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.
I drew the curtains to conceal the sight of my father's farewell; my spite was sharp as broken glass.
The only time I ever iron the sheets or make meringues is when there is an ... urgent deadline in the offing.
I see her as a series of marvellous shapes formed at random in the kaleidoscope of desire.
Strangers used to gather together at the cinema and sit together in the dark, like Ancient Greeks participating in the mysteries, dreaming the same dream in unison.
Among the monsters, I am well hidden; who looks for a leaf in a forest?
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.
Not many people can boast a photo of their grandmother posing for kiddiporn.
They were connoisseurs of boredom. They savoured the various bouquets of the subtly differentiated boredoms which rose from the long, wasted hours at the dead end of night.
Just because we're sisters under the skin doesn't mean we've got much in common.
The wolf is carnivore incarnate and he's as cunning as he is ferocious; once he's had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.
Midnight, and the clock strikes. It is Christmas Day, the werewolves birthday, the door of the solstice still wide enough open to let them all slink through.
Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.
The one-eyed man will be King in the country of the blind only if he arrives there in full possession of his partial faculties--that is, providing he is perfectly aware of the precise nature of sight and does not confuse it with second sightnor with madness.
ordered me a sky from a florist
Our fingernails match our toenails, match our lipstick match our rouge...The habit of applying warpaint outlasts the battle.
Spindly branches of buttercups were secreted among gleaming stems still moist at the roots from last night's rain that had washedand refreshed the entire wood, had dowered it in poignant transparency, the unique, inconsolable quality of rainy countries, as if all was glimpsed through tears.
Stars on our door, stars in our eyes, stars exploding in the bits of our brains where the common sense should have been
Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.
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.
The notion of a universality of human experience is a confidence trick and the notion of a universality of female experience is a clever confidence trick.
He is, I think, already pondering a magisterial project: that of buggering the English language, the ultimate revenge of the colonialised.
There are lots of things that you can brush under the carpet about yourself until you're faced with somebody whose needs won't be put off.
He is the intermediary between us, his audience, the living, and they, the dolls, the undead, who cannot live at all and yet who mimic the living in every detail since, though they cannot speak or weep, still they project those signals of signification we instantly recognize as language.
My mother learned that she was carrying me at about the same time the Second World War was declared; with the family talent for magic realism, she once told me she had been to the doctor's on the very day.
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