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
Turns
Dressed
Sculptured
Water
Shoulders
Coarse
Rose
Brightness
Became
Cheek
Line
Simon
Hair
Marble
Turn
Shoulder
Lines
Cheeks
Silvered

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Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.
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If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything?
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What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?
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We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.
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I don't think they [contemporary writers] read me either. I mean, if we're concerned genuinely with writing, I think we probably get on with our work.
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There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.
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The mask was a thing on it's own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness.
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What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?
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There is, they say, no fool like an old fool.
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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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Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.
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Among the virtues and vices that make up the British character, we have one vice, at least, that Americans ought to view with sympathy. For they appear to be the only people who share it with us. I mean our worship of the antique. I do not refer to beauty or even historical association. I refer to age, to a quantity of years.
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The man who tells the tale if he has a tale worth telling will know exactly what he is about and this business of the artist as a sort of starry-eyed inspired creature, dancing along, with his feet two or three feet above the surface of the earth, not really knowing what sort of prints he's leaving behind him, is nothing like the truth.
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Worse than madness. Sanity.
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I will tell you what man is. He is a freak, an ejected foetus robbed of his natural development, thrown out into the world with a naked covering of parchment, with too little room for his teeth and a soft bulging skull like a bubble. But nature stirs a pudding there.
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Even if you got rid of paper, you would still have story-tellers. In fact, you had the story-tellers before you had the paper.
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Heaven lies around us in our infancy.
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I am by nature an optimist and by intellectual conviction a pessimist.
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The rules! shouted Ralph, you're breaking the rules! Who cares?
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To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or guess at anything but that world is not merely hell but the only possible damnation: the act of a man damning himself. It may be
William Golding