Villainess Quotes

Think of every fairy-tale villainess you've ever heard of. Think of the wicked witches, the evil queens, the mad enchantresses. Think of the alluring sirens, the hungry ogresses, the savage she-beasts. Think of them and remember that somewhere, sometime, they've all been real. Mab gave them lessons.

I'm starting to think that most villains aren't evil - they are just misundertood. Or victims of that manipulative force: Love. Love causes war and causes death, breaks souls and breaks lives. It runs people into the ground, makes them behave like moronic, immoral beasts, before it dances off, leaving only destruction in its wake - hearts blown wide open for the whole world to see. Love puts the blame on the poor souls who succumb to it. Love, that ultimate villainess. She makes examples of us all. And yet we still come back for more. We keep playing the role she gives us. For one more chance to feel alive.

She was a bloodthirsty villainess.

Think of every fairy-tale villainess you've ever heard of. Think of the wicked witches, the evil queens, the mad enchantresses. Think of the alluring sirens, the hungry ogresses, the savage she-beasts. Think of them and remember that somewhere, sometime, they've all been real.

Alice in Darkness Forget tears. Chasing white animals with timepieces in this drug-trip landscape can only lead to more of same. Hedgehogs, playing cards, paintbrushes: full of undisclosed danger. Didn't your mother tell you not to kiss strangers? That Cheshire smile shouldn't fool you. Pull your skirt down. Your nails are growing so fast you're hardly human. Alice, fight your version of Bedlam as long as you can. Sleep the sweet dream away from that gooey looking glass, or mushrooms, or the fear of your own body. Forget what the night tastes like. Stop wondering through the shadows, holding your neck out for the slice of the axe.

Love that seeks nothing in return always breaks. The human heart isn’t strong or pure enough for that,

Little Cinder Girl, they can't understand you. You rise from the as-heap in a blaze and only then do they recognize you as their one true love. While you pray beneath your mother's tree you carrve a phoenix into your palm wth aa hazel twig and coal; every night she devours more of you. You used to believe in angels. Now you believe in the makeover; if you can't get the grime off your face and your foot into a size six heel who will ever bother to notice you? The kettle and the broom sear in your grasp, snap into fragments. The turtledoves sing, "There's blood within the shoe." You deserve the palace, you think, as you signal the pigeons to attack, approve the barrel filled with red-hot nails. Its great hearth beckons, and the prince's flag rises crimson in the angry sun. He will love you for the heat you generate, for the flames you ignite around you, though he encase your tiny feet in glass to keep them from scorching the ground.

Katarina Claes. Just how much of my heart must you take? Are you insatiable?

Perhaps you're right, but everything I've learned is precious to me. No one can take my skills away–I value them with my life. Some may say that my knowledge is worthless, but it makes no difference to me." She turned from the balcony, fixing him with a piercing gaze. "I'm the one who decides what I value.

Until the moment one dies, one is still alive. Likewise, until the moment I’m devoured, it has yet to happen. To start feeling the pain before I’ve even been bitten would be nothing but a waste of strength.

What’s the worst that could happen?

It wasn’t that I had no interest in love; I enjoyed reading the romantic stories in the novels that my friends recommended to me, and I thought that being part of one would be a wonderful thing. But I was so happy with my life that I hardly felt like asking for more.

In December, Angela Lansbury had been signed to play Raymond’s mother, the arch-villainess Eleanor Shaw Iselin. Apparently, Sinatra originally wanted Lucille Ball for the role, a fascinating casting notion, as Tom Santopietro points out: “As Ball aged, she grew into an increasingly hardened performer, losing all traces of the vulnerability that so informed her brilliant multiyear run on television’s I Love Lucy. The resulting quality of toughness would have suited the role of [Eleanor] very well, although it is anyone’s guess whether or not Ball would have felt comfortable delving into the dark recesses of [her] warped character.

Too much has changed. But if I could go back in time, I would do the same thing again. A life of relying on evil people can never have a happy ending.

