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Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been
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
Eye
Brains
Sense
Door
Doors
Bits
Brain
Eyes
Stars
Common
Exploding
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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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What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?
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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 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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A fairy tale is the kind of story in which one king goes to another king to borrow a cup of sugar
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Pornography is a satire on human pretensions.
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They were connoisseurs of boredom. They savoured the various bouquets of the subtly differentiated boredoms which rose from the long, wasted hours at the dead end of night.
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He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.
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Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
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Proposition one: time is a man, space is a woman.
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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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Comedy is tragedy that happens to other people.
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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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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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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 broken heart is never a tragedy. Only untimely death is a tragedy.
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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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