The Phantom Tollbooth - Norton Juster Essential modern classics

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      “But how did you become a watchdog?” interjected Milo, hoping to change the subject, as Tock was sobbing quite loudly now.

      “That,” he said, rubbing a paw in his eye, “is also traditional. My family have always been watchdogs – from father to son, almost since time began.

      “You see,” he continued, beginning to feel better, “once there was no time at all, and people found it very inconvenient. They never knew whether they were eating lunch or dinner, and they were always missing trains. So time was invented to help them keep track of the day and get to places when they should. When they began to count all the time that was available, what with 60 seconds in a minute and 60 minutes in an hour and 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year, it seemed as if there was much more than could ever be used. ‘If there’s so much of it, it couldn’t be very valuable,’ was the general opinion, and it soon fell into disrepute. People wasted it and even gave it away. Then we were given the job of seeing that no one wasted time again,” he said, sitting up proudly. “It’s hard work but a noble calling. For you see” – and now he was sitting on the seat, one foot on the windscreen, shouting with his arms outstretched – “it is our most valuable possession, more precious than diamonds. It marches on, it and tide wait for no man, and—”

      At that point in the speech the car hit a bump in the road and the watchdog collapsed in a heap on the front seat with his alarm again ringing furiously.

      “Are you all right?” shouted Milo.

      “Umphh,” grunted Tock. “Sorry to get carried away, but I think you get the point.”

      As they drove along, Tock continued to explain the importance of time, quoting the old philosophers and poets and illustrating each point with gestures that brought him perilously close to tumbling headlong from the speeding car.

      Before long they saw in the distance the towers and flags of Dictionopolis sparkling in the sunshine, and in a few moments they reached the great wall and stood at the gateway to the city.

      “A-H-H-H-R-R-E-M-M—” roared the sentry, clearing his throat and snapping smartly to attention. “This is Dictionopolis, a happy kingdom, advantageously located in the Foothills of Confusion and caressed by gentle breezes from the Sea of Knowledge. Today, by Royal Proclamation, is market day. Have you come to buy or sell?”

      “I beg your pardon?” said Milo.

      “Buy or sell, buy or sell,” repeated the sentry impatiently. “Which is it? You must have come for some reason.”

      “Well, I—” Milo began.

      “Come now, if you don’t have a reason, you must at least have an explanation or certainly an excuse,” interrupted the sentry.

      Milo shook his head.

      “Very serious, very serious,” the sentry said, shaking his head also. “You can’t get in without a reason.” He thought for a moment, and then continued: “Wait a minute; maybe I have an old one you can use.”

      He took a battered suitcase from the sentry box and began to rummage busily through it, mumbling to himself, “No…no…no…this won’t do…no…h-m-m-m…ah, this is fine,” he cried triumphantly, holding up a small medallion on a chain. He dusted it off, and engraved on one side were the words “WHY NOT?”

      “That’s a good reason for almost anything – a bit used perhaps, but still quite serviceable.” And with that he placed it round Milo’s neck, pushed back the heavy iron gate, bowed low, and motioned them into the city.

      “I wonder what the market will be like,” thought Milo as they drove through the gate; but before there was time for an answer they had driven into an immense square crowded with long lines of stalls heaped with merchandise and decorated in gaily coloured bunting. Overhead a large banner proclaimed:

      WELCOME TO THE WORD MARKET

      And, from across the square, five very tall, thin gentlemen regally dressed in silks and satins, plumed hats, and buckled shoes rushed up to the car, stopped short, mopped five brows, caught five breaths, unrolled five parchments, and began talking in turn.

      “Greetings!”

      “Salutations!”

      “Welcome!”

      “Good afternoon!”

      “Hello!”

      Milo nodded his head, and they went on, reading from their scrolls.

      “By order of Azaz the Unabridged –”

      “King of Dictionopolis –”

      “Monarch of letters –”

      “Emperor of phrases, sentences, and miscellaneous figures of speech –”

      “We offer you the hospitality of our kingdom.”

      “Country,”

      “Nation,”

      “State,”

      “Commonwealth,”

      “Realm,”

      “Empire,”

      “Palatinate,”

      “Principality.”

      “Do all those words mean the same thing?” gasped Milo.

      “Of course.”

      “Certainly.”

      “Precisely.”

      “Exactly.”

      “Yes,” they replied in order.

      “Well, then,” said Milo, not understanding why each one said the same thing in a slightly different way, “wouldn’t it be simpler to use just one? It would certainly make more sense.”

      “Nonsense.”

      “Ridiculous.”

      “Fantastic.”

      “Absurd.”

      “Bosh,” they chorused again, and continued.

      “We’re not interested in making sense; it’s not our job,” scolded the first.

      “Besides,” explained the second, “one word is as good as another – so why not use them all?”

      “Then you don’t have to choose which one is right,” advised the third.

      “Besides,” sighed the fourth, “if one is right, then ten are ten times as right.”

      “Obviously you don’t know who we are,” sneered the fifth. And they presented themselves one by one as:

      “The Duke of Definition.”

      “The Minister of Meaning.”

      “The Earl of Essence.”

      “The Count of Connotation.”

      “The Under-secretary of Understanding.”

      Milo acknowledged the introduction and, as Tock growled softly, the minister explained.

      “We are the king’s advisers, or, in more formal terms, his cabinet.”

      “Cabinet,” recited the duke: “(1) a small private room or closet, case with

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