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Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.

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
Blood
Spill
Spills
Pigs
Throat
Kill
Cutting

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For a small island [Great Britain], the place is remarkably diverse.
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Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.
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How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?
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Towards midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars.
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Percival was mouse-coloured and had not been very attractive even to his mother.
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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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Worse than madness. Sanity.
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Serve you right if something did get you, you useless lot of cry-babies!
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I play the piano passionately and inaccurately. Indeed, I worked out the other day that of my seventy-five years I have spent at least one year sitting on a piano stool.
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An orotundity, which I define as Nobelitis a pomposity in which one is treated as representative of more than oneself by someone conscious of representing more than himself.
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What a man does defiles him, not what is done by others.
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Childhood is a disease - a sickness that you grow out of.
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What could be safer than the bus center with its lamps and wheels?
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I am by nature an optimist and by intellectual conviction a pessimist.
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If I blow the conch and they don't come back then we've had it. We shan't keep the fire going. We'll be like animals. We'll never be rescued. If you don't blow, we'll soon be animals anyway.
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I suppose I'd have to say that my favourite author is Homer. After Homer's Ilaid, I'd name The Odyssey, and then I'd mention a number of plays of Euripides.
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For a small island, the place is remarkably diverse. Writers tend to see things from their own points of view, looking in one direction very much.
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You'll get back to where you came from.
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Marx, Darwin and Freud are the three most crashing bores of the Western World. Simplistic popularization of their ideas has thrust our world into a mental straitjacket from which we can only escape by the most anarchic violence.
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People don't help much.
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