Wicked Stepmother Quotes

After all, what did Prince Charming know about Cinderella besides her shoe size?

Because if I have a wicked stepmother and two evil stepsisters, aren't I supposed to get a prince?

I thought it was her wicked stepmother who poisoned her...' '...Turned out the wicked stepmother had an alibi.' '...Seems she was off poisoning someone else at the time. Chance in a million, really. It was just bad luck.

Tell me the story, Pew. . . . It was a woman. You always say that. There's always a woman somewhere, child; a princess, a witch, a stepmother, a mermaid, a fairy godmother, or one as wicked as she is beautiful, or as beautiful as she is good. Is that the complete list? Then there is the woman you love. Who's she? That's another story.

You were sleeping?" said Princess One. "No," I said. "Sometimes I just like to lie in the dark for hours with my eyes closed.

Nothing. That's what happens to the stepmother in Cinderella. Nothing.

People never think things that are true are funny.

You were never the princess, you were never the passive beauty waiting for a prince, you were something else. You sided with darkness, with the wicked stepmother, the bad fairy, the witch.

Life and stories are alike in one way: They are full of hollows. The king and queen have no children: They have a child hollow. The girl has a wicked stepmother: She has a mother hollow. In a story, a baby comes along to fill the child hollow. But in life, the hollows continue empty.

That was the truth of magic—blood and guts and semen and spit, organs kept in jars, maps for hunting humans, the skulls of unborn infants. The problem wasn’t books and fairy tales, just that they told half the story, offering up the illusion of a world where only the villains paid in blood, the ogre stepmothers, the wicked stepsisters, where magic was just and without sacrifice.

Apparently being Cinderella isn't so bad after all.

Prince Charming was requesting my presence tonight.

It is through hearing stories about wicked stepmothers, lost children, good but misguided kings, wolves that suckle twin boys, youngest sons who receive no inheritance but must make their own way in the world, and eldest sons who waste their inheritance on riotous living and go into exile to live with the swine, that children learn or mislearn both what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are.

The wicked stepmother, which is the ego, can put the Sleeping Beauty or Christ within us to sleep, but she can never destroy it. What is created by God is indestructible.

I wasn’t exactly a stranger to feeling like a princess—if you meant the princess in the first half of the fairy tale. Cinderella as a scullery maid. Snow White with the wicked stepmother. But I wasn’t used to what life was like after you meet the prince, after the slipper fits, after the kiss wakes you from your slumber. It would take some getting used to.

And hell, sometimes the best thing is to put on a black dress and become a wicked stepmother. There’s power in that, if you’re after power.

Cinders, I would've thought you of all people would know better. There are no wicked stepmothers and there are no fairy godmothers, and there are no Prince Charmings. There in no preordained destiny. You get to decide that. You decide your destiny. - V

Why is it I can spend a dozen Friday nights staring at the peeling walls of my "room" without anyone in the family so much as poking a head down to see if I'm alive, while the one time I actually have plans (major plans, plans that necessitate extraordinary focus and massive preparation), my stepmother suddenly suggests we sing a duet of "Getting to Know You"?

As you know, children (unlike grown-ups) are far too clever to be tricked by impostors - a fact that goes a long way toward explaining their distrust of wicked stepmothers and substitute teachers.

Sometimes, of course, the sister’s the wicked one, not the stepmother.

In terms I hope you’ll understand, darling, in fairytales, the prince vanquishes the wicked queen. The evil stepmother. The malicious goblin. In real life, Daisy, to avenge wrong done to his princess, if the need arises, the prince puts a bullet in somebody’s brain.

In the old stories, despite the impossibility of the incidents, the interest is always real and human.  The princes and princesses fall in love and marry--nothing could be more human than that.  Their lives and loves are crossed by human sorrows...The hero and heroine are persecuted or separated by cruel stepmothers or enchanters; they have wanderings and sorrows to suffer; they have adventures to achieve and difficulties to overcome; they must display courage, loyalty and address, courtesy, gentleness and gratitude.  Thus they are living in a real human world, though it wears a mythical face, though there are giants and lions in the way.  The old fairy tales which a silly sort of people disparage as too wicked and ferocious for the nursery, are really 'full of matter,' and unobtrusively teach the true lessons of our wayfaring in a world of perplexities and obstructions.