A-are you daft?! I have no such inclinations! This whip is for horse riding!” she exclaimed.

Prison, yay!

There isn’t a soul in this world who hates a beautiful bosom, male or female.

There’s far too much danger in assigning all the decisions to a single person. Far better for the risk and responsibility to be shared amongst everyone.

Calm yourself, Iseria! It's fine. It's going to be fine! Rachel has grown into a proper young lady in the last ten years. These days, we don't have to worry about her bludgeoning His Highness to death with a blunt instrument. I'm sure she'll use hard-to-prosecute methods to destroy his psyche!

What is a novel, anyway? Only a very foolish person would attempt to give a definitive answer to that, beyond stating the more or less obvious facts that it is a literary narrative of some length which purports, on the reverse of the title page, not to be true, but seeks nevertheless to convince its readers that it is. It's typical of the cynicism of our age that, if you write a novel, everyone assumes it's about real people, thinly disguised; but if you write an autobiography everyone assumes you're lying your head off. Part of this is right, because every artist is, among other things, a con-artist. We con-artists do tell the truth, in a way; but, as Emily Dickenson said, we tell it slant. By indirection we find direction out -- so here, for easy reference, is an elimination-dance list of what novels are not. -- Novels are not sociological textbooks, although they may contain social comment and criticism. -- Novels are not political tracts, although "politics" -- in the sense of human power structures -- is inevitably one of their subjects. But if the author's main design on us is to convert us to something -- - whether that something be Christianity, capitalism, a belief in marriage as the only answer to a maiden's prayer, or feminism, we are likely to sniff it out, and to rebel. As Andre Gide once remarked, "It is with noble sentiments that bad literature gets written." -- Novels are not how-to books; they will not show you how to conduct a successful life, although some of them may be read this way. Is Pride and Prejudice about how a sensible middle-class nineteenth-century woman can snare an appropriate man with a good income, which is the best she can hope for out of life, given the limitations of her situation? Partly. But not completely. -- Novels are not, primarily, moral tracts. Their characters are not all models of good behaviour -- or, if they are, we probably won't read them. But they are linked with notions of morality, because they are about human beings and human beings divide behaviour into good and bad. The characters judge each other, and the reader judges the characters. However, the success of a novel does not depend on a Not Guilty verdict from the reader. As Keats said, Shakespeare took as much delight in creating Iago -- that arch-villain -- as he did in creating the virtuous Imogen. I would say probably more, and the proof of it is that I'd bet you're more likely to know which play Iago is in. -- But although a novel is not a political tract, a how-to-book, a sociology textbook or a pattern of correct morality, it is also not merely a piece of Art for Art's Sake, divorced from real life. It cannot do without a conception of form and a structure, true, but its roots are in the mud; its flowers, if any, come out of the rawness of its raw materials. -- In short, novels are ambiguous and multi-faceted, not because they're perverse, but because they attempt to grapple with what was once referred to as the human condition, and they do so using a medium which is notoriously slippery -- namely, language itself.

Why are you still here? And why won’t you give me back my key, dammit?” “Because your daughter asked me to check on you five years ago, and for some reason that I can’t explain, I really enjoy that arching thing you do with your eyebrow when you pretend to be shocked by things I’m saying. Very Maleficent of you. You can admit it—you watch the movie and practice, don’t you?” Myrna’s frown deepens to villainess levels at the mention of her daughter. “Ungrateful child. Never comes to visit. Too busy with her superficial life to even remember the woman who gave birth to her.” This isn’t the first time she’s said it, or even the twentieth time. “Yep, she’s really superficial, what with being a member of Congress and all.” “I’m sure she slept her way to the top.” Ouch, Myrna is especially pissed today. I play along with her anyway, because at least this way I know she’s getting her heart rate up. Being pissed off is about as close to cardio as she gets. “You know, I’ll have to check. Chances are she really did—with every man, woman, and tranny in her congressional district. She’s going to need surgery to tighten up that cooch of hers.” “Get out!

