise women and astrologers, magicians and jesters, messengers, cooks and acrobats, her tightrope walkers and storytellers, heralds, gardeners, watchmen, tailors, shoemakers and alchemists. And at the very summit of the great tower lived the Childlike Empress in a pavilion shaped like a magnolia blossom.

On certain nights, when the full moon shone most gloriously in the starry sky, the ivory petals opened wide, and the Childlike Empress would be sitting in the middle of the glorious flower. Riding on his bat, the little night-hob landed on one of the lower terraces, where the stables were located. Someone must have announced his arrival, for five imperial grooms were there waiting for him. They helped him out of his saddle, bowed to him, and held out the ceremonial welcome cup.

As etiquette demanded, Vooshvazool took only a sip and then returned the cup. Each of the grooms took a sip, then they bowed again and led the bat to the stables. All this was done in silence. On reaching its appointed place, the bat touched neither food nor drink, but immediately rolled up, hung itself head-down on a hook, and fell into a deep sleep.

The little night-hob had demanded a bit too much of his mount. The grooms left it alone and crept away from the stable on tiptoes. In this stable there were many other mounts: In other stables there were still other mounts, which didn't fly but ran, crawled, hopped, or swam. And each had a groom of its own to feed and take care of it. Ordinarily one would have expected to hear quite a cacophony of different voices: But that day there was utter silence.

The little night-hob was still standing where the grooms had left him. Suddenly, without knowing why, he felt dejected and discouraged. He too was exhausted after the long trip. And not even the knowledge that he had arrived first could cheer him up.

Suddenly he heard a chirping voice. If it isn't my good friend Vooshvazool! So glad you've finally made it! And again: I've been here since yesterday morning. The tiny gave him a pensive look. You can't imagine how many messengers have turned up.

Come with me! The High Street, which wound around the Ivory Tower in a narrowing spiral, was clogged with a dense crowd of the strangest creatures. Enormous beturbaned djinns, tiny kobolds, three-headed trolls, bearded dwarfs, glittering fairies, goat-legged fauns, nixies with wavy golden hair, sparkling snow sprites, and countless others were milling about, standing in groups, or sitting silently on the ground, discussing the situation or gazing glumly into the distance.

Vooshvazool stopped still when he saw them.

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What are they all doing here? All with the same message as ours. I've spoken with several of them. The same menace seems to have broken out everywhere. Nobody knows. Maybe that's the cause of this mysterious calamity that's threatening all Fantastica. But so far none of the many doctors who've been conferring in the Magnolia Pavilion has discovered the nature of her illness or found a cure for it.

In view of the circumstances, Vooshvazool decided not to put in for an appointment. Two days later Blubb, the will-o'-the-wisp, arrived. Of course, he had hopped in the wrong direction and made an enormous detour.

And finally -- three days after that -- Pyornkrachzark, the rock chewer, appeared. He came plodding along on foot, for in a sudden frenzy of hunger he had eaten his stone bicycle. During the long waiting period, the four so unalike messengers became good friends.

From then on they stayed together. But that's another story and shall be told another time. II Atreyu's Mission ecause of their special importance, deliberations concerning the welfare of all Fantastica were held in the great throne room of the palace, which was situated only a few floors below the Magnolia Pavilion.

The large circular room was filled with muffled voices. The four hundred and ninety-nine best doctors in Fantastica had assembled there and were whispering or mumbling with one another in groups of varying sizes. Each one had examined the Childlike Empress -- some more recently than others -- and each had tried to help her with his skill. But none had succeeded, none knew the nature or cause of her illness, and none could think of a cure for it.

Just then the five hundredth doctor, the most famous in all Fantastica, whose knowledge was said to embrace every existing medicinal herb, every magic philtre and secret of nature, was examining the patient. He had been with her for several hours, and all his assembled colleagues were eagerly awaiting the result of his examination.

Of course, this assembly was nothing like a human medical congress. To be sure, a good many of the inhabitants of Fantastica were more or less human in appearance, but at least as many resembled animals or were even farther from the human. The doctors inside the hall were just as varied as the crowd of messengers milling about outside.

