And in that belly, rich as a thousand harvests, there was no treacherous oblivion for me for, at birth, I’d lost all right of reentry into the womb. I was exiled from Nirvana forever, and, faced with the concrete essence of woman, I was at my wit’s end how to behave. I could not imagine what giant being might couple with her; she was a piece of pure nature, she was earth, she was fructification. I had reached my journey’s end as a man. I knew, then, that I was among the Mothers; I experienced the pure terror of Faust. And she had made herself! Yes, made herself! She was her own mythological artefact; she had reconstructed her flesh painfully, with knives and with needles, into a transcendental form as an emblem, as an example, and flung a patchwork quilt stitched from her daughters’ breasts over the cathedral of her interior, the cave within the cave. The Passion of the New Eve – Angela Carter
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MENNINGIN
Arngrímur Vídalín
Ásgeir H. Menningarsmygl
Ármann Jakobsson
BBC-Menning
Berglind Ósk
Björn Halldórsson
Bókmenntavefurinn
Brynjar Jóhannesson
DN-Kultur
Guardian-Books
Haukur Már
Hermann Stefánsson
Hugrás
Ísak Regal
Lestrarklefinn
RÚV-Menning
Lommi
Lóa Björk
Vísir-Menning
Skáld.is
Snæbjörn Kaktus
Stundin-Menning
SVT-Menning
Tímarit Máls og menningar
Hlín Agnarsdóttir
Þórdís Gísladóttir
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