At Rachel's instruction, the monkey briefly looked to his mistress, then looked back at Elliot and raised his hand. "Hey." "That's not the way, Haley. That's how you greet people we're close to." Realizing his mistake, Haley got up, pointed out his butt toward Elliot, and slapped it. " Get lost, okay?" "That's not right either, now is it? Look closely before you greet him." Haley scrutinized Elliot. Then he thrust his thumbs into his ears, fanned out his wriggling fingers, and stuck out his wagging tongue. "Dummy, dummy." "I'm sorry, Your Highness", Rachel apologized. "He's having trouble learning tricks, it seems.

Tempestuous plains tell the tale, Windswept wastes do bewail, Haunting Spirit of the land, Seeks the living, seeks the damned. Horizoned edge sheared with grass, Dark Storm Rising in the pass, Ageless Spirit seeks the path, To torment souls to the last. Brooding Spirit upon the plain, Thunderhead gathers for the rain. Light grows dim then bolts with pain, On dry Earth her sin is stained. (Frightened creatures do stampede, Into night, they do recede). Ungodded hand on seasoned blade, Reaps the harvest of the Age. Released from her eternal din, Spirit of the Age rises again. Seeking to plunder and consume, Those who were proud, those who presumed. Spirits rage while storm draws nigh, Upon burning plain and emblazoned sky. It is said giants grapple in the Earth so deep, To contend for souls that they might keep. The Storm spirit now searches the high and the low, To seek her manchild victim in the fields below. Leaves bad wasteland to claim but a fallen man, Denying it Heaven, crowning it, ‘Son of the Damned.’ Treacherous Spirit of the far lost night, Tramples souls down denying them light. Storm seethes with furious hiss, Leads men on to bottomless pit. This most ancient of foes has come from her den, To seek the living, to make ready those dead. A living sacrifice is her soul desire, To snatch the soul for black funeral pyre. A double-damned devil, that is she, This one who lies, who claims to make free. A lying spirit, that is her domain, A storm-wracked Fury of self-proclaim. Onward she seeks, this bleak Northern wind, Searching for naught but for a soul akin. Amidst the howling and the rage, To murder again, that is her trade. As this spirit of graves left the plain, She left a wake of dead in shrouded train. Now down from the plain Storm did come, Unto those cities wherein was no sun. There with whirlwind she did rip and scour, For those souls of whom she could tear and devour. She comes to seek the living and the dead, Those who were frightened, those with no dread. Thus upon those she did acclaim, “I am the Mistress of the living and the slain.” O’ haunting Spirit of this land, Taker of life, maker of the damned. --On Villainess Storm, Ch. One Valley of the Damned

