“Moonlight, white satin, roses. A bride.”

Angela Carter

 

Just south west of London in the suburb of Brixton, there’s an area not far from the High Street called Angela Carter Close.  It’s not very glamorous and kind of disappointing considering the writer it’s named after. I found the sign on the outside of brick building which houses some sort of electrical source. Right beside the small building, there was a pile of garbage bags and several bins. Not the kind of setting that I imagined for such a talented author.

Street sign on a building in Brixton

Angela Olive Stalker was born in 1940 in the town of Eastbourne. Due to the war Angela was evacuated to Yorkshire to live with her grandmother but she did attend High School in London, after which she worked as a journalist for the Croydon Advertiser. She studied English Literature at the University of Bristol.

In 1960, Angela married Paul Carter but they separated and in 1969 she used the proceeds of her Somerset Maugham award to leave him and relocate to Japan for two years. She continued to write about her experiences and did remarry. The second marriage produced a son.

Carter was a feminist who took a controversial leap by embracing the works of the Marquis de Sade. She recognised within the work, that women had a purpose other than giving birth.  I’m not sure if this is the kind of purpose that women would aspire to, but what the hell.  It was Carter’s recognition and who am I to argue.         

In the British Library there’s a section dedicated to literary legends of England.  Angela Carter is amongst them. Sadly, no photos are allowed in that part of the library.

The Magic Toyshop

 If you’ve never read anything by this amazing woman, then shame on you. Start now. Go and get yourself a copy of one of her books and read it.  I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. I’ve read The Magic Toyshop, which is an incestuous riches to rags story aimed at teenage girls – I think. Usually, when somebody writes something, they write it with an audience in mind and that usually starts with one’s self while imagining if you were a certain age and sex, would you read it? Then you kind of picture someone browsing the shelves of a book store and stumbling across your novel after which they spread the word on how wonderful the work is and you end up winning the Nobel Prize for literature and attend an awesome dinner in Stockholm and perhaps sneak out with a piece of the china place setting they use. This didn’t happen to Angela Carter and I don’t know if she ever had that thought, but I enjoyed the book and one day I’ll read more of her work.

 Carter passed away in 1992, she died of lung cancer and I don’t know where she’s buried.  I’ve tried so hard to find out where her grave is or some sort of memorial besides a street sign on a wall, but there isn’t much at all. At least I found something and I’m hoping that Once upon a time in the future, someone erects a more fitting monument to this amazing lady.