By Angela Carter
Angela Carter has encouraged an entire iteration of fellow writers in the direction of dream worlds of baroque splendour, fairy story horror, and visions of the alienated wreckage of a destiny global. In Nights on the Circus she has invented a brand new, raunchy, raucous, Cockney voice for her heroine Fevvers, taking us again right into a wealthy, flip of the nineteenth century international, which reeks of human and animal variety' the days. * 'Nights on the Circus is an excellent attraction. yet an attraction that is rooted in an earthy, wealthy and strong language...It is a spell-binding achievement' Literary overview * 'A excellent piece of labor, a set-piece studded with set-pieces. The narrative has a greatest ripe momentum, and every descriptive contact contributes a pang of vividness. by means of doing attainable issues impossibly good, the ebook achieves an incredible enchantment' instances Literary complement * 'A mistress-piece of sustained and weirdly awesome Gothic that's either intensely a laugh and likewise provocatively severe. this can be a immense, superlatively imagined novel' Observer * 'A amazing publication through any standards' mum or dad
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Additional info for Nights at the Circus
Inside and outside matched exactly, but both were badly wrong. H'm. He rejected a bacon sandwich; the strips of rusty meat slapped between the doorsteps of white bread seemed to him for dire extremities of hunger only, but Fevvers tucked in with relish, a vigorous mastication of large teeth, a smacking of plump lips smeared with grease. Lizzie passed him a fresh mug of black tea for him to burn his gullet with. Everything aggressively normal about all this, except the hour. The food put fresh heart into the aerialiste.
After the door clanged shut again, I'd go and turn the light on, throw a blanket over the Sleeping Beauty, lift the Wonder off the perch from which it was too high for her to jump, and Toussaint would bring us a hot pot of coffee with a bit of brandy in it, or tea with rum, for it was perishing down there. Oh, it was easy work, all right, especially for me and the Beauty. But what I never could get used to was the sight of their eyes, for there was no terror in the house our customers did not bring with them.
Because the Sleeping Beauty's face had grown so thin, her eyes were especially prominent, and her closed eyelids were dark as the underskins of mushrooms and must have grown very heavy during those long, slumbering years, for, every evening, when she opened her little windows at the approach of the dark, it cost her a greater, even greater effort, as if it took all the feeble strength that remained to her to open up shop. "And, every time, we who watched and waited with her supper were afraid that, this time, it might be the last time she would so valiantly strive to wake, that the vast, unknown ocean of sleep, on which she drifted like seawrack, had, that night, finally taken her so far from shore on its mysterious currents that she would not return.
Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter