Quote

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.

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
Delusion
Confusions
Confusion
Partition
Mad
Confinement
Illusion
Delusions
Race
Wrapped
Whole
Illusions
Damned
Solitary
Partitions

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He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life,where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.
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The greatest ideas are the simplest.
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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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Percival was mouse-coloured and had not been very attractive even to his mother.
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The thing is - fear can't hurt you any more than a dream.
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They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate.
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But forgiveness must not only be given but received also.
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You'll get back to where you came from.
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They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate.
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It wasn't until I was 37 that I grasped the great truth that you've got to write your own books and nobody else's, and then everything followed from there.
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There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.
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However you disguise novels, they are always biographies.
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The trouble was, if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise.
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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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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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Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.
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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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The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away.
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Which is better--to have laws and agree, or to hunt and kill?
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Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!
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