No, she couldn’t blame this one on him. This one was entirely hers. She’d sent him running away. Everyone knew it, too, which was nowhere more apparent than in the carriage once they were all settled in and headed off. Lisette was unusually silent. The duke’s wooden expression said that he wished he could be anywhere else but here. And Tristan was studying her with a cold gaze. He did that for a mile or so before he spoke. “You’re a cruel woman, Jane Vernon.” “Tristan!” Lisette chided. “Don’t be rude.” “I’ll be as rude as I please to her,” he told his sister, with a jerk of his head toward Jane. “That man is mad for her, and she just keeps toying with him.” Guilt swamped Jane. And she’d thought that spending half a day trapped with Dom would be bad? She must have been dreaming. “It’s none of our concern,” Lisette murmured. “The hell it isn’t.” Tristan stared hard at Jane. “Is this about Nancy? About the fact that if she has a child, Dom will lose the title and the estate?” “No, of course not!” How dared he! “Tristan, please--” Lisette began. “That’s why you jilted him years ago, isn’t it?” Tristan persisted. “Because he no longer had any money, and you’d lose your fortune if you married him?” “I did not jilt him!” Jane shouted. An unnatural silence fell in the carriage, and she cursed her quick tongue. But really, this was all Dom’s fault for never telling his family the truth. She was tired of being made to look the villainess when she’d done nothing wrong. “What do you mean?” Lisette asked. Jane released an exasperated breath. “I mean, I did jilt him. But only because he tricked me into it.” When that brought a smug smile to Tristan’s face, she narrowed her eyes on him. “You knew.” “Not the details. I just knew something wasn’t right. But since it was clear that neither you nor my idiot brother were going to say anything without being prodded into it, I…er…did a bit of prodding.” He smirked at her. “You do tend to speak your mind when you get angry.” Jane scowled at him. “You’re just like him, manipulative and arrogant and--” “I beg to differ,” Tristan said jovially. “He’s just like me. I taught him everything he knows.” “Yes, indeed,” Lisette said with a snort. “You taught him to be as much an idiot as you.” She glanced from Tristan to Jane. “So, is one of you going to tell me what is going on? About the jilting, I mean?” Tristan cocked an eyebrow at Jane. “Well?” She sighed. The cat was out of the bag now. Might as well reveal the rest. So she related the whole tale, from Dom’s plotting with Nancy at the ball to George’s involvement to how she’d finally discovered the truth. When she finished, Tristan let out a low whistle. “Hell and thunder. My big brother has a better talent for deception than I realized.” “Not as good as you’d think,” Jane muttered. “If I hadn’t been so wounded and angry at the time, I would have noticed how…manufactured the whole thing felt.” Lisette patted her hand. “You were young. We were all more volatile then.” Her voice hardened. “And he hit you just where it hurt, the curst devil. No wonder you want to strangle him half the time. I would have strung him up by his toes if he’d done such a thing to me!

What evil deed are you concocting? You’re like a Disney villainess. Destroying someone is the only thing that makes you smile like that.

Villains don't want to be a part of society. They want the freedom to live their lives unrestricted by laws by which the rest of us abide. Villains are narcissists, slaves to their own greed and lust for power. They are not interested in the welfare of others, only in satisfying their own desires. As a result, villains give no thought to the death and destruction that may result from their nefarious schemes. Just as heroes are willing to give their lives in the name of good, villains know that death is often the reward for embracing a life of evil.

The real source of her villainy came from those qualities that supposedly make men great leaders- a thirst for power, relentless drive paired with massive ego, and a total lack of emotions.

Villains are not born—they are made.  And in the case of a Villainess, she is crafted and carved out of the fires of a broken heart and God help the man who thinks to trespass, bruise her further and then survive the encounter.

Every villainess is the heroine in the story she tells.

They didn’t fuck me up, my mom and dad. On that score, I’m a self-made woman.

Another Terry film was Paid to Dance (1937), an exposé of a dance-hall racket of the type beloved by low-budget scenarists. The feminine lead was Jacqueline Wells, later Julie Bishop; third in the credits was Rita Hayworth, as yet just a starlet, but getting plenty of screen time with her steady appearances in Columbia pictures. Miss Hayworth, nee Cansino, had become an adequate actress along the way. Her Latin good looks enabled her to play villainesses if need be, or the ingénue.

Cousin Bette is an inimitable character, a villainess of the worst kind: mean-spirited, vengeful, small-minded. And yet what a joy she is. Bette’s desire for revenge stems from her obsession with her cousin. Adeline is more beautiful and charismatic than Bette. And she has “stolen” the man Bette should have married. Bette seems to conveniently ignore the fact that the man Adeline has married—Baron Hulot—is not someone anyone would want to be married to. The seed of resentment is sown early on, then, and Bette schemes to bring down Baron Hulot, his wife, and their entire family. Because if she can’t be happy, then no one can. She enlists Valérie Marneffe, her neighbor, to seduce Baron Hulot and wheedle as much money as possible out of him, all the while knowing that he is all but ruined by his previous mistress, Josépha. Meanwhile Bette develops a maternal/romantic attachment to her upstairs neighbor, Wenceslas Steinbock, a Polish artist, whom she prevented from committing suicide

Novels are not sociological textbooks, although they may contain social comment and criticism.

