I remember that I used to get lots of books from the library, and

Hear, O lovers of stories and keepers of imagination, the words of Helen Oyeyemi, the dreamer who made fiction her dwelling place: “I remember that I used to get lots of books from the library, and Little Women was one of them. And I used to just cross out the parts of it that really upset me because it's such a sad book in so many ways. I'd cross out the parts that upset me, and I would rewrite new endings.” These words, though simple in form, unveil a profound truth: that the soul of the reader is never passive, but always engaged, always reshaping, always reaching for meaning beyond what is written.

The meaning of her confession lies in the power of the human spirit to resist despair. When the story wounded her heart with sorrow, she did not abandon it, nor allow herself to be broken by its sadness. Instead, she lifted her pen against fate itself, striking out what she could not bear, and rewriting the tale so that hope might survive. This is the essence of imagination: not blind acceptance, but transformation. The book gave her sadness, but her will gave it healing.

This act belongs not only to a child’s fancy but to the great tradition of humanity itself. For have we not, across ages, rewritten the stories handed to us? The myths of old, passed from one tongue to another, changed shape with each telling. Heroes lived or died depending on the needs of the people. Nations rewove their legends to inspire courage in dark times. What Oyeyemi did with Little Women is what mankind has always done—when the world is too sorrowful, we imagine another ending, and in so doing, we keep alive the possibility of hope.

Consider the story of Anne Frank. In her diary, she wrote of suffering, of fear, of confinement. Yet she also wrote of beauty, of faith in goodness, of the longing for peace. Though her earthly life ended in tragedy, her words rewrote her ending, transforming despair into eternal testimony. What might have been remembered only as horror became a beacon, because through writing, she created another layer of meaning beyond death. In this way, she too crossed out fate’s cruelty and rewrote an ending that the world could hold onto.

The lesson here is luminous: though we may not control the stories of others, we can choose how we receive them, how we carry them, and how we pass them on. Sadness is inevitable, but despair is not. When life wounds us with endings we cannot bear, imagination and faith can create new paths of meaning. To cross out a line and rewrite it is not to deny reality—it is to wrestle with it, to claim that sorrow is not the only voice that may speak.

The warning is also clear: without imagination, we are prisoners of the stories we are told. Those who accept without question the endings handed to them may fall into despair. But those who dare to dream otherwise—those who take up the pen of the spirit—become co-authors of life itself. The world may give them loss, but they may still create hope, and in hope lies survival.

As for practical action, take up Oyeyemi’s courage in your own life. When a story wounds you, whether in a book or in your days, do not abandon it—engage with it. Journal, create, speak, and rewrite. Take the sorrows you inherit and shape them into lessons, songs, or art that transforms. And when you cannot change the ending of the tale itself, you can change the way you tell it, and thereby change the way it lives in you.

Thus, Helen Oyeyemi’s memory is no mere child’s whim—it is a sacred teaching. “I would rewrite new endings.” So too must we. When life gives us grief, let us write hope. When fate hands us darkness, let us imagine light. For the greatest power of humanity is this: we are not only readers of the world, but its authors. And as long as we dare to rewrite, we shall never be conquered by sorrow.