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First published in Italy 1882

This translation first published in Australia by Consolidated Press 1944 Published in Puffin Books 1974 Reissued 2011, 2016

This edition published 2025 001

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introduction by john boyne

Last year, I came across a copy of Pinocchio, a book I hadn’t read since I was a child. It’s a short book, you can read it in a day or two, and, although I hadn’t really intended getting sucked into it, after reading the first couple of chapters I found myself lost in the story and finishing it in a single sitting. And I was amazed by what I found within those pages. My memory of Pinocchio was probably influenced more by the Disney animated film than the book. In the movie, he’s a cheerful little puppet who wants nothing more than to be a real boy and spends his time singing songs and having adventures as he tries to achieve his goal. There were a few scary sequences, I could remember that much, but wasn’t it mostly played for laughs? There was certainly nothing sinister about it.

But ‘sinister’ is exactly how the book felt. For Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio has very little in common with his Disney-animated counterpart. In fact, the two could hardly be more different. In the book, he’s aggressive and confrontational, selfish, conceited and egotistical, and

certainly not the type of person who would ever burst into song. (He’s more likely to have a temper tantrum.) It’s as if his creator thought up all the very worst traits that boys can have and gathered them together in a concoction of wood, glue and paint and gave them a name: Pinocchio.

I expected his conscience to be tweaked by Jiminy Cricket sitting on his shoulder, singing ‘When You Wish Upon A Star’. Collodi, however, introduces the talking cricket for only a few pages before Pinocchio, infuriated by his pointing out that he has a wooden head, smashes him into a wall with a wooden hammer, leaving him ‘flattened against the wall, still and lifeless’.

This is not the way to make new friends.

But here’s what’s most interesting about the book: it’s really the story of a father and son, about the demands they put on each other, their complicated love and their desire to be what the other wants them to be. Geppetto, the woodcarver who creates the puppet out of a piece of lumber, does his best to look after his son, to help him to be thoughtful and honest, but time and again Pinocchio’s disobedience lands him in the middle of some unexpected escapade that he has great difficulty getting himself out of again. Some of these adventures are funny, some are dangerous, and some are slightly disturbing.

His father wants him to stay at home and be a good puppet, but Pinocchio keeps running away, something that the talking cricket takes a dim view of. ‘Woe to those boys who turn

against their parents and run away from home for no reason whatever,’ he tells Pinocchio. ‘They will never come to any good in this world, and sooner or later they will repent bitterly.’

Although of course it’s the cricket who repents when he’s squashed flat a minute later.

But Pinocchio, even when he tries to be good, simply cannot help himself. He lives in a world where everyone seems determined to steal from him, or lie to him, or kidnap him, or turn him into a donkey. (You’ll have to read the book to know what I mean by that.) It’s no wonder that the puppet finds it impossible to be good; after all, everyone he meets along the way is thoroughly despicable.

In the end, this is a book about what it means to be alive. Pinocchio’s deepest desire is not to be a puppet at all but to be a real boy. It’s a wish that is ultimately granted by the blue fairy, but the reader can’t help but remember the old saying: be careful what you wish for, it might just come true. For what happens when you become a real boy? In time you become a man. And then you become an old man. And then you die. It’s interesting to think about what might become of Pinocchio next and whether he might live to regret his choices.

After all, being a puppet seems like great fun at times. Being a human – well, that’s much harder work.

For more information about John Boyne visit his website: www.johnboyne.com

How it happened that Mr Cherry, the carpenter, found a piece of wood that laughed and cried like a child

There was once upon a time . . .

‘A king!’ my little readers will shout together. No, children, you make a mistake. Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not the best, but just a common piece of wood, such as is used in stoves and fireplaces to kindle the fire and warm the rooms in winter.

How it happened I cannot tell, but the fact is that one fine day this piece of wood just happened to be there in the shop of an old carpenter whose real name was Mr Antonio,

but everyone called him Mr Cherry, because the tip of his nose was always as red and shiny as a ripe cherry.

As soon as Mr Cherry noticed this piece of wood, he was delighted. He rubbed his hands together joyfully and said, ‘This has come at exactly the right moment. It is just what I need to make a leg for my little table.’

Then, without hesitating a moment, he took his sharp axe to strip off the bark and the rough part of the wood. But just as he raised the axe for the first blow, he stopped with his arm in the air, for he heard a very tiny voice, begging him gently, ‘Don’t strike me too hard!’

You can imagine old Mr Cherry’s surprise.

You can imagine old Mr Cherry’s surprise. He looked round the room to see where the tiny voice had come from, but he saw nobody. He looked under the bench – nobody. He looked in the cupboard which was

He looked round the room to see where the tiny voice had come from, but he saw nobody. He looked under the bench – nobody. He looked in the cupboard which was

always shut; but there was nobody. He looked in the basket of chips and sawdust – no one. He opened the door and looked out into the street – no one! What was to be done?

‘I see,’ he said at last, laughing and scratching his wig, ‘I must have imagined that tiny voice. Now let’s to work!’

