I will tell you what Jeanne was like. She was like a piano in a country where everyone has had their hands cut off.
Interpretation
The quote compares Jeanne's uniqueness and talent to an unused piano in a land where no one can play it.
Angela Carter's quote highlights the idea of inherent beauty and potential that goes unrecognized or unappreciated in an environment that limits expression and creativity. The metaphor of a piano in a country without hands suggests that Jeanne's qualities are extraordinary, yet they cannot be fully realized or valued due to the circumstances around her, emphasizing the disconnect between potential and opportunity.
In practice
In a discussion about the importance of artistic expression in restrictive societies.
She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver.
Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.
Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves.
For most of human history, 'literature,' both fiction and poetry, has been narrated, not written β 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.
Iconic clothing has been secularized. . . . A guardsman in a dress uniform is ostensibly an icon of aggression; his coat is red as the blood he hopes to shed. Seen on a coat-hanger, with no man inside it, the uniform loses all its blustering significance and, to the innocent eye seduced by decorative colour and tactile braid, it is as abstract in symbolic information as a parasol to an Eskimo. It becomes simply magnificent.
To pin your hopes upon the future is to consign those hopes to a hypothesis, which is to say, a nothingness. Here and now is what we must contend with.
He spares no resource in telling of his dead inventions... Bare verbs he rarely tolerates. He splits infinitives and fills them up with adverbial stuffing. He presses the passing colloquialism into his service. His vast paragraphis sweat and struggle; the
When I write, I make my memories tangible, and in this way I can get rid of them.
The world has kissed my Soul with its pain, asking for its return in Songs.
Performance is there, and if you are not there in that moment it happened, it just stays in the memory. It's so immaterial and something this immaterial is very difficult to collect. Its difficult to buy, its how we can buy immaterial art.
Hay que ser absolutamente Moderno
Imagine writing a poem with a sweating, worried-looking boy handing you a different pencil at the end of every word. My golf, you may say, is no poem; nevertheless, I keep wanting it to be one.
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