« Terminé! » , cria l’œuf quand il fut pondu. « Maintenant terminé! » , cria le tétard quand il fut sortie de l’œuf. « Maintenant je suis au complet! », cria la créature quand elle eut deux pattes. « Je suis enfin au complet de la tête aux pieds! » , cria l’être, quand il eut quatre pattes et une longue queue. « Qui sait ce qui va désormais encore se produire… » , dit la grenouille quand elle fut terminée.
In a land in our time there lived a man, who read a book and found lots of wonderful stories therein. There were true and invented stories, experienced and pensive, enjoyable and painful stories. There were stories which contained stories, and such which were actually not stories. For every story he read, there occurred to him nearly five which he had either experienced or thought up himself. So the thought came to him, that a lot in the world was a story which could be healing for himself and others; he only needed to absorb the healing stories well and to forget the terrible ones immediately. Then he would learn which story he had used when and for what. So he organised his own stories which he knew, and which had become a help to himself and others, or could become so. Sometimes he noted it down when a new story came to his ears and sometimes when a helpful story occurred to him, he memorised it.
Then he saw before him in a picture the storystories of this life arranged in long shelves, as in a large pharmacy. And behind the counter there sat a man who had learnt to listen to himself and others. He was a master of his subjectspecialty. His talent was that he understood how to tell the right thing at the right time to himself and to those who visited him.
One day they asked the master: “What do you do if you run out of parables?” “I tell a parable about a man who ran out of parables”, the master replied. “Tell us this parable!” his disciples begged. “Not now”, the master replied. “For as long as there is this one, I have not yet run out of parables.”
She is two years old and full of questions. “Where are the stars by day?” she asks her father. “In the sky, like at night.” “Are they turned off? They don’t shine at all!” “But of course they continue to shine. It’s just that the light of the sun is so bright that you can no longer see their little light. It is the same when you can no longer hear soft music when someone turns on a loud machine next to it. The music is still there, but you don’t hear it any more. The music is drowned out by the noise, and so is the starlight by the light of the sun.” She ponders for a moment and then she says: “Now I know where my dreams are in the daytime when I’m awake.”