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Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.

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
Sex
Transsexual
Cities
Transsexuals
Woman
Wells
Adjusted
Well
Sexes
Men
Paris
London
York

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Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.
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A broken heart is never a tragedy. Only untimely death is a tragedy.
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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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Spindly branches of buttercups were secreted among gleaming stems still moist at the roots from last night's rain that had washedand refreshed the entire wood, had dowered it in poignant transparency, the unique, inconsolable quality of rainy countries, as if all was glimpsed through tears.
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We must all make do with the rags of love we find flapping on the scarecrow of humanity.
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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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How far does a pretence of feeling, maintained with absolute conviction, become authentic?
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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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My paternal grandmother would not light a fire on the Sabbath and piled all Sunday's washing-up in a bucket, to be dealt with on Monday morning, because the Sabbath was a day of rest--a practice that made my paternal grandfather, the village atheist, as mad as fire. Nevertheless, he willed five quid to the minister, just to be on the safe side.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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The only time I ever iron the sheets or make meringues is when there is an ... urgent deadline in the offing.
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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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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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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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What a joy it is to dance and sing!
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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 bed is now as public as the dinner table and governed by the same rules of formal confrontation.
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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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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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