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I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.
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
Piano
Romance
Cutting
Everyone
Tell
Hands
Country
Like
Jeanne
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The kind of power mothers have is enormous.
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Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
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My mother learned that she was carrying me at about the same time the Second World War was declared with the family talent for magic realism, she once told me she had been to the doctor's on the very day.
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Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.
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This lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero.
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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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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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He is the intermediary between us, his audience, the living, and they, the dolls, the undead, who cannot live at all and yet who mimic the living in every detail since, though they cannot speak or weep, still they project those signals of signification we instantly recognize as language.
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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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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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There are lots of things that you can brush under the carpet about yourself until you're faced with somebody whose needs won't be put off.
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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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The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he's as cunning as he is ferocious once he's had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.
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Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I wil become as small as my own reflection, I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty.
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It is far easier for a woman to lead a blameless life than it is for a man all she has to do is to avoid sexual intercourse like the plague.
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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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Proposition one: time is a man, space is a woman.
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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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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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