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We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity.

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
Love
Scarecrow
Flapping
Rags
Humanity
Find
Must
Make

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Aeneas carried his aged father on his back from the ruins of Troy and so do we all, whether we like it or not, perhaps even if we have never known them.
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I think I want to be in love with you but I don't know how.
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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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I drew the curtains to conceal the sight of my father's farewell my spite was sharp as broken glass.
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You were the living image of the entire Platonic shadow show, an illusion that could fill my emptiness with marvellous, imaginary things as long as, just as long as, the movie lasted, and then all would all vanish.
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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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What a joy it is to dance and sing!
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Drosselmeier had unwittingly exposed himself to an overdose of reality, and it had destroyed his reason.
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For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written — heard, not read. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world.
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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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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 don't really think that writers, even great writers, are prophets, or sages, or Messiah-like figures writing is a lonely, sedentary occupation and a touch of megalomania can be comforting around five on a November afternoon when you haven't seen anybody all day.
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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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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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What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?
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Not many people can boast a photo of their grandmother posing for kiddiporn.
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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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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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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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