Quote

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.

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
Members
Wavering
Suffering
Congregation
Sound
Howl
Rending
Fear
Shadows
Hark
Made
Nightmare
Wraith
Long
Gray
Aria
Like
Suffer
Audible
Shadow
Murdering

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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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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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Our fingernails match our toenails, match our lipstick match our rouge...The habit of applying warpaint outlasts the battle.
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Pornographers are the enemies of women only because our contemporary ideology of pornography does not encompass the possibility of change, as if we were the slaves of history and not its makers. . . . Pornography is a satire on human pretensions.
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Spindly branches of buttercups were secreted among gleaming stems still moist at the roots from last night's rain that had washedand refreshed the entire wood, had dowered it in poignant transparency, the unique, inconsolable quality of rainy countries, as if all was glimpsed through tears.
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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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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.
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There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.
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This lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero.
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I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane she is a closed system she does not know how to shiver.
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Cats of all kinds weave in and out of the text Burroughs has clearly taken to them in a big way in his old age and seems torn between a fear they will betray him into sentimentality and a resigned acceptance that a man can't be ironic all the time.
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A young girl would go into the wood as trustingly as Red Riding Hood to her granny's house but this light admits no ambiguities and, here, she will be trapped in her own illusion because everything in the woods is exactly as it seems.
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Women's sexy underwear is a minor but significant growth industry of late-twentieth-century Britain in the twilight of capitalism.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.
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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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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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I desire therefore I exist.
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