Fevvers is my inspiration.
“ 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. She has the mysterious solitude of ambiguous states; she hovers in a no-man’s land between life and death, sleeping and waking.
— Angela Carter, “The Lady of the House of Love” from The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories (via awritersruminations)
“ The summer she was fifteen, Melanie discovered she was made of flesh and blood. O, my America, my new found land. She embarked on a tranced voyage, exploring the whole of herself, clambering her own mountain ranges, penetrating the moist richness of her secret valleys, a physiological Cortez, da Gama or Mungo Park. For hours she stared at herself, naked, in the mirror of her wardrobe; she would follow with her finger the elegant structure of her rib-cage, where the heart fluttered under the flesh like a bird under a blanket, and she would draw down the long line from breast-bone to navel (which was a mysterious cavern or grotto), and she would rasp her palms against her bud-wing shoulder blades. And then she would writhe about, clasping herself, laughing, sometimes doing cartwheels and handstands out of sheer exhilaration at the supple surprise of herself now she was no longer a little girl.
— Angela Carter: The Magic Toyshop (via la-la-la-lines)
“ He was as much himself again as he ever would be, and yet that “self” would never be the same again for now he knew the meaning of fear as it defines itself in its most violent form, that is, fear of the death of the beloved, of the loss of the beloved, of the loss of love. It was the beginning of an anxiety that would never end, except with the deaths of either or both; and anxiety is the beginning of conscience, which is the parent of the soul but is not compatible with innocence.
— Nights at the Circus – Angela Carter (7 May 1940 – 16 February 1992)
Angela Carter (7th May 1940 — 16th February 1992)
Happy birthday Angela, you wonderful woman. ‘Tis a real shame that you cannot still be with us.
Y’all—according to The Guardian, in 1992-1993 there were more requests for Ph.D. funding on Angela Carter than on the whole of the eighteenth century.
“ The girl burst out laughing; she knew she was nobody’s meat. She laughed at him full in the face, she ripped off his shirt for him and flung it into the fire, in the fiery wake of her own discarded clothing.
— “The Company of Wolves” – The Bloody Chamber – Angela Carter (7 May 1940 – 16 February 1992)
“ Her voice is filled with distant sonorities, like reverberations in a cave: now you are at the place of annihilation, now you are at the place of annihilation. And she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit. ‘Can a bird sing only the song it knows or can it learn a new song?’ She draws her long, sharp fingernail across the bars of the cage in which her pet lark sings, striking a plangent twang like that of the plucked heartstrings of a woman of metal. Her hair falls down like tears.
— “The Lady of the House of Love” – The Bloody Chamber – Angela Carter (7 May 1940 – 16 February 1992)