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For Theo
Some reviews of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
'One of the most popular children's books of all times'
- Sunday Times
'Roald Dahl and Quentin Blake have made an important and lasting contribution to children's literature' - Guardian
'A book that requires no introduction as it is probably Dahl's best-known and most-read creation and deservedly so... Brilliant'
- Lovereading4Kids
Winner of the Millennium Children's Book Award (UK, 2000) and nominated as one of the nation's favourite books in the BBC's Big Read campaign, 2003
Books by Roald Dahl
Boy: Tales of Childhood Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator Danny the Champion of the World George's Marvellous Medicine Going Solo
James and the Giant Peach The Witches
For younger readers
The Enormous Crocodile Esio Trot
Fantastic Mr Fox
The Giraffe and the Pelly and Me The Magic Finger
The Twits
Picture books
Dirty Beasts (with Quentin Blake) The Enormous Crocodile (with Quentin Blake) The Minpins (with Patrick Benson) Revolting Rhymes (with Quentin Blake) Teenage fiction
The Great Automatic Grammatizator and Other Stories Rhyme Stew
Skin and Other Stories The Vicar of Nibbleswicke The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More
Roald Dahl was born in 1916 in Wales of Norwegian parents. He was educated in England and went on to work for the Shell Oil Company in Africa. He began writing after a 'monumental bash on the head' sustained as an RAF fighter pilot during the Second World War. Roald Dahl is one of the most successful and well known of all children's writers. His books, which are read by children the world over, include The BFG and The Witches, winner of the 1983 Whitbread Award. Roald Dahl died in 1990 at the age of seventy-four.
Quentin Blake is one of Britain's most successful illustrators. His first drawings were published in Punch magazine when he was sixteen and still at school. Quentin Blake has illustrated over three hundred books and he was Roald Dahl's favourite illustrator. He has won many awards and prizes, including the Whitbread Award and the Kate Greenaway Medal. In 1999 he was chosen to be the first ever Children's Laureate and in 2005 he was awarded a CBE for services to children's literature.
Illustrated by
Quentin Blake
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the USA 1964
Published in Great Britain by George Allen & Unwin 1967
Published in Puffin Books 1973
Reissued with new illustrations 1995
Published in Puffin Modern Classics 1997, 2004
This edition reissued 2010
Text copyright (c) Roald Dahl Nominee Ltd, 1964
Illustrations copyright (c) Quentin Blake, 1995
Introduction copyright (c) Julia Eccleshare, 2004
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-0-141-96061-6
1 Here Comes Charlie
2 Mr Willy Wonka's Factory
3 Mr Wonka and the Indian Prince
4 The Secret Workers
5 The Golden Tickets
6 The First Two Finders
7 Charlie's Birthday
8 Two More Golden Tickets Found
9 Grandpa Joe Takes a Gamble
10 The Family Begins to Starve
11 The Miracle
12 What It Said on the Golden Ticket
13 The Big Day Arrives
14 Mr Willy Wonka
15 The Chocolate Room
16 The Oompa-Loompas
17 Augustus Gloop Goes up the Pipe
18 Down the Chocolate River
19 The Inventing Room - Everlasting Gobstoppers and Hair Toffee
20 The Great Gum Machine
21 Good-bye Violet
22 Along the Corridor
23 Square Sweets That Look Round
24 Veruca in the Nut Room
25 The Great Glass Lift
26 The Television-Chocolate Room
27 Mike Teavee is Sent by Television
28 Only Charlie Left
29 The Other Children Go Home
30 Charlie's Chocolate Factory
There are five children in this book:
A greedy boy
A girl who is spoiled by her parents
A girl who chews gum all day long
A boy who does nothing but watch television and
The hero
1 Here Comes Charlie
These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine.
And these two very old people are the father and mother of Mrs Bucket. Their names are Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina.
This is Mr Bucket. This is Mrs Bucket.
Mr and Mrs Bucket have a small boy whose name is Charlie Bucket.
This is Charlie.
How d'you do? And how d'you do? And how d'you do again? He is pleased to meet you.
The whole of this family - the six grown-ups (count them) and little Charlie Bucket - live together in a small wooden house on the edge of a great town.
The house wasn't nearly large enough for so many people, and life was extremely uncomfortable for them all. There were only two rooms in the place altogether, and there was only one bed. The bed was given to the four old grandparents because they were so old and tired. They were so tired, they never got out of it.
