TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Today, for the first time in years, I opened my paperback copy of The Bloody Chamber, to search for the company of wolves. On the cover, a young blonde nude white woman stretches to embrace a wolf, eyes closed in rapture, with long arms, big hands, sharp claws. Flip the book and spy the faded tangerine sticker marked "$.99"; I must have picked it up in a thrift store somewhere in California. As it was my first book by Angela Carter, I would not have known what I was letting into my life when I brought the book to the counter, and paid for it and whatever else I had found in that shop where things assume their second lives as castoffs and potential treasures. Later, I bought another copy, lent it to someone, never saw it again; I assume they too got lost in Carter's forests and castles, in the voluptuous terrors at the heart of the fairy tale. The book smells sweet, like a delicate cookie that, when placed on the tongue, melts away immediately, into a tingling trace of sugar and spice.