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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
Must
Contend
Pins
Nothingness
Hypothesis
Hopes
Literature
Upon
Future
Consign

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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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My paternal grandmother would not light a fire on the Sabbath and piled all Sunday's washing-up in a bucket, to be dealt with on Monday morning, because the Sabbath was a day of rest--a practice that made my paternal grandfather, the village atheist, as mad as fire. Nevertheless, he willed five quid to the minister, just to be on the safe side.
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He was a lovely man in many ways. But he kept on insisting on forgiving me when there was nothing to forgive.
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I think the adjective post-modernist really means mannerist. Books about books is fun but frivolous.
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She stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
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Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
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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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I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.
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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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Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.
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They will be like shadows, they will be like wraiths, gray members of a congregation of nightmare hark! his long wavering howl . . . an aria of fear made audible. The wolfsong is the sound of the rending you will suffer, in itself a murdering.
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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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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.
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Some cities are women and must be loved others are men and can only be admired or bargained with
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And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.
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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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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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Proposition one: time is a man, space is a woman.
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Before he can become a wolf, the lycanthrope strips naked. If you spy a naked man among the pines, you must run as if the Devil were after you.
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