He raised his axe again, and down it went on the piece of wood.

‘Oh, you hurt me!’ complained the same tiny voice. This time Mr Cherry was struck all of a heap. His eyes stood out of his head, his mouth was wide open, and his

tongue hung out over his chin, as you see on some fountain masks.

As soon as he could speak he said, trembling and stuttering with fright, ‘But where did that tiny voice come from that cried “Oh”? There’s not a living soul here. Is it possible that this piece of wood has learnt to cry and complain like a baby? I can’t believe it. This piece of wood – just look at it! It’s nothing but a piece of firewood, like all the others; when you put it on the fire it will make a kettle boil. Well, then? Is someone hidden inside it? If there is, so much the worse for him. I’ll attend to him!’

And he took the poor piece of wood in both hands and, without mercy, started to beat it against the wall.

Then he stopped and listened to hear if any tiny voice were complaining this time. He waited two minutes –nothing; five minutes – nothing; ten minutes – and still nothing!

‘Now I understand!’ he exclaimed, laughing and pulling his wig. ‘I must have imagined that tiny voice that said “Oh!” I’d better do my work.’ And, because he was very frightened, he began singing to encourage himself.

Meanwhile he put the axe down and, taking his plane, began planing and shaping the piece of wood.

But while the plane went to and fro, he again heard that tiny voice which said, laughing, ‘Stop! you’re tickling me!’

This time, poor Mr Cherry dropped as if struck by lightning.

When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the floor. He was so changed you could hardly have recognized him. Even the end of his nose, which was always red, had turned blue with fright.

Mr Cherry gives the piece of wood to his friend, Geppetto, who plans a marvellous puppet that can dance, and fence, and turn somersaults in the air

At that moment somebody knocked on the door. ‘Come in!’ said the carpenter; but he was too weak to stand up.

A little, jolly old man came into the shop. His name was Geppetto, but when the boys in the neighbourhood wanted to tease him they called him by his nickname of Polendina, because of his yellow wig which looked very like a dish of polenta.

Geppetto was very short-tempered. Woe betide anybody

who called him Polendina! He simply went wild, and no one could do anything with him.

‘Good morning, Mr Antonio,’ said Geppetto. ‘What are you doing down there?’

‘I am teaching the ants how to read.’

‘Much good may it do you!’

‘What brought you here, Mr Geppetto?’

‘My legs. Mr Antonio, I have come to ask you a favour.’

‘Here I am, ready to serve you,’ answered the carpenter, getting to his knees.

‘I had an idea this morning.’

‘Let us hear it.’

‘I thought I would make a fine wooden puppet – a really fine one, that can dance, fence, and turn somersaults in the air. Then, with this puppet, I could travel round the world, and earn my bit of bread and my glass of wine. What do you think about it?’

‘Bravo, Polendina!’ cried that same tiny, mysterious voice.

When he heard the name Polendina, Mr Geppetto became so angry that he turned as red as a ripe pepper. He turned to the carpenter, and said in a fury, ‘Why do you annoy me?’

‘Who is annoying you?’

‘You called me Polendina!’

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘Oh! Perhaps I did it! But I say that it was you.’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’

And, as they grew more and more excited, from words they came to blows. They seized one another’s wigs, and even hit and bit and scratched each other.

At the end of the fight Geppetto’s yellow wig was in Mr Antonio’s hands, and the carpenter’s grey wig between Geppetto’s teeth.

‘Give me my wig!’ said Mr Antonio.

‘You give me mine, and let us make a peace treaty!’

So the two little old men, each taking his own wig, shook hands, and promised to be good friends for ever.

‘Now, neighbour Geppetto,’ said the carpenter, to prove that they were friends again, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘I would like to have a little piece of wood to make my marionette. Will you give it to me?’

Mr Antonio, pleased as Punch, hurried to his bench, and took the piece of wood which had frightened him so much. But, just as he was giving it to his friend, it shook so hard that it slipped out of his hands, and struck poor Geppetto’s shin.

‘Ah! This is a fine way to make me a present, Mr Antonio! You have almost lamed me.’

‘Upon my honour, I didn’t do it!’

‘Oh! So I did it then!’

‘It’s all the fault of this piece of wood –’

‘Yes, I know the wood hit me, but you threw it at my legs!’

‘I did not throw it at you!’

‘That’s a lie!’

‘Geppetto, don’t insult me! If you do, I shall call you Polendina.’

‘Blockhead!’

‘Polendina!’

‘Donkey!’

‘Polendina!’

‘Ugly monkey!’

‘Polendina!’

When he heard himself called Polendina for the third time Geppetto, blind with rage, rushed at the carpenter, and the second fight was worse than the first.

When it was over, Mr Antonio had two more scratches on

his nose, and Geppetto two buttons less on his jacket. Honours thus being even, they shook hands again, and vowed to be good friends for ever. Then Geppetto took the piece of wood and, thanking Mr Antonio, went limping home.

