Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.
Angela CarterRead
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.
Interpretation
This quote explores the idea of feminine purity and potential, depicting a woman as a sealed vessel full of untapped magic and power.
Angela Carter's quote poetically illustrates the complexity of a woman's identity and the concept of virginity as both a physical and symbolic state. The imagery of an 'unbroken egg' and a 'sealed vessel' signifies the purity, potential, and magic inherent in a woman who has yet to be touched by the world, emphasizing the richness and depth she possesses beneath the surface.
In practice
This quote could be used in a discussion about women's empowerment during a seminar.
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 — 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.
I haven't changed much, over the years. I use less adjectives, now, and have a kinder heart, perhaps.
Perhaps love is a minor madness. And as with madness, it's unendurable alone. The one person who can relieve us is of course the sole person we cannot go to: the one we love. So instead we seek out allies, even among strangers and wives, fellow patients who, if they can't touch the edge of our particular sorrow, have felt something that cuts nearly as deep.
I have seen romanticism outlast the realistic. I have seen men forget the beautiful women they have possessed, forget the prostitutes, and remember the first woman they idolized, the woman they could never have. The woman who aroused them romantically holds them.
Love is a continual interrogation. I don’t know of a better definition of love.
Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare... Perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways.
Kissing someone is pretty intimate, actually very intimate, and your heart always kind of skips a beat before you do that.
Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.
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