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For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.

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
Never
Endlessly
Mets
Anybody
Nobody
Days
Within
Hours
Years
Wandered

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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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Pornographers are the enemies of women only because our contemporary ideology of pornography does not encompass the possibility of change, as if we were the slaves of history and not its makers. . . . Pornography is a satire on human pretensions.
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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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Some cities are women and must be loved others are men and can only be admired or bargained with
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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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Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.
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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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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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Vengeful as nature herself, she loves her children only in order to devour them better and if she herself rips her own veils of self-deceit, Mother perceives in herself untold abysses of cruelty as subtle as it is refined.
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And, oh God, in my misspent youth as a housewife, I, too, used to bake bread, in those hectic and desolating days just prior to the woman's movement, when middle-class women were supposed to be wonderful wives and mothers, gracious hostesses.... I used to feel so womanly when I was baking my filthy bread.
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The kind of power mothers have is enormous.
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Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.
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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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Anxiety is the beginning of conscience, which is the parent of the soul but is not compatible with innocence.
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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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Aeneas carried his aged father on his back from the ruins of Troy and so do we all, whether we like it or not, perhaps even if we have never known them.
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The invisible is only another unexplored country, a brave new world.
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Soon, nostalgia will be another name for Europe.
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