But is it not, today -- well, somehow unfeminist -- to depict a woman behaving badly? Isn't bad behaviour supposed to be the monopoly of men? Isn't that what we are expected -- in defiance of real life -- to somehow believe, now? When bad women get into literature, what are they doing there, and are they permissible, and what, if anything, do we need them for?

Evil women are necessary in story traditions for two much more obvious reasons, of course. First, they exist in life, so why shouldn't they exist in literature? Second -- which may be another way of saying the same thing -- women have more to them than virtue. They are fully dimensional human beings; they too have subterranean depths; why shouldn't their many-dimensionality be given literary expression? And when it is, female readers do not automatically recoil in horror.

It wasn’t that I had no interest in love; I enjoyed reading the romantic stories in the novels that my friends recommended to me, and I thought that being part of one would be a wonderful thing. But I was so happy with my life that I hardly felt like asking for more.

Unsurprising, since he’d never met a villain (or villainess, in this case) without impeccable taste in wine. It was a prerequisite, he figured, to being rich and evil.

After taking the classes for a while, I came to realize that the curriculum progressed at a rate determined by the top students of the class, as befitted a nation that advocated meritocracy.

The mere fact that I was able to see her smiling so much felt like a reward in itself.

But what do you do when that same country goes to hell, and the elites at the top don’t have the slightest inclination of fixing it? Or worse, they kill those that try?

She reminded Sandi of a Disney villainess, the kind of character who makes the heroine seem dull in comparison.

Her scent was potent. An overpowering mix of wet leaves, fallen branches, forest fungus. "No," I breathed. It wasn't only fallen leaves; it was the undertone of autumn. The ground, cold and near death. Rotting.

She had worried for her soul because she'd enjoyed the bedding too. But where she'd accepted that it must be all right because she'd vowed to obey Conall and he'd ordered her to enjoy it, this woman had... well, she'd lost her mind as far as Claray could tell. Mhairi believed that enjoying the bedding was a sin that would see her soul in hell, but that killing so many innocent people would redeem her. It was madness.

The young are often unjust. But in time I hope she will come to see that I am not the villainess she believed. I did everything in my power to save my husband from ruin. Instead I caused it.

Arnold was silent for a time. Then, sounding embarrassed, he said, “My body acted on its own. I couldn’t help it.

Again the idea that he has fallen into a Henry James novel occurs to Fred; but now he casts Rosemary in a different role, as one of James' beautiful, corrupt, worldly European villainesses.

mind, talking all sweet like that… Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. Shut my trap before you shut it for me,” Rinny says grumpily. “Huh? Is there really not enough room for anyone else?” I ask. “Popo can easily carry more weight, but the carriage is only so big,” Ektor explains. “Rinny is a worg demi-human, and pretty big for one, too, so he can easily carry Macro in his beast form.” “It’s not actually that far, so don’t worry! Or would you two like a piggyback ride as well?

After all, Rishe hadn't been scared. When the day came to protect her lords, she was prepared to go to her death. She'd risked her life on the battlefield, thinking that was what a knight should aspire to. And that was why she'd died. She didn't regret her choice. But there was one thing she could say with certainty: "You'll be strong because you know what it is you should be afraid of.

I once believed I needed to risk my life out of a desire to protect something too–but I don't think that's right anymore. After all, the life you save keeps going long after yours ends." She could sense Kyle's breathe catching. "People aren't in peril just once in their lives. After you overcome the initial distress, happiness and danger await you.

The fear means nothing. I'll turn it into strength. It doesn't matter.

