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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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
Underwent
Losing
Names
Process
Things
More quotes by Angela Carter
I desire therefore I exist.
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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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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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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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I think the adjective post-modernist really means mannerist. Books about books is fun but frivolous.
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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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The tiger will never lie down with the lamb he acknowledges no pact that is not reciprocal. The lamb must learn to run with the tigers.
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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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The child's laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.
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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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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.
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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.
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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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Sad so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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The notion of a universality of human experience is a confidence trick and the notion of a universality of female experience is a clever confidence trick.
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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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It is, perhaps, a better thing to be valued only as an object of passion than never to be valued at all.
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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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Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.
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