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Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.

Angela Carter

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Angela Carter
Age: 51 †
Born: 1940
Born: May 7
Died: 1992
Died: February 16
Author
Journalist
Linguist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Translator
Writer
Eastbourne
Sussex
Angela Olive Stalker Carter
Angela Olive Carter
Angela Olive Stalker
Angela Olive Pearce
Death
Nothing
Matter
Life
Except
Literature

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In the mythic schema of all relations between men and women, man proposes, and woman is disposed of.
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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
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You were the living image of the entire Platonic shadow show, an illusion that could fill my emptiness with marvellous, imaginary things as long as, just as long as, the movie lasted, and then all would all vanish.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.
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There was a house we all had in common and it was called the past, even though we'd lived in different rooms.
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All artists, they say, are a little mad. This madness is, to a certain extent, a self-created myth designed to keep the generality away from the phenomenally close-knit creative community. Yet, in the world of the artists, the consciously eccentric are always respectful and admiring if those who have the courage to be genuinely a little mad.
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ordered me a sky from a florist
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She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. from The Lady of the Haunted House
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The lovely Hazard girls', they used to call them. Huh. Lovely is as lovely does if they looked like what they behave like, they'd frighten little children.
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A mother is always a mother, since a mother is a biological fact, whilst a father is a movable feast.
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He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.
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His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.
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We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity.
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They were connoisseurs of boredom. They savoured the various bouquets of the subtly differentiated boredoms which rose from the long, wasted hours at the dead end of night.
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I know that whenever a group of women are gathered together, the grandmother always makes a phantom appearance, hovering above them.
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A book is simply the container of an idea-like a bottle what is inside the book is what matters.
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Our fingernails match our toenails, match our lipstick match our rouge...The habit of applying warpaint outlasts the battle.
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The bed is now as public as the dinner table and governed by the same rules of formal confrontation.
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A broken heart is never a tragedy. Only untimely death is a tragedy.
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Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.
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