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Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.

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
Robbed
Sensation
Sensations
Share
Possible
Reciprocity

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Mother goddesses are just as silly a notion as father gods. If a revival of the myths of these cults gives woman emotional satisfaction, it does so at the price of obscuring the real conditions of life. This is why they were invented in the first place.
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A day without an argument is like an egg without salt.
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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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Soon, nostalgia will be another name for Europe.
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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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His wedding gift, clasped round my throat. A choker of rubies, two inches wide, like an extraordinarily precious slit throat.
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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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The end of exile is the end of being.
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We do not go to bed in single pairs even if we choose not to refer to them, we still drag there with us the cultural impedimenta of our social class, our parents' lives, our bank balances, our sexual and emotional expectations, our whole biographies-all the bits and pieces of our unique existences.
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This lack of imagination gives his heroism to the hero.
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Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.
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What a joy it is to dance and sing!
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Not many people can boast a photo of their grandmother posing for kiddiporn.
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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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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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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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She said to the Daisy girl with her big brown eyes: 'I will not have it plain. No. Fancy. It must be fancy!' She meant her future. A moon-daisy dropped to the floor, down from her hair, like a faintly derisive sign from heaven.
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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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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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I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.
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