Nabokov calls every great novel a fairy tale, I said. Well, I would agree. First, let me remind you that fairy tales abound with frightening witches who eat children and wicked stepmothers who poison their beautiful stepdaughters and weak fathers who leave their children behind in forests. But the magic comes from the power of good, that force which tells us we need not give in to the limitations and restrictions imposed on us by McFate, as Nabokov called it. Every fairy tale offers the potential to surpass present limits, so in a sense the fairy tale offers you freedoms that reality denies. In all great works of fiction, regardless of the grim reality they present, there is an affirmation of life against the transience of that life, an essential defiance.

It is customary to have vampires in stories nowadays - they are quite the norm, just like wicked stepmothers used to be. Yes, vampires have sent wicked stepmothers into retirement homes, to brew cups of tea and tend to their arthritic knees.

Tonight was a perfect illustration of why Cinderella and the Prince get married twenty-four hours after they meet. Because when you're living with your stepmother, there is no happily ever after.

Imagine this: Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom. Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors. Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers. Imagine this: Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress. Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm. Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell. In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips. Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red. In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making. In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction. Imagine this: Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt. Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her. Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead. Imagine this: Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things. Imagine this: Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath who smashes her way from the confines of her castle and swallows men whole.

Cinderella’s wicked stepmother, whose real name, by the way, is Gwendolyn

Cinderella’s wicked stepmother, whose real name, by the way, is Gwendolyn.

According to a recent article in the New York Times, few parents expose their children to those works in the original these days, and some of their reasons make sense. Who wants children growing up with the idea that stepmothers are wicked, ugly people are evil, women can get by on their beauty, and princesses are all white? At the same time, I worry about children who grow up thinking that every story has a happy ending and no one gets permanently hurt along the way.

The problem wasn't books and fairy tales, just that they told half the story, offering up the illusion of a world where only the villains paid in blood, the ogre stepmother, the wicked stepsisters, where magic was just and without sacrifice.

Fairy tales, fantasy, legend and myth...these stories, and their topics, and the symbolism and interpretation of those topics...these things have always held an inexplicable fascination for me," she writes. "That fascination is at least in part an integral part of my character — I was always the kind of child who was convinced that elves lived in the parks, that trees were animate, and that holes in floorboards housed fairies rather than rodents. You need to know that my parents, unlike those typically found in fairy tales — the wicked stepmothers, the fathers who sold off their own flesh and blood if the need arose — had only the best intentions for their only child. They wanted me to be well educated, well cared for, safe — so rather than entrusting me to the public school system, which has engendered so many ugly urban legends, they sent me to a private school, where, automatically, I was outcast for being a latecomer, for being poor, for being unusual. However, as every cloud does have a silver lining — and every miserable private institution an excellent library — there was some solace to be found, between the carved oak cases, surrounded by the well–lined shelves, among the pages of the heavy antique tomes, within the realms of fantasy. Libraries and bookshops, and indulgent parents, and myriad books housed in a plethora of nooks to hide in when I should have been attending math classes...or cleaning my room...or doing homework...provided me with an alternative to a reality I didn't much like. Ten years ago, you could have seen a number of things in the literary field that just don't seem to exist anymore: valuable antique volumes routinely available on library shelves; privately run bookshops, rather than faceless chains; and one particular little girl who haunted both the latter two institutions. In either, you could have seen some variation upon a scene played out so often that it almost became an archetype: A little girl, contorted, with her legs twisted beneath her, shoulders hunched to bring her long nose closer to the pages that she peruses. Her eyes are glued to the pages, rapt with interest. Within them, she finds the kingdoms of Myth. Their borders stand unguarded, and any who would venture past them are free to stay and occupy themselves as they would.

lot more gentle. “In terms I hope you’ll understand, darling, in fairytales, the prince vanquishes the wicked queen. The evil stepmother. The malicious goblin. In real life, Daisy, to avenge wrong done to his princess, if the need arises, the prince puts a bullet in somebody’s brain

