Alyssa

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Robber Bride

“We feel cold, but we don't mind it, because we will not come to harm. And if we wrapped up against the cold, we wouldn't feel other things, like the bright tingle of the stars, or the music of the aurora, or best of all the silky feeling of moonlight on our skin. It's worth being cold for that.”
― Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass

“Peut-être une des femmes que j'ai vues mortes dans les caves était ma mère, et que mon père gît momifié près d'une grille: entre eux et moi tout a été rompu, il n'y a pas de continuité et le monde dont je suis la descendante m'est totalement étranger. Je n'ai pas entendu sa musique, je n'ai pas vu sa peinture, je n'ai pas lu ses livres, sauf les quatre que j'ai trouvés dans le refuge et auxquels je n'ai pas compris grand-chose: je ne connais que la plaine caillouteuse, l'errance et la lente perte de l'espoir, je suis le rejeton stérile d'une race dont je ne sais rien, pas même si elle a disparu. Peut-être que, quelque part, l'humanité resplendit sous les étoiles, ignorant qu'une fille de son sang achève sa vie dans le silence. Nous n'y pouvons rien.”
― Jacqueline Harpman, I Who Have Never Known Men

“You are so young, Lyra, too young to understand this, but I shall tell you anyway and you'll understand it later: men pass in front of our eyes like butterflies, creatures of a brief season. We love them; they are brave, proud, beautiful, clever; and they die almost at once. They die so soon that our hearts are continually racked with pain. We bear their children, who are witches if they are female, human if not; and then in the blink of an eye they are gone, felled, slain, lost. Our sons, too. When a little boy is growing, he thinks he is immortal. His mother knows he isn't. Each time becomes more painful, until finally your heart is broken. Perhaps that is when Yambe-Akka comes for you. She is older than the tundra. Perhaps, for her, witches' lives are as brief as men's are to us.”
― Philip Pullman, The Golden Compass