Quote

[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.

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
Eating
Unnecessary
Repast
Second
Meals
Stimulants
Good
Alcohol
Partake
Meat
Uniquely
English
Comforting
Neither
Meal
England
Served
Childhood
Tea

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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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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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A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.
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Pornography is a satire on human pretensions.
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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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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
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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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ordered me a sky from a florist
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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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This lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero.
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The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?
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If the Barbarians are destroyed, who will we then be able to blame for the bad things?
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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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It's every woman's tragedy, that, after a certain age, she looks like a female impersonator. Mind you, we've known some lovely female impersonators, in our time.
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What a joy it is to dance and sing!
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A fairy tale is the kind of story in which one king goes to another king to borrow a cup of sugar
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A young girl would go into the wood as trustingly as Red Riding Hood to her granny's house but this light admits no ambiguities and, here, she will be trapped in her own illusion because everything in the woods is exactly as it seems.
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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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It is far easier for a woman to lead a blameless life than it is for a man all she has to do is to avoid sexual intercourse like the plague.
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