"Neurotics are furnaces that devour everything around them.
When they are done, and nothing around is left,
they devour themselves."
Rubens Fonseca
“Why does she want me?” Coraline asked the cat. “Why does she want me to stay here with her?”
“She wants something to love, I think,” said the cat. “Something that isn’t her. She might want something to eat as well. It’s hard to tell with creatures like that”.
“Flee! (…) Flee, while there’s still air in your lungs [i.e.: ‘your own voice’] and blood in your veins [i.e.: ‘self-esteem’] and warmth in your heart [i.e.: ‘capacity to truly love other people’]. Flee while you still have your mind and your soul. (…)
She kept us, and she fed on us, until now we’ve nothing left of ourselves, only snakeskins and spider husks. (…)
She will take your life and all you are and all you care’st for, and she will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. She will take your joy. And one day you’ll awake and your heart and your soul will have gone. A husk you’ll be, a wisp you’ll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten."
“Hollow,” whispered the third voice. “Hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow, hollow.” (…)
“Now we belong to the dark and to the empty places. The light [i.e.: ‘the unbearable lightness of being’] woud shrivel us, and burn.”
“The expression on the Other Mother’s face did not change. She might not have heard what Coraline said. (…)
“Thank you, Coraline,” said the Other Mother coldly, and her voice did not just come from her mouth. It came from the mist, and the fog, and the house, and the sky. She said, “You know that I love you.”
And despite herself, Coraline nodded. It was true: the Other Mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves gold. In the Other Mother’s eyes, Coraline knew that she was a possession, nothing more. A tolerated pet, whose behavior was no longer amusing.
“I don’t want your love,” said Coraline. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“There is nothing down here,” said the pale thing indistinctly. “Nothing but dust and damp and forgetting.” The thing was white, and huge, and swollen. Monstrous, thought Coraline, but also miserable. (…)
“Poor thing,” she said. (…) Coraline wondered how she could ever have imagined that this grublike thing resembled her father.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“She’s not best pleased,” said the thing that was once the Other Father. “Not best pleased at all. You’ve put her quite out of sorts. And when she gets out of sorts, she takes it out on everybody else. It’s her way.”
Coraline patted its hairless head. Its skin was tacky, like warm bread dough. “Poor thing,” she said. “You’re just a thing that she made and then threw away.”
The thing nodded vigorously (…) and, as if making a great effort, it opened its mouth once more and said in a wet, urgent voice, “Run, child. Leave this place. She wants me to hurt you, to keep you here forever (…). She is pushing me so hard to hurt you, I cannot fight her.”
“You can,” said Coraline. “Be brave.” (…)
“Alas,” it said, “I cannot.”
“So you’re back,” said the Other Mother. She did not sound pleased. “And you brought vermin with you.”
“No,” said Coraline. “I brought a friend.” (…)
“You know I love you,” said the Other Mother flatly.
“You have a very funny way of showing it.” said Coraline.
“My governess,” said the boy, “used to say that nobody is ever given more to shouder than he or she can bear.” He shrugged as he said this, as if he had not yet made his own mind up whether or not it was true.
“We wish you luck,” said the winged girl. “Good fortune and wisdom and courage – although you have already shown that you have all these blessings, and in abundance.”
“She hates you,” blurted out the boy. “She hasn’t lost anything for so long. Be wise. Be brave. Be tricky.”
“But it’s not fair,” said Coraline, angrily. “It’s just not fair. It should be over.”
The boy with the dirty face stood up and hugged Coraline tightly. “Take comfort in this,” he whispered. “Th’art alive. Thou livest.”
