Quote

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.

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
Way
Clearly
Ironic
Men
Kinds
Text
Time
Taken
Torn
Age
Cats
Bigs
Betray
Burroughs
Fear
Irony
Weave
Seems
Cat
Resigned
Kind
Acceptance
Sentimentality

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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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Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
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Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.
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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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Some cities are women and must be loved others are men and can only be admired or bargained with
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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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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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Women's sexy underwear is a minor but significant growth industry of late-twentieth-century Britain in the twilight of capitalism.
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Drosselmeier had unwittingly exposed himself to an overdose of reality, and it had destroyed his reason.
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The end of exile is the end of being.
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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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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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Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.
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For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written — heard, not read. So fairy tales, folk tales, stories from the oral tradition, are all of them the most vital connection we have with the imaginations of the ordinary men and women whose labor created our world.
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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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And each stroke of his tongue ripped off skin after successive skin, all the skins of a life in the world, and left behind a nascent patina of shining hairs. My earrings turned back to water and trickled down my shoulders I shrugged the drops off my beautiful fur.
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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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Art need no longer be an account of past sensations.
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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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Hope for the best, expect the worst.
Angela Carter