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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
Literature
Death
Nothing
Matter
Life
Except

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Your thin white face, chérie he said, as if he saw it for the first time. Your thin white face, with its promise of debauchery only a connoisseur could detect.
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For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.
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The one-eyed man will be King in the country of the blind only if he arrives there in full possession of his partial faculties--that is, providing he is perfectly aware of the precise nature of sight and does not confuse it with second sightnor with madness.
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Strangers used to gather together at the cinema and sit together in the dark, like Ancient Greeks participating in the mysteries, dreaming the same dream in unison.
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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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I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.
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Why do you do up your hair in those tortured plaits, now, Melanie? Why? Because, she said. You know that's no answer. You're spoiling your pretty looks, pet. Come here. She did not move. He ground out his cigarette on the window-ledge and laughed. Come here, he said again, softly. So she went.
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She said to the Daisy girl with her big brown eyes: 'I will not have it plain. No. Fancy. It must be fancy!' She meant her future. A moon-daisy dropped to the floor, down from her hair, like a faintly derisive sign from heaven.
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Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been
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The only time I ever iron the sheets or make meringues is when there is an ... urgent deadline in the offing.
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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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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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I should have liked to have had him beside me in a glass coffin, so that I could watch him all the time and he would not have been able to get away from me.
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Out of the frying pan into the fire! What is marriage but prostitution to one man instead of many? No different!
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She stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
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If Miss means respectably unmarried, and Mrs. respectably married, then Ms. means nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
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Not for Moorcock the painful, infrequent excretion of dry little novels like so many rabbit pellets his is the grand, messy fluxitself, in all its heroic vulgarity, its unquenchable optimism, its enthusiasm for the inexhaustible variousness of things.
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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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I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.
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