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How far does a pretence of feeling, maintained with absolute conviction, become authentic?

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
Conviction
Feeling
Feelings
Become
Pretence
Doe
Maintained
Authentic
Absolutes
Absolute

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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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They will be like shadows, they will be like wraiths, gray members of a congregation of nightmare hark! his long wavering howl . . . an aria of fear made audible. The wolfsong is the sound of the rending you will suffer, in itself a murdering.
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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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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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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 book is simply the container of an idea-like a bottle what is inside the book is what matters.
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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!
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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It shone on everyone, whether they had a contract or not. The most democratic thing I'd ever seen, that California sunshine.
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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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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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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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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 drew the curtains to conceal the sight of my father's farewell my spite was sharp as broken glass.
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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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She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane she is a closed system she does not know how to shiver.
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Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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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.
Angela Carter