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A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.

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
Salt
Eggs
Argument
Literature
Without
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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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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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Among the monsters, I am well hidden who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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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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Your thin white face, chérie he said, as if he saw it for the first time. Your thin white face, with its promise of debauchery only a connoisseur could detect.
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Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
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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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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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The kind of power mothers have is enormous.
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Love is desire sustained by unfulfilment.
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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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The kind of power mothers have is enormous. Take the skyline of Istanbul - enormous breasts, pathetic little willies, a final revenge on Islam. I was so scared I had to crouch in the bottom of the boat when I saw it.
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Nothing is a matter of life and death except life and death.
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What a joy it is to dance and sing!
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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
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Nostalgia, the vice of the aged.
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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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Fine art, that exists for itself alone, is art in a final state of impotence. If nobody, including the artist, acknowledges art as a means of knowing the world, then art is relegated to a kind of rumpus room of the mind and the irresponsibility of the artist and the irrelevance of art to actual living becomes part and parcel of the practice of art.
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I should have liked to have had him beside me in a glass coffin, so that I could watch him all the time and he would not have been able to get away from me.
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