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One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.

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
Howls
Howl
Beast
Woods
Night

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As for my father, few souls are less troubled. He can be simply pleased with us, pleased that we exist, and, from the vantage point of his wondrously serene old age, he contemplates our lives almost as if they were books he can dip into whenever he wants. His back pages, perhaps.
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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.
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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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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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Sade has a curious ability to render every aspect of sexuality suspect, so that we see how the chaste kiss of the sentimental lover differs only in degree from the vampirish love-bite that draws blood, we understand that a disinterested caress is only quantitatively different from a disinterested flogging.
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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.
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I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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Those are the voices of my brothers, darling I love the company of wolves.
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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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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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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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The bed is now as public as the dinner table and governed by the same rules of formal confrontation.
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Anxiety is the beginning of conscience, which is the parent of the soul but is not compatible with innocence.
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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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It shone on everyone, whether they had a contract or not. The most democratic thing I'd ever seen, that California sunshine.
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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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How far does a pretence of feeling, maintained with absolute conviction, become authentic?
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