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He was a lovely man in many ways. But he kept on insisting on forgiving me when there was nothing to forgive.

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
Forgive
Forgiving
Lovely
Kept
Ways
Nothing
Many
Way
Insisting

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I think I want to be in love with you but I don't know how.
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It's every woman's tragedy, that, after a certain age, she looks like a female impersonator. Mind you, we've known some lovely female impersonators, in our time.
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Before he can become a wolf, the lycanthrope strips naked. If you spy a naked man among the pines, you must run as if the Devil were after you.
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What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?
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The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he's as cunning as he is ferocious once he's had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.
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Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.
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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 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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The bed is now as public as the dinner table and governed by the same rules of formal confrontation.
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All artists, they say, are a little mad. This madness is, to a certain extent, a self-created myth designed to keep the generality away from the phenomenally close-knit creative community. Yet, in the world of the artists, the consciously eccentric are always respectful and admiring if those who have the courage to be genuinely a little mad.
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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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The one-eyed man will be King in the country of the blind only if he arrives there in full possession of his partial faculties--that is, providing he is perfectly aware of the precise nature of sight and does not confuse it with second sightnor with madness.
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Not for Moorcock the painful, infrequent excretion of dry little novels like so many rabbit pellets his is the grand, messy fluxitself, in all its heroic vulgarity, its unquenchable optimism, its enthusiasm for the inexhaustible variousness of things.
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