When my nephew passed beyond, Wilhelm comforted himself that a child in his innocence would be delivered speedily to heaven, and there be given an honored place. “In this small, simple throne,” Wilhelm said, and I said, “With secret compartments for his bird’s nests and smooth stones.” Wilhelm believed this. He had to believe this. I, too, repeated this conception to myself again and again, trying harder to harder to believe it. But a Creator who takes a child so small, so kind, so tender? What can be made of that? The tales we collected are not merciful. Villains are boiled in snake-filled oil, wicked Steifmutter-stepmothers-are made to dance into death in molten-hot shoes, and on and on. The tales are full of terrible punishments, yes, but they follow just cause. Goodness is rewarded; evil is not. The generous simpleton finds more happiness and coin than the greedy king. So why not mercy and justice to sweet youth from an omnipotent and benevolent Creator? There are only three answers. He is not omnipotent, or he is not benevolent, or-the dreariest possibility of all-he is inattentive. What if that was what happened to my nephew? That God’s gaze had merely strayed elsewhere?

The contemporary moral philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre has summed this up eloquently: It is through hearing about wicked stepmothers, lost children, good but misguided kings, wolves that suckle twin boys, youngest sons who receive no inheritance but must make their own way in the world and eldest sons who waste their inheritance … that children learn or mislearn what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are. Deprive children of stories and you leave them unscripted, anxious stutterers in their actions as in their words.2

Don't worry that you're being pathetic when you try not to get caught stealing a kiss from your spouse, or when you pray for a time when the kids are out of the house so you can make out on the couch, or when you consider a trip with your husband to the lawn-care section of Home Depot a hot date. No. You're not pathetic. You're in a blended family....

It could have been one of the daughters,” Greg says. “Trying to take out the wicked new stepmother.

Well,’said Ernest, ‘by some strange coincidence I know this story.’ Boddichek was not good at irony. ‘I knew that there was that possibility,’ he said, ‘but we have a great new way to treat it, and I thought you might want to reread it before taking a meeting.’ ‘Reread it?’ said Mayday. ‘We are talking about Cinderella, and the wicked stepmother and the Ugly Sisters and Buttons the page and the Fairy Godmother, "Cinders, you shall go to the ball but be sure you're home by midnight or you'll turn into pumpkin"?’ ‘Hey, you know it pretty well,’ said young Casey with admiration in his voice. ‘But I've found a new directionality for this story.’ ‘Do you mean direction?’ asked Mayday. ‘I guess I do.’ ‘Then’, snapped Mayday, ‘why don't you fucking say so?

wicked stepmother.

Imagine Jesus standing right beside you reassuring you of His love, one arm around your shoulder and a hand where you can see the nail scar. His glory surrounds you, and His beauty indwells you. His Spirit of love, grace, forgiveness, and joy fills you with peace. Your heart is so full of love and gratitude to Him for His love and grace that you no longer want anything less than His grace to fill your heart. You are partnering with Jesus in His mission to save the world, forgiving each person who has offended you, one at a time.

all discipline for the moment seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful; yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness” (Hebrews 12:11, NASB).

I will be glad and rejoice in your love, for you saw my affliction and knew the anguish of my soul. . . . Praise be to the LORD, for he showed his wonderful love to me when I was in a besieged city. —PSALM 31:7, 21

I am not the wicked stepmother in this fairy’s tale.

It is through hearing about wicked stepmothers, lost children, good but misguided kings… that children learn or mislearn what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are.’2

Hansel never let go of Gretel’s hand, and so every wicked witch and evil stepmother was defeated. Yet he senses, as though standing next to some parallel universe, the missing part that might have been.

When Gannon’s body was found Letecia was informed and assessed. She was tearful and overwhelmed. She said she had never been to Florida although she hadn’t been told where Gannon’s body had been found.

Keep in mind, that in this case, as is in every case, attorneys are paid advocates. Their job is to persuade you that evidence proves or does not prove a particular point. And as I said earlier, nothing an attorney says is evidence and they do not take an oath to tell you the truth.

But a Creator who takes a child so small, so kind, so tender? What can be made of that? The tales we collected are not merciful. Villains are boiled in snake-filled oil, wicked Stiefmütter—stepmothers—are made to dance into death in molten-hot shoes, and on and on. The tales are full of terrible punishments, yes, but they follow just cause. Goodness is rewarded; evil is not. The generous simpleton finds more happiness and coin than the greedy king. So why not mercy and justice to a sweet youth from an omnipotent and benevolent Creator? There are only three answers. He is not omnipotent, or he is not benevolent, or—the dreariest possibility of all—he is inattentive. What if that was what happened to my nephew? That God’s gaze had merely strayed elsewhere?

