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Just because we're sisters under the skin doesn't mean we've got much in common.

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
Much
Feminism
Sister
Skin
Skins
Justice
Common
Doesn
Mean
Sisters

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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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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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In a secular age, an authentic miracle must purport to be a hoax, in order to gain credit in the world.
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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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ordered me a sky from a florist
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In the mythic schema of all relations between men and women, man proposes, and woman is disposed of.
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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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Love is desire sustained by unfulfilment.
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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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I think the adjective post-modernist really means mannerist. Books about books is fun but frivolous.
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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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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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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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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.
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Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
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Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.
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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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The invisible is only another unexplored country, a brave new world.
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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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