There were dwarf doctors with white beards and humps, there were fairy doctoresses in shimmering silvery-blue robes and with glittering stars in their hair, there were water sprites with big round bellies and webbed hands and feet sitz baths had been installed for them. There were white snakes, who had coiled up on the long table at the center of the room; there were witches, vampires, and ghosts, none of whom are generally reputed to be especially benevolent or conducive to good health.

If you are to understand why these last were present, there is one thing you have to know: The Childlike Empress -- as her title indicates -- was looked upon as the ruler over all the innumerable provinces of the Fantastican Empire, but in reality she was far more than a ruler; she was something entirely different.

She didn't rule, she had never used force or made use of her power. She never issued commands and she never judged anyone. She never interfered with anyone and never had to defend herself against any assailant; for no one would have thought of rebelling against her or of harming her in any way.

In her eyes all her subjects were equal. She was simply there in a special way. She was the center of all life in Fantastica. And every creature, whether good or bad, beautiful or ugly, merry or solemn, foolish or wise -- all owed their existence to her existence. Without her, nothing could have lived, any more than a human body can live if it has lost its heart. All knew this to be so, though no one fully understood her secret. Thus she was respected by all the creatures of the Empire, and her health was of equal concern to them all.

For her death would have meant the end of them all, the end of the boundless Fantastican realm. Bastian's thoughts wandered. Suddenly he remembered the long corridor in the hospital where his mother had been operated on. He and his father had sat waiting for hours outside the operating room. Doctors and nurses hurried this way and that. When his father asked about his wife, the answer was always evasive.

No one really seemed to know how she was doing. Finally a bald-headed man in a white smock had come out to them. He looked tired and sad. Much as he regretted it, he said, his efforts had been in vain. He had pressed their hands and mumbled something about "heartfelt sympathy.

Not outwardly. Bastion had everything he could have wished for. He had a three-speed bicycle, an electric train, plenty of vitamin pills, fifty-three books, a golden hamster, an aquarium with tropical fish in it, a small camera, six pocketknives, and so forth and so on. But none of all this really meant anything to him. Bastian remembered that his father had often played with him in the past.

He had even told him stories. No longer. He couldn't talk to his father anymore. There was an invisible wall around his father, and no one could get through to him.

He never found fault and he never praised. Even when Bastian was put back in school, his father hadn't said anything. He had only looked at him in his sad, absent way, and Bastian felt that as far as his father was concerned he wasn't there at all. That was how his father usually made him feel.

When they sat in front of the television screen in the evening, Bastian saw that his father wasn't even looking at it, that his thoughts were far away. Or when they both sat there with books, Bastian saw that his father wasn't reading at all.

He'd been looking at the same page for hours and had forgotten to turn it. Bastian knew his father was sad. He himself had cried for many nights -sometimes he had been so shaken by sobs that he had to vomit -- but little by little it had passed. And after all he was still there. Why didn't his father ever speak to him, not about his mother, not about important things, but just for the feel of talking together?

There's no fever, no swelling, no rash, no inflammation. She just seems to be fading away -- no one knows why. This time they were question marks.

A bedraggled old raven, who looked like a potato with feathers stuck onto it every which way, answered in a croaking voice he was a head cold and sore throat specialist: Medically speaking, it's no disease at all. Such remarks are quite irrelevant. And please -- lower your voices. It may seem strange that creatures of so many different kinds were able to communicate with one another. But nearly all the inhabitants of Fantastica, even the animals, knew at least two languages: All Fantasticans used it, though some in a rather peculiar way.

Suddenly all fell silent, for the great double door had opened. In stepped Cairon, the far-famed master of the healer's art. He was what in older times had been called a centaur. He had the body of a man from the waist up, and that of a horse from the waist down. And Cairon was furthermore a black centaur.

He hailed from a remote region far to the south, and his human half was the color of ebony. Only his curly hair and beard were white, while the horselike half of him was striped like a zebra. He was wearing a strange hat plaited of reeds. A large golden amulet hung from a chain around his neck, and on this amulet one could make out two snakes, one light and one dark, which were biting each other's tail and so forming an oval.

