I believe both versions of The Little Mermaid—written and the Disney adaptation—attempt to elicit the same feeling toward the main character. Both want us to root for the little mermaid as she tries to be with the prince, be frustrated when things go wrong, and have sympathy for her when she seems to be losing him. In the movie adaptation, Ariel’s persistence, Ursula’s trickery, and the scenes of Ariel crying prompt these feelings. In the written version, these feelings are similarly elicited through the princess’s persistence through the pain she feels when on land and the ultimate loss of the prince. 

Despite the similarities between the two stories, I have different feelings towards each version of the little mermaid. In the written version, the princess is much more passive to me despite her active role as the protagonist. She is not given a name in this version and repeatedly described as quiet, silent, and thoughtful. Even in the beginning, when she could speak, she did not leave a strong impression on me. On the other hand, Ariel is strong, standing up to her father and exploring dangerous ships. Albeit, she does become more passive as she loses her voice.

My friendship with Reading did not have a notable start. It snuck up on me, worming its way into my life and becoming a part of me before I knew what was happening. By the time I was halfway through middle school, I was addicted, spending nights and summers tearing through book after book. My parents joked I had read half the books in our little hometown library while I checked out stack after stack. As I got older and life and school got more difficult, I felt myself drifting away from my little friend. I was off exploring other ideas, swapping letters and stories for numbers and facts. I began spending time with new ideas, leaving my little friend behind, our time together slipping away to make room for others. However, Reading never grew jealous nor tired, welcoming me back time and time again. I often found solace in their embrace, especially in hard times, spending evenings exploring new worlds within the pages of countless novels. It was as I grew that I learned the different sides of my childhood friend, Reading, discovering the complexities that make them up and their versatility. These ideas intrigued me, and I wished to learn more. My future will take me in many different directions, but I know that my relationship with Reading will help me in any situation, providing a solid foundation for all my future endeavors.

Literature is about us, humans, and the complexities of our life. However within this context, my definition of the classification has changed over time. At first, my brain goes to old libraries, classic novels, and well-known names like Shakespeare and Austen. I feel like what I was taught when I was younger—or what I myself assumed—was that literature was complex, full of meaning, and scholarly. Hamlet is literature. Sherlock Holmes is literature, but the Magic Tree House was not. However, as I got through more literature classes, I realized there don’t seem to be such clear classifications. A literary work doesn’t need to be old, well studied, or widely accepted as scholarly to be literature. Even the most basic stories—like the fairy tales we are reading in class —can contain so much more than the plot, revealing countless insights about us. Defining literature is not as important to me now, but instead, trying to get the most out of everything I read, whether it’s considered “literature” or not by others.