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He doesn't mind if he dies... indeed, he would like to die but yet he fears to fall. He would welcome a long sleep but not at the price of falling to it.

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
Long
Welcome
Mind
Price
Would
Indeed
Like
Sleep
Dies
Fear
Fall
Fears
Doesn
Falling

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Put simply the novel stands between us and the hardening concept of statistical man. There is no other medium in which we can live for so long and so intimately with a character. That is the service a novel renders.
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It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.
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Nothing is so impenetrable as laughter in a language you don't understand.
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Novelists do not write as birds sing, by the push of nature. It is part of the job that there should be much routine and some daily stuff on the level of carpentry.
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You'll get back to where you came from.
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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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A star appeared...and was momentarily eclipsed by some movement.
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We did everything adults would do. What went wrong?
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The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away.
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I suppose drama can either take the place of a novel or can be very closely allied with it. It's quite customary to turn a successful novel into a film or a television series because you can dramatize and pictorialize a novel.
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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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My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.
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What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?
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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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Life's scientific, but we don't know, do we? Not certainly, I mean.
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He lost himself in a maze of thoughts that were rendered vague by his lack of words to express them. Frowning, he tried again.
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My father was very musical, and music plays quite a large part in my life.
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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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Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!
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