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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!

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
Men
Frying
Prostitution
Marriage
Instead
Fire
Many
Different

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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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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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How far does a pretence of feeling, maintained with absolute conviction, become authentic?
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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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Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation.
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We do not go to bed in single pairs even if we choose not to refer to them, we still drag there with us the cultural impedimenta of our social class, our parents' lives, our bank balances, our sexual and emotional expectations, our whole biographies-all the bits and pieces of our unique existences.
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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
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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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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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I think it's one of the scars in our culture that we have too high an opinion of ourselves. We align ourselves with the angels instead of the higher primates.
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For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.
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Strangers used to gather together at the cinema and sit together in the dark, like Ancient Greeks participating in the mysteries, dreaming the same dream in unison.
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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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Hollywood... was the place where the United States perpetrated itself as a universal dream and put the dream into mass production.
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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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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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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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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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Though I still turn up my coat-collar in a lonely way and am always looking at myself in mirrors, they’re only habits and give no clue at all to my character, whatever that is. The most difficult performance in the world is acting naturally isn’t it? Everything else is artful.
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And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.
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