Grandpa Joe and Grandma Josephine on this side, Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina on this side.
Mr and Mrs Bucket and little Charlie Bucket slept in the other room, upon mattresses on the floor.
In the summertime, this wasn't too bad, but in the winter, freezing cold draughts blew across the floor all night long, and it was awful.
There wasn't any question of them being able to buy a better house - or even one more bed to sleep in. They were far too poor for that.
Mr Bucket was the only person in the family with a job. He worked in a too

‘But how do they turn the rats into liquorice?’ the young Thwaites had asked his father.
‘They wait until they’ve got ten thousand rats,’ the father had answered, ‘then they dump them all into a huge shiny steel cauldron and boil them up for several hours. Two men stir the bubbling cauldron with long poles and in the end they have a thick steaming rat-stew. After that, a cruncher is lowered into the cauldron to crunch the bones, and what’s left is a pulpy substance called rat-mash.’
‘Yes, but how do they turn that into Liquorice Bootlaces, Daddy?’ the young Thwaites had asked, and this question, according to Thwaites, had caused his father to pause and think for a few moments before he answered it. At last he had said, ‘The two men who were doing the stirring with the long poles now put on their wellington boots and climb into the cauldron and shovel the hot rat-mash out on to a concrete floor. Then they run a steam-roller over it several times to flatten it out. What is left looks rather like a gigantic black pancake, and all they have to do after that is to wait for it to cool and to harden so they can cut it up into strips to make the Bootlaces. Don’t ever eat them,’ the father had said. ‘If you do, you’ll get ratitis.’
‘What is ratitis, Daddy?’ young Thwaites had asked.
‘All the rats that the rat-catchers catch are poisoned with rat-poison,’ the father had said. ‘It’s the rat-poison that gives you ratitis.’
‘Yes, but what happens to you when you catch it?’ young Thwaites had asked.
‘Your teeth become very sharp and pointed,’ the father had answered. ‘And a short stumpy tail grows out of your back just above your bottom. There is no cure for ratitis. I ought to know. I’m a doctor.’
We all enjoyed Thwaites’s story and we made him tell it to us many times on our walks to and from school. But it didn’t stop any of us except Thwaites from buying Liquorice Bootlaces. At two for a penny they were the best value in the shop. A Bootlace, in case you haven’t had the pleasure of handling one, is not round. It’s like a flat black tape about half an inch wide. You buy it rolled up in a coil, and in those days it used to be so long that when you unrolled it and held one end at arm’s length above your head, the other end touched the ground.
Sherbet Suckers were also two a penny. Each Sucker consisted of a yellow cardboard tube filled with sherbet powder, and there was a hollow liquorice straw sticking out of it. (Rat’s blood again, young Thwaites would warn us, pointing at the liquorice straw.) You sucked the sherbet up through the straw and when it was finished you ate the liquorice. They were delicious, those Sherbet Suckers. The sherbet fizzed in your mouth, and if you knew how to do it, you could make white froth come out of your nostrils and pretend you were throwing a fit.
Gobstoppers, costing a penny each, were enormous hard round balls the size of small tomatoes. One Gobstopper would provide about an hour’s worth of non-stop sucking and if you took it out of your mouth and inspected it every five minutes or so, you would find it had changed colour. There was something fascinating about the way it went from pink to blue to green to yellow. We used to wonder how in the world the Gobstopper Factory managed to achieve this magic. ‘How does it happen?’ we would ask each other. ‘How can they make it keep changing colour?’
‘It’s your spit that does it,’ young Thwaites proclaimed. As the son of a doctor, he considered himself to be an authority on all things that had to do with the body. He could tell us about scabs and when they were ready to be picked off. He knew why a black eye was blue and why blood was red. ‘It’s your spit that makes a Gobstopper change colour,’ he kept insisting. When we asked him to elaborate on this theory, he answered, ‘You wouldn’t understand it if I did tell you.’
Pear Drops were exciting because they had a dangerous taste. They smelled of nail-varnish and they froze the back of your throat. All of us were warned against eating them, and the result was that we ate them more than ever.
Then there was a hard brown lozenge called the Tonsil Tickler. The Tonsil Tickler tasted and smelled very strongly of chloroform. We had not the slightest doubt that these things were saturated in the dreaded anaesthetic which, as Thwaites had many times pointed out to us, could put you to sleep for hours at a stretch. ‘If my father has to saw off somebody’s leg,’ he said, ‘he pours chloroform on to a pad and the person sniffs it and goes to sleep and my father saws his leg off without him even feeling it.’