Geppetto goes home and makes his puppet; he calls him Pinocchio; the puppet gets into mischief

Geppetto’s

little room on the ground floor was lit by a window under the stairs. His furniture could not have been simpler. An old chair, a tottering bed, and a brokendown table. At the back of the room you could see a fireplace, with the fire lit; but the fire was painted, and over the fire was painted a kettle boiling merrily, with a cloud of steam that was just like real steam.

As soon as he arrived home, Geppetto took his tools and began to make his puppet.

‘What shall I call him?’ he asked himself. ‘I think I shall

call him Pinocchio. That name will bring him good luck. I once knew a whole family of Pinocchios: there was Pinocchio the father, and Pinocchia the mother, and Pinocchii the children, and they all got along splendidly. The richest of them was a beggar.’

Having thought out a name for his puppet, he started his work with great determination. He made his hair, his forehead, and his eyes in a very short time.

As soon as the eyes were finished, imagine his bewilderment when he saw them moving and looking at him!

When Geppetto saw those two wooden eyes looking at him, he did not like it at all, and he said angrily, ‘Naughty wooden eyes, why are you staring at me?’

But no one answered.

After the eyes, he made the nose; but as soon as it was finished, it began to grow. It grew, and it grew, and in a few minutes’ time it was as long as if there was no end to it.

Poor Geppetto worked fast to shorten it; but the more he cut it off, the longer that insolent nose became.

After the nose, he made the mouth; but before he had finished it, it began to laugh and poke fun at him.

‘Stop laughing!’ said Geppetto; but he might as well have spoken to the wall.

‘Stop laughing, I say!’ he shouted, menacingly.

The mouth stopped laughing, and stuck out its tongue.

However, as Geppetto did not want to spoil the puppet, he pretended not to see it, and continued his work.

After the mouth, he made the chin, then the neck, the shoulders, the stomach, the arms, and the hands.

As soon as the hands were finished, Geppetto’s wig was snatched from his head. He looked up, and what should he see but his yellow wig in the puppet’s hands.

‘Pinocchio! Give me back my wig at once!’

But Pinocchio, instead of giving back the wig, put it on his own head, and was almost hidden under it.

This cheeky, mocking behaviour made Geppetto feel sadder than ever before in his life. He turned to Pinocchio, and said, ‘You scoundrel of a son! You are not even finished, and you already disobey your father! That’s bad, my boy – very bad!’ And he wiped away a tear.

There were still the legs and feet to make.

When Geppetto had finished the feet, he received a kick on the nose.

‘It serves me right,’ he said to himself. ‘I should have thought of it before. Now it is too late.’

He took the puppet in his hands, and put him down on the floor to see if he could walk; but Pinocchio’s legs were stiff, and he did not know how to move them. So Geppetto led him by the hand, and showed him how to put one foot before the other.

When the stiffness went out of his legs, Pinocchio started to walk alone, and run around the room; and finally he slipped through the door into the street and ran away.

Poor old Geppetto ran after him as quickly as he could, but he did not catch him, for the little rascal jumped like a rabbit, and his wooden feet clattered on the pavement, making as much noise as twenty pairs of wooden shoes.

‘Catch him! Catch him!’ cried Geppetto.

But when the people saw that wooden puppet running as fast as a racehorse, they looked at him in amazement, and then laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until their sides were aching.

At last, by some lucky chance, a policeman came and when he heard the clatter, he thought somebody’s horse had run away from its master. So he courageously stood in the middle of the street with his legs apart, in order to stop it, and prevent any more trouble.

From far away, Pinocchio saw the policeman barricading the street, and he decided to run between his legs; but he failed dismally.

The policeman, without moving from his place, picked him up by the nose – that ridiculous, long nose, that seemed made on purpose to be caught by policemen – and returned him to Geppetto, who wanted to pull his ears to punish him for his naughtiness. Imagine what he felt when he could not find any ears! And do you know why? Because he had made him in such a hurry that he had forgotten his ears.

So he took him by the nape of his neck, and as they walked away he said, shaking his head menacingly, ‘You just come home, and I’ll settle your account when we get there!’

At this threatening remark, Pinocchio threw himself down on the ground, and refused to walk.

A crowd of idle and inquisitive people gathered around him. Some said one thing, some another.

‘The poor puppet,’ said some of them, ‘is right, not wanting to go home! Who knows how horribly that bad Geppetto might beat him?’

And others added, with evil tongues, ‘Geppetto seems to be a good man, but he is a perfect tyrant with children. If

we leave that poor marionette in his hands, he may tear him to pieces.’

In short, so much was said and done that the policeman let Pinocchio go, and decided to take poor Geppetto to prison.

He could not, for the time being, say anything in his own defence, but he cried like a calf and, as they walked towards the prison, he whimpered, ‘Wretched son! And to think that I worked so hard to make a fine puppet! But serve me right. I ought to have known what would happen!’

What happened afterwards is almost too much to believe; and I shall tell you about it in the following chapters.

9780241736432

CARLO COLLODI

P UFFIN C LASSIC S

CARLO COLLODI

P UFFIN C LASSIC S

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