Top 11 Samantha Ellis Quotes of All time - Quotes.Pub

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Though I’m beginning to think all readings are provisional, and that maybe we read heroines for what we need from them at the time.

I love the fact that Perrault’s princess goes on living and struggling after she finds her prince, and that Perrault doesn’t shrink from the weirdness of Sleeping Beauty being over a hundred years old but having the body of a lithe young thing. When the prince wakes her, he considers telling her she’s wearing the kind of clothes his grandmother used to wear, but decides it’s best not to mention it just yet.

All my heroines, yes, even the Little Mermaid, even poor, dull, listless Sleeping Beauty, have given me this sense of possibility. They made me feel I wasn’t forced to live out the story my family wanted for me, that I wasn’t doomed to plod forward to a fate predetermined by God, that I didn’t need to be defined by my seizures, or trapped in fictions of my own making, or shaped by other people’s stories. That I wanted to write my own life.

I don’t think anyone is ‘born to be a heroine’. It takes effort, valour, and a willingness to investigate your own heart.

It’s probably unwise to romanticize everything- and I’ll probably always do it.

But you can’t rescue people; you can only help them rescue themselves.

But maybe I’ve changed. Or at least: maybe I am changing.

I can’t help thinking that a heroine should be able to love without being erased.

And then I realize I am the writer. I don’t mean because I write. I mean because we all write our own lives. Scheherazade’s greatest piece of storytelling is not the stories she tells, but the story she lives.

After three years of English at Cambridge, being force-fed literary theory, I was almost convinced that literature was all coded messages about Marxism and the death of the self. I crawled out of the post-structuralist desert thirsty for heroines I could cry and laugh with. I was jaded. I craved trash.

I wanted a love so intense it could send me into a brain fever or cause the man who loved me to gnash his teeth and dash his head against a tree till he bled. To dig up my grave and be so blinded by love that he’d swear that even after seven years in the ground my face was still my face, uncorrupted.