Everyone in Fantastica knew what the medallion meant. It was the badge of one acting on orders from the Childlike Empress, acting in her name as though she herself were present.

It was said to give the bearer mysterious powers, though no one knew exactly what these powers were. Everyone knew its name: But many, who feared to pronounce the name, called it the "Gem" or the "Glory".

In other words, the book bore the mark of the Childlike Empress! A whispering passed through the throne room, and some of the doctors were heard to cry out. The Gem had not been entrusted to anyone for a long, long time.

Cairon stamped his hooves two or three times. When the disorder subsided, he said in a deep voice: I am merely a go-between. Soon I shall pass the Gem on to one worthier. The Childlike Empress's illness has baffled us all. The one thing we know is that the destruction of Fantastica began at the same time as this illness. We can't even be sure that medical science can save her.

But it is possible -- and I hope none of you will be offended at what I am going to say -- it is possible that we, we who are gathered here, do not possess all knowledge, all wisdom. Indeed it is my last and only hope that somewhere in this unbounded realm there is a being wiser than we are, who can give us help and advice.

Of course, this is no more than a possibility. But one thing is certain: The search for this savior calls for a pathfinder, someone who is capable of finding paths in the pathless wilderness and who will shrink from no danger or hardship. In other words: And the Childlike Empress has given me the name of this hero, to whom she entrusts her salvation and ours.

Now you know all there is to know. Those who remained behind exchanged looks of bewilderment. And all four hundred and ninety-nine doctors shook their heads in dismay. The clock in the belfry struck ten. Bastian was amazed at how quickly the time had passed.

In class, every hour seemed to drag on for an eternity. Down below, they would be having history with Mr. Drone, a gangling, ordinarily ill-tempered man, who delighted in holding Bastian up to ridicule because he couldn't remember the dates when certain battles had been fought or when someone or other had reigned.

It was actually a prairie, as long and wide and flat as an ocean. Its whole expanse was covered with tall, juicy grass, and when the wind blew, great waves passed over it with a sound like troubled water. The people who lived there were known as "Grass People" or "Greenskins". They had blue-black hair, which the men as well as the women wore long and often in pigtails, and their skin was olive green.

They led a hard, frugal life, and their children, girls as well as boys, were brought up to be brave, proud, and generous. They learned to bear heat, cold, and great hardship and were tested for courage at an early age. This was necessary because the Greenskins were a nation of hunters. They obtained everything they needed either from the hard, fibrous prairie grass or from the purple buffaloes, great herds of which roamed the Grassy Ocean.

These purple buffaloes were about twice the size of common bulls or cows; they had long, purplish-red hair with a silky sheen and enormous horns with tips as hard and sharp as daggers.

They were peaceful as a rule, but when they scented danger or thought they were being attacked, they could be as terrible as a natural cataclysm. Only a Greenskin would have dared to hunt these beasts, and moreover they used no other weapons than bows and arrows. The Greenskins were believers in chivalrous combat, and often it was not the hunted but the hunter who lost his life.

The Greenskins loved and honored the purple buffaloes and held that only those willing to be killed by them had the right to kill them. News of the Childlike Empress's illness and the danger threatening all Fantastica had not yet reached the Grassy Ocean. It was a long, long time since any traveler had visited the tent colonies of the Greenskins.

The grass was juicier than ever, the days were bright, and the nights full of stars. All seemed to be well. But one day a white-haired black centaur appeared. His hide was dripping with sweat, he seemed totally exhausted, and his bearded face was haggard.

On his head he wore a strange hat plaited of reeds, and around his neck a chain with a large golden amulet hanging from it. It was Cairon. He stood in the open space at the center of the successive rings of tents. It was there that the elders held their councils and that the people danced and sang old songs on feast days. He waited for the Greenskins to assemble, but it was only very old men and women and small children wide-eyed with curiosity who crowded around him.

He stamped his hooves impatiently. The Neverending Story Michael Ende. The Neverending Story Close. Want to Read. Are you sure you want to remove The Neverending Story from your list? Written in English. Translation of, Die Unendliche Geschichte. Number of pages Readers waiting for this title: Check nearby libraries with: WorldCat Library. Buy this book Amazon. Share this book Facebook.