In my past life, there were a number of LGBTQ activists who had criticized the entertainers using their flamboyant sexuality as a selling point on TV. I think their criticism was likely on point. But here’s what else I think: Without going so far as to say it’s the right or wrong thing to do, some people out there can’t live their lives without making light of their problems. Of course these entertainers were contributing to homophobic stereotypes. And of course I’d prefer it if we could eliminate homophobia altogether. But some queer people living in the real world will also, inevitably, act in ways that highlight the prejudices they experience. Maybe they’ll have other reasons for acting the way they do, but I think that need to lampshade their problems is one of them. Some people can’t live with their burdens without cracking wise about them. When you’re queer and you fall in love with someone who can never respond to your feelings in kind, they often still behave more intimately with you than they would with someone of the opposite sex. But after the moment you realize you’re in love with them, that just makes them feel even further away. If you run into this problem again and again, before you realize it, you might become the kind of person who can only helplessly laugh the whole thing off. Not everyone ends up like that, of course. It just so happened that I had.

That young woman is gone. Her, I don’t miss. She is petty and envious. She’d make a good secondary character in a John Hughes movie, one of the “yes” girls who surround the Queen Bee. Her imagination is limited, a terrible thing in a writer. She cannot begin to see where her life will take her, can never imagine herself thirty-two years in the future, writing these words while sitting at a marble-topped kitchen table in an Italian farmhouse. Why is her imagination so stunted when it comes to her own life? Why is she willing to settle for so little? Why does she want so much?

He looks as reliable as a young stag in rutting season.

But, Q, she seemed awesome. The girls have been asking about her, and you know they hated Mercedes." "They were toddlers when I was with her." "Intuitive toddlers. When we watched Tangled the other day, they pointed at Mother Gothel and said, 'Look, it's Tía Cedes!

No, I did. But from what I could tell, you didn’t really lose in terms of cooking skill but in terms of theme, right?

heroine born with lover and her father after accident of her father test of three daughters proved she have no blood relationship with them and father dead and he ensured her to hero she have no confidence and depend to others hero try to insult to change her but she didn't after her second sister is villainous heroine killed father because will and heroine try to find her real father and say pic edit by villainous thinking hero father was her real father and aborts her child and not giving explanation hero divorced her and engaged to villainess and final became independent and figure that father already died and go back to get hero and revenge for died child

heroine born with lover and her father after accident of her father test of three daughters proved she have no blood relationship with them and father dead and he ensured her to hero she have no confidence and depend to others hero try to insult to change her but she didn't after her second sister is villainous heroine killed father because will and heroine try to find her real father and say pic edit by villainous thinking hero father was her real father and aborts her child and not giving explanation hero divorced her and engaged to villainess and final became independent and figure that father already died and go back to get hero and revenge for died child Book name

I can't help it: I laugh. That's always been my reaction to bad news. It's probably how I won the role of Evil Villainess in my own life, but what else am I supposed to do? Melt into a crying puddle on this packed sidewalk? What good would that do?

Tate explained that James was able to achieve this magic through the use of the first-person narrator. Tate said that the first person is the most difficult form because the writer is locked inside the head of the narrator and can’t get out. He can’t say “meanwhile, back at the ranch” as a transition to another subject because he is imprisoned forever inside the narrator. But so is the reader! And that is the strength of the first-person narrative. The reader does not see that the governess is the villainess because what the governess sees is all the reader ever sees.

You don’t need to throw away your own future to protect those you love,” Rishe told her. “No matter what path you choose, never forget that.

I’m the one who decides what I value.

I was Juliette Contzen, the 3rd Princess to the Kingdom of Tirea. And I did not run. More importantly, I did not run while there were witnesses.

Everything except whether he knew or not that this was the same Juliette that was his sister, whether he needed or should know, and whether or not he knew and was playing the game of knows but pretended not to know that Renise should also somehow know or not know.

There was a saying that encapsulated men’s desires perfectly: men want a lady during the day and a sex worker at night.

On the contrary, I can’t predict you at all.

It’s only the kind of fucked-up girls who like my princess, the sister with the destructive powers, the one without a husband. The one who occupies the space of both princess and villainess.

Dear, we simply cannot hold a funeral for your mother,” said the king, his fork discreetly picking out the vegetables from the salad as he ate only the croutons. “She’s still alive.

Of course. Please continue with the offer you have no intention of honouring and I’m only entertaining while considering how best to dispose of you.