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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.

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
English
Projects
Ultimate
Already
Language
Magisterial
Think
Pondering
Thinking
Revenge
Project

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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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Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been
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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 stood lost in eternity wearing a crazy dress, watching the immense sky.
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The end of exile is the end of being.
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If Miss means respectably unmarried, and Mrs. respectably married, then Ms. means nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
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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.
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Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
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[T]ea, that uniquely English meal, that unnecessary collation at which no stimulants--neither alcohol nor meat--are served, that comforting repast of which to partake is as good as second childhood.
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She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. from The Lady of the Haunted House
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The tiger will never lie down with the lamb he acknowledges no pact that is not reciprocal. The lamb must learn to run with the tigers.
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There are lots of things that you can brush under the carpet about yourself until you're faced with somebody whose needs won't be put off.
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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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Losing their names, these things underwent a process of uncreation.
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Though I still turn up my coat-collar in a lonely way and am always looking at myself in mirrors, they’re only habits and give no clue at all to my character, whatever that is. The most difficult performance in the world is acting naturally isn’t it? Everything else is artful.
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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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The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: This is the end. Because it would have been.
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I think it's one of the scars in our culture that we have too high an opinion of ourselves. We align ourselves with the angels instead of the higher primates.
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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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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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