‘But why do they put it into sweets and sell them to us?’ we asked him.
You might think a question like this would have baffled Thwaites. But Thwaites was never baffled. ‘My father says Tonsil Ticklers were invented for dangerous prisoners in jail,’ he said. ‘They give them one with each meal and the chloroform makes them sleepy and stops them rioting.’
‘Yes,’ we said, ‘but why sell them to children?’
‘It’s a plot,’ Thwaites said. ‘A grown-up plot to keep us quiet.’
The sweet-shop in Llandaff in the year 1923 was the very centre of our lives. To us, it was what a bar is to a drunk, or a church is to a Bishop. Without it, there would have been little to live for. But it had one terrible drawback, this sweet-shop. The woman who owned it was a horror. We hated her and we had good reason for doing so.
Her name was Mrs Pratchett. She was a small skinny old hag with a moustache on her upper lip and a mouth as sour as a green gooseberry. She never smiled. She never welcomed us when we went in, and the only times she spoke were when she said things like, ‘I’m watchin’ you so keep yer thievin’ fingers off them chocolates!’ Or ‘I don’t want you in ’ere just to look around! Either you forks out or you gets out!’
But by far the most loathsome thing about Mrs Pratchett was the filth that clung around her. Her apron was grey and greasy. Her blouse had bits of breakfast all over it, toast-crumbs and tea stains and splotches of dried egg-yolk. It was her hands, however, that disturbed us most. They were disgusting. They were black with dirt and grime. They looked as though they had been putting lumps of coal on the fire all day long. And do not forget please that it was these very hands and fingers that she plunged into the sweet-jars when we asked for a pennyworth of Treacle Toffee or Wine Gums or Nut Clusters or whatever. There were precious few health laws in those days, and nobody, least of all Mrs Pratchett, ever thought of using a little shovel for getting out the sweets as they do today. The mere sight of her grimy right hand with its black fingernails digging an ounce of Chocolate Fudge out of a jar would have caused a starving tramp to go running from the shop. But not us. Sweets were our life-blood. We would have put up with far worse than that to get them. So we simply stood and watched in sullen silence while this disgusting old woman stirred around inside the jars with her foul fingers.
The other thing we hated Mrs Pratchett for was her meanness. Unless you spent a whole sixpence all in one go, she wouldn’t give you a bag. Instead you got your sweets twisted up in a small piece of newspaper which she tore off a pile of old Daily Mirrors lying on the counter.
So you can well understand that we had it in for Mrs Pratchett in a big way, but we didn’t quite know what to do about it. Many schemes were put forward but none of them was any good. None of them, that is, until suddenly, one memorable afternoon, we found the dead mouse.
The Great Mouse Plot
My four friends and I had come across a loose floor-board at the back of the classroom, and when we prised it up with the blade of a pocket-knife, we discovered a big hollow space underneath. This, we decided, would be our secret hiding place for sweets and other small treasures such as conkers and monkey-nuts and birds’ eggs. Every afternoon, when the last lesson was over, the five of us would wait until the classroom had emptied, then we would lift up the floor-board and examine our secret hoard, perhaps adding to it or taking something away.
One day, when we lifted it up, we found a dead mouse lying among our treasures. It was an exciting discovery. Thwaites took it out by its tail and waved it in front of our faces. ‘What shall we do with it?’ he cried.
‘It stinks!’ someone shouted. ‘Throw it out of the window quick!’
‘Hold on a tick,’ I said. ‘Don’t throw it away.’
Thwaites hesitated. They all looked at me.
When writing about oneself, one must strive to be truthful. Truth is more important than modesty. I must tell you, therefore, that it was I and I alone who had the idea for the great and daring Mouse Plot. We all have our moments of brilliance and glory, and this was mine.
‘Why don’t we’, I said, ‘slip it into one of Mrs Pratchett’s jars of sweets? Then when she puts her dirty hand in to grab a handful, she’ll grab a stinky dead mouse instead.’
The other four stared at me in wonder. Then, as the sheer genius of the plot began to sink in, they all started grinning. They slapped me on the back. They cheered me and danced around the classroom. ‘We’ll do it today!’ they cried. ‘We’ll do it on the way home! You had the idea,’ they said to me, ‘so you can be the one to put the mouse in the jar.’
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