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The lovely Hazard girls', they used to call them. Huh. Lovely is as lovely does if they looked like what they behave like, they'd frighten little children.

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
Little
Lovely
Children
Girls
Like
Looked
Call
Girl
Hazard
Doe
Frighten
Used
Hazards
Littles
Behave

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Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation.
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Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.
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A broken heart is never a tragedy. Only untimely death is a tragedy.
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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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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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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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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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She stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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Vengeful as nature herself, she loves her children only in order to devour them better and if she herself rips her own veils of self-deceit, Mother perceives in herself untold abysses of cruelty as subtle as it is refined.
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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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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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Those are the voices of my brothers, darling I love the company of wolves.
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This lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero.
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A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.
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She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. from The Lady of the Haunted House
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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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