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ordered me a sky from a florist

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
Florist
Ordered
Sky

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Language is power, life and the instrument of culture, the instrument of domination and liberation.
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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.
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I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.
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[T]ea, that uniquely English meal, that unnecessary collation at which no stimulants--neither alcohol nor meat--are served, that comforting repast of which to partake is as good as second childhood.
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There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.
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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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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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The child's laughter is pure until he first laughs at a clown.
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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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In a world where women are commodities, a woman who refuses to sell herself will have the thing she refuses to sell taken away from her by force
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I don't really think that writers, even great writers, are prophets, or sages, or Messiah-like figures writing is a lonely, sedentary occupation and a touch of megalomania can be comforting around five on a November afternoon when you haven't seen anybody all day.
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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.
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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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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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Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I wil become as small as my own reflection, I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty.
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I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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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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