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To pin your hopes upon the future is to consign those hopes to a hypothesis, which is to say, a nothingness. Here and now is what we must contend with.

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
Future
Consign
Must
Contend
Pins
Nothingness
Hypothesis
Hopes
Literature
Upon

More quotes by Angela Carter

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Fine art, that exists for itself alone, is art in a final state of impotence. If nobody, including the artist, acknowledges art as a means of knowing the world, then art is relegated to a kind of rumpus room of the mind and the irresponsibility of the artist and the irrelevance of art to actual living becomes part and parcel of the practice of art.
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Soon, nostalgia will be another name for Europe.
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Those are the voices of my brothers, darling I love the company of wolves.
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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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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.
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The child's laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.
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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
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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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It's every woman's tragedy, that, after a certain age, she looks like a female impersonator. Mind you, we've known some lovely female impersonators, in our time.
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Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.
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I drew the curtains to conceal the sight of my father's farewell my spite was sharp as broken glass.
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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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The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: This is the end. Because it would have been.
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One day, Annabel saw the sun and moon in the sky at the same time. The sight filled her with a terror which entirely consumed her and did not leave her until the night closed in catastrophe for she had no instinct for self-preservation if she was confronted by ambiguities.
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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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There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.
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Vengeful as nature herself, she loves her children only in order to devour them better and if she herself rips her own veils of self-deceit, Mother perceives in herself untold abysses of cruelty as subtle as it is refined.
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The kind of power mothers have is enormous. Take the skyline of Istanbul - enormous breasts, pathetic little willies, a final revenge on Islam. I was so scared I had to crouch in the bottom of the boat when I saw it.
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