I want to remind you that the defendant is presumed to be innocent. The prosecution must prove the guilt of the defendant beyond a reasonable doubt. The defendant does not have to prove her innocence or call any witnesses or introduce any evidence.

It isn't easy, being a wicked stepfather. There are no guidelines. Western literature is filled with tips on how to become a wicked stepmother. Give your stepkid a poison apple. Make her clean the chimney while your daughters go to the ball. Ditch them in a forest and make them find their way home with bread crumbs. Stepfathers don't get an instruction manual. They have to learn to be wicked on their own.

I suddenly don’t have the stomach for duck,” I said through my teeth. I pushed away from my stepmother, slamming the parlor door on my way out. “You’ll give my excuses, I’m sure.” I could practically hear the smile in Nerium’s soft, wicked voice. “I always do.” I kept my composure until I was out of Spindle House. Then, only once the great doors were closed behind me did I let myself cry.

Being a stepmother is never what you think it’s going to be. You have it in your mind that you’re the rescuer, and that even though fairy tales are full of wicked stepmothers, that everyone will see that you are different, because you mean well. And then one day you hear yourself screaming, and everyone’s looking at you with hatred and fear in their eyes, and you realize that you never can afford to get even one thing wrong. You’re not the real mom, and nobody gives you the benefit of the doubt.

wicked stepmothers and substitute teachers.

A central thesis then begins to emerge: man is in his actions and practice, as well as in his fictions, essentially a story-telling animal. He is not essentially, but becomes through his history, a teller of stories that aspire to truth. But the key question for men is not about their own authorship; I can only answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question ‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?’ We enter human society, that is, with one or more imputed characters—roles into which we have been drafted —and we have to learn what they are in order to be able to understand how others respond to us and how our responses to them are apt to be construed. It is through hearing stories about wicked step-mothers, lost chddren, good but misguided kings, wolves that suckle twin boys, youngest sons who receive no inheritance but must make their own way in the world and eldest sons who waste their inheritance on riotous living and go into exile to live with the swine, that children learn or mislearn both what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are. Deprive children of stories and you leave them unscripted, anxious stutterers in their actions as in their words. Hence there is no way to give us an understanding of any society, including our own, except through the stock of stories which constitute its initial dramatic resources. Mythology, in its original sense, is at the heart of things. Vico was right and so was Joyce. And so too of course is that moral tradition from heroic society to its medieval heirs according to which the telling of stories has a key part in educating us into the virtues.

Headmistress Flora (the formerly wicked stepmother) is handing over the reins to a new leader:

I see what you're talking about, Bex," Ms. Larson said. "Your aunt is something else. I'd hate to have to live with her." I shrugged. "I mean she seems like she's just evil, like the wicked stepmother in Cinderella." "She's not as bad as that," I muttered. "I think she might be worse. She's mean and stuck-up and overbearing and—" "Hey!" I shouted. "You can't talk about my aunt like that!" Ms. Larson frowned. "Why not? You do." "I know, but that's different, it—" "Aww, come on, Bex. She's awful. Admit it.

No one knew where they came from, or even how many there were. Could have just been a gang of waifish runaways, except they all told the same story. A wicked stepmother, a magic mirror. They were terrified of apples. It was not clear what name would be used to refer to them. Some people liked Snows and some liked Grimm Girls and those of a literary bent used Märchen Mädchen, the story girls.

That was the truth of magic—blood and guts and semen and spit, organs kept in jars, maps for hunting humans, the skulls of unborn infants. The problem wasn’t books and fairy tales, just that they told half the story, offering up the illusion of a world where only the villains paid in blood, the ogre stepmothers, the wicked stepsisters, where magic was just and without sacrifice.

When the Brothers Grimm, whose collection of German fairy stories was published in the year of Dickens’s birth, began their researches, they were appalled to discover how many of the folktales related to incest, or to parents in one way or another neglecting, brutalizing or mismanaging their children; so in the published version, the wicked mothers were converted into wicked stepmothers.