Quote

The water rose further and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble.

William Golding

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William Golding
Age: 81 †
Born: 1911
Born: September 19
Died: 1993
Died: June 19
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Newquay
Cornwall
William Gerald Albert Golding
Sir William Gerald Golding
Water
Shoulders
Coarse
Rose
Brightness
Became
Cheek
Line
Simon
Hair
Marble
Turn
Shoulder
Lines
Cheeks
Silvered
Turns
Dressed
Sculptured

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The greatest pleasure is not - say - sex or geometry. It is just understanding. And if you can get people to understand their own humanity - well, that's the job of the writer.
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I think they've got 250 languages in Nigeria, and so English is a sort of lingua franca between the 250 languages.
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Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!
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At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing.
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Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.
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I am astonished at the ease with which uninformed persons come to a settled, a passionate opinion when they have no grounds for judgment.
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Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us.
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Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?
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I also know Patrick White in Australia, both personally and as a writer, and Salman Rushdie in India.
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They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate.
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They accepted the pleasures of morning, the bright sun, the whelming sea and sweet air, as a time when play was good and life so full that hope was not necessary and therefore forgotten.
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The beast was harmless and horrible and the news must reach the others as soon as possible.
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Maybe, he said hesitantly, maybe there is a beast. The assembly cried out savagely and Ralph stood up in amazement. You, Simon? You believe in this? I don't know, said Simon. His heartbeats were choking him. [...] Ralph shouted. Hear him! He's got the conch! What I mean is . . . maybe it's only us. Nuts! That was from Piggy, shocked out of decorum.
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Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?
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Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.
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I mean, if we're concerned genuinely with writing, I think we probably get on with our work. I think this is very true of English writers, but perhaps not so true of French writers, who seem to read each other passionately, extensively, and endlessly, and who then talk about it to each other - which is splendid.
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You'll get back to where you came from.
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One tries to tell a truth, and one hopes that the truth has a general application rather than just a specific one.
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What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?
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We're not savages. We're English.
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