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Vengeful as nature herself, she loves her children only in order to devour them better and if she herself rips her own veils of self-deceit, Mother perceives in herself untold abysses of cruelty as subtle as it is refined.

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
Mother
Veils
Order
Refined
Rips
Nature
Abyss
Abysses
Better
Deceit
Vengeful
Self
Cruelty
Untold
Children
Subtle
Devour
Perceive
Perceives
Loves
Rip

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At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
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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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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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He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.
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I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe.
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Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.
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I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.
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Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.
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The only time I ever iron the sheets or make meringues is when there is an ... urgent deadline in the offing.
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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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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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ordered me a sky from a florist
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I don't really think that writers, even great writers, are prophets, or sages, or Messiah-like figures writing is a lonely, sedentary occupation and a touch of megalomania can be comforting around five on a November afternoon when you haven't seen anybody all day.
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Hope for the best, expect the worst.
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I desire therefore I exist.
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