Nothing Sacred

Angela Carter is a great traveller, on many fronts. Long autobiographical pieces on her life in South Yorkshire and South London are followed by highly individual inspections of home and abroad. Some of her most brilliant writing is devoted to Japan, that strange and unfathomable country—exotically and erotically described here—so perfectly suited to the Carter pen. Domestically, Angela Carter used her mordant wit and accurate eye to inspect England and Englishness as it manifested itself throughout the land.

On the home front, she writes on Zoos and Fun Fairs, on fashion and make-up, on sexual fads and fripperies, on film and television—and Britain in the gone-but-not-forgotten 60s and 70s springs to life. Finally she turns her attention to her own craft, and her book reviews are masterpieces—at last Katherine Mansfield and Colette are assessed by their equal; Linda Lovelace, Gay Talese and Judith Krantz get a literary spanking where it hurts most; D.H. Lawrence may rise again, but it seems unlikely.

Critics have always used superlatives to describe the work of Angela Carter. What these writings show is that she is also one of the funniest, most perceptive critics of our age, a maverick who has lived through our life and times, and hasn't missed a thing.