Lord of the Flies PDF AZW3 EPUB MOBI TXT Download

Golding’s iconic 1954 novel, now with a new foreword by Lois Lowry, remains one of the greatest books ever written for young adults and an unforgettable classic for readers of any age.   This edition includes a new Suggestions for Further Reading by Jennifer Buehler.At the dawn of the next world war, a plane crashes on an uncharted island, stranding a group of schoolboys. At first, with no adult supervision, their freedom is something to celebrate. This far from civilization they can do anything they want. Anything. But as order collapses, as strange howls echo in the night, as terror begins its reign, the hope of adventure seems as far removed from reality as the hope of being rescued.

William Golding
December 16, 2003
224 pages

File Size: 40 MB
Available File Formats: PDF AZW3 DOCX EPUB MOBI TXT or Kindle audiobook Audio CD(Several files can be converted to each other)
Language: English, Francais, Italiano, Espanol, Deutsch, chinese

“Lord of the Flies is one of my favorite books. I still read it every couple of years.”  —Suzanne Collins, author of The Hunger Games trilogy “I finished the last half of Lord of the Flies in a single afternoon, my eyes wide, my heart pounding, not thinking, just inhaling….My rule of thumb as a writer and reader—largely formed by Lord of the Flies—is feel it first, think about it later.”  —Stephen King “This brilliant work is a frightening parody on man’s return [in a few weeks] to that state of darkness from which it took him thousands of years to emerge. Fully to succeed, a fantasy must approach very close to reality. Lord of the Flies does. It must also be superbly written. It is.”  —The New York Times Book Review About the Author William Golding was born in Cornwall, England, in 1911 and educated at Oxford University. His first book, Poems, was published in 1935. Following a stint in the Royal Navy during World War II, Golding wrote Lord of the Flies while teaching school. It was the first of several works, including the novels Pincher Martin, Free Fall, and The Inheritors and a play, The Brass Butterfly, which led to his being awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1983. Lois Lowry is the two-time Newbery Award–winning author of Number the Stars,The Giver Quartet, and numerous other books for young adults. Jennifer Buehler is an associate professor of educational studies at Saint Louis University and President of The Assembly on Literature for Adolescents of the National Council of Teachers of English. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. THE SOUND OFTHE SHELLTHE BOY WITH FAIR HAIR LOWERED HIMSELF down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat. He was clambering heavily among the creepers and broken trunks when a bird, a vision of red and yellow, flashed upwards with a witchlike cry; and this cry was echoed by another.    “Hi!” it said. “Wait a minute!”    The undergrowth at the side of the scar was shaken and a multitude of raindrops fell pattering.    “Wait a minute,” the voice said. “I got caught up.”    The fair boy stopped and jerked his stockings with an automatic gesture that made the jungle seem for a moment like the Home Counties.    The voice spoke again.    “I can’t hardly move with all these creeper things.”    The owner of the voice came backing out of the undergrowth so that twigs scratched on a greasy wind-breaker. The naked crooks of his knees were plump, caught and scratched by thorns. He bent down, removed the thorns carefully, and turned around. He was shorter than the fair boy and very fat. He came forward, searching out safe lodgments for his feet, and then looked up through thick spectacles.    “Where’s the man with the megaphone?”    The fair boy shook his head.    “This is an island. At least I think it’s an island. That’s a reef out in the sea. Perhaps there aren’t any grownups anywhere.”    The fat boy looked startled.    “There was that pilot. But he wasn’t in the passenger cabin, he was up in front.”    The fair boy was peering at the reef through screwed-up eyes.    “All them other kids,” the fat boy went on. “Some of them must have got out. They must have, mustn’t they?”    The fair boy began to pick his way as casually as possible toward the water. He tried to be offhand and not too obviously uninterested, but the fat boy hurried after him.    “Aren’t there any grownups at all?”    “I don’t think so.”    The fair boy said this solemnly; but then the delight of a realized ambition overcame him. In the middle of the scar he stood on his head and grinned at the reversed fat boy.    “No grownups!”    The fat boy thought for a moment.    “That pilot.”    The fair boy allowed his feet to come down and sat on the steamy earth.    “He must have flown off after he dropped us. He couldn’t land here. Not in a place with wheels.”    “We was attacked!”    “He’ll be back all right.”    The fat boy shook his head.    “When we was coming down I looked through one of them windows. I saw the other part of the plane. There were flames coming out of it.”    He looked up and down the scar.    “And this is what the cabin done.”    The fair boy reached out and touched the jagged end of a trunk. For a moment he looked interested.    “What happened to it?” he asked. “Where’s it got to now?”    “That storm dragged it out to sea. It wasn’t half dangerous with all them tree trunks falling. There must have been some kids still in it.”    He hesitated for a moment, then spoke again.    “What’s your name?”    “Ralph.”    The fat boy waited to be asked his name in turn but this proffer of acquaintance was not made; the fair boy called Ralph smiled vaguely, stood up, and began to make his way once more toward the lagoon. The fat boy hung steadily at his shoulder.    “I expect there’s a lot more of us scattered about. You haven’t seen any others, have you?”    Ralph shook his head and increased his speed. Then he tripped over a branch and came down with a crash.    The fat boy stood by him, breathing hard.    “My auntie told me not to run,” he explained, “on account of my asthma.”    “Ass-mar?”    “That’s right. Can’t catch my breath. I was the only boy in our school what had asthma,” said the fat boy with a touch of pride. “And I’ve been wearing specs since I was three.”    He took off his glasses and held them out to Ralph, blinking and smiling, and then started to wipe them against his grubby wind-breaker. An expression of pain and inward concentration altered the pale contours of his face. He smeared the sweat from his cheeks and quickly adjusted the spectacles on his nose.    “Them fruit.”    He glanced round the scar.    “Them fruit,” he said, “I expect—”    He put on his glasses, waded away from Ralph, and crouched down among the tangled foliage.    “I’ll be out again in just a minute—”    Ralph disentangled himself cautiously and stole away through the branches. In a few seconds the fat boy’s grunts were behind him and he was hurrying toward the screen that still lay between him and the lagoon. He climbed over a broken trunk and was out of the jungle.    The shore was fledged with palm trees. These stood or leaned or reclined against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in the air. The ground beneath them was a bank covered with coarse grass, torn everywhere by the upheavals of fallen trees, scattered with decaying coconuts and palm saplings. Behind this was the darkness of the forest proper and the open space of the scar. Ralph stood, one hand against a grey trunk, and screwed up his eyes against the shimmering water. Out there, perhaps a mile away, the white surf flinked on a coral reef, and beyond that the open sea was dark blue. Within the irregular arc of coral the lagoon was still as a mountain lake—blue of all shades and shadowy green and purple. The beach between the palm terrace and the water was a thin stick, endless apparently, for to Ralph’s left the perspectives of palm and beach and water drew to a point at infinity; and always, almost visible, was the heat.    He jumped down from the terrace. The sand was thick over his black shoes and the heat hit him. He became conscious of the weight of clothes, kicked his shoes off fiercely and ripped off each stocking with its elastic garter in a single movement. Then he leapt back on the terrace, pulled off his shirt, and stood there among the skull-like coconuts with green shadows from the palms and the forest sliding over his skin. He undid the snake-clasp of his belt, lugged off his shorts and pants, and stood there naked, looking at the dazzling beach and the water.    He was old enough, twelve years and a few months, to have lost the prominent tummy of childhood and not yet old enough for adolescence to have made him awkward. You could see now that he might make a boxer, as far as width and heaviness of shoulders went, but there was a mildness about his mouth and eyes that proclaimed no devil. He patted the palm trunk softly, and, forced at last to believe in the reality of the island laughed delightedly again and stood on his head. He turned nearly on to his feet, jumped down to the beach, knelt and swept a double armful of sand into a pile against his chest. Then he sat back and looked at the water with bright, excited eyes.    “Ralph—”    The fat boy lowered himself over the terrace and sat down carefully, using the edge as a seat.    “I’m sorry I been such a time. Them fruit—”    He wiped his glasses and adjusted them on his button nose. The frame had made a deep, pink “V” on the bridge. He looked critically at Ralph’s golden body and then down at his own clothes. He laid a hand on the end of a zipper that extended down his chest.    “My auntie—”    Then he opened the zipper with decision and pulled the whole wind-breaker over his head.    “There!”    Ralph looked at him sidelong and said nothing.    “I expect we’ll want to know all their names,” said the fat boy, “and make a list. We ought to have a meeting.”    Ralph did not take the hint so the fat boy was forced to continue.    “I don’t care what they call me,” he said confidentially, “so long as they don’t call me what they used to call me at school.”    Ralph was faintly interested.    “What was that?”    The fat boy glanced over his shoulder, then leaned toward Ralph.    He whispered.    “They used to call me `Piggy.'”    Ralph shrieked with laughter. He jumped up.    “Piggy! Piggy!”    “Ralph—please!”    Piggy clasped his hands in apprehension.    “I said I didn’t want—”    “Piggy! Piggy!”    Ralph danced out into the hot air of the beach and then returned as a fighter-plane, with wings swept back, and machine-gunned Piggy.    “Sche-aa-ow!”    He dived in the sand at Piggy’s feet and lay there laughing.    “Piggy!”    Piggy grinned reluctantly, pleased despite himself at even this much recognition.    “So long as you don’t tell the others—”    Ralph giggled into the sand. The expression of pain and concentration returned to Piggy’s face.    “Half a sec’.”    He hastened back into the forest. Ralph stood up and trotted along to the right.    Here the beach was interrupted abruptly by the square motif of the landscape; a great platform of pink granite thrust up uncompromisingly through forest and terrace and sand and lagoon to make a raised jetty four feet high. The top of this was covered with a thin layer of soil and coarse grass and shaded with young palm trees. There was not enough soil for them to grow to any height and when they reached perhaps twenty feet they fell and dried, forming a criss-cross pattern of trunks, very convenient to sit on. The palms that still stood made a green roof, covered on the underside with a quivering tangle of reflections from the lagoon. Ralph hauled himself onto this platform, noted the coolness and shade, shut one eye, and decided that the shadows on his body were really green. He picked his way to the seaward edge of the platform and stood looking down into the water. It was clear to the bottom and bright with the efflorescence of tropical weed and coral. A school of tiny, glittering fish flicked hither and thither. Ralph spoke to himself, sounding the bass strings of delight.    “Whizzoh!”    Beyond the platform there was more enchantment. Some act of God—a typhoon perhaps, or the storm that had accompanied his own arrival—had banked sand inside the lagoon so that there was a long, deep pool in the beach with a high ledge of pink granite at the further end. Ralph had been deceived before now by the specious appearance of depth in a beach pool and he approached this one preparing to be disappointed. But the island ran true to form and the incredible pool, which clearly was only invaded by the sea at high tide, was so deep at one end as to be dark green. Ralph inspected the whole thirty yards carefully and then plunged in. The water was warmer than his blood and he might have been swimming in a huge bath.    Piggy appeared again, sat on the rocky ledge, and watched Ralph’s green and white body enviously.    “You can’t half swim.”    “Piggy.”    Piggy took off his shoes and socks, ranged them carefully on the ledge, and tested the water with one toe.    “It’s hot!”    “What did you expect?”    “I didn’t expect nothing. My auntie—”    “Sucks to your auntie!”    Ralph did a surface dive and swam under water with his eyes open; the sandy edge of the pool loomed up like a hillside. He turned over, holding his nose, and a golden light danced and shattered just over his face. Piggy was looking determined and began to take off his shorts. Presently he was palely and fatly naked. He tiptoed down the sandy side of the pool, and sat there up to his neck in water smiling proudly at Ralph.    “Aren’t you going to swim?”    Piggy shook his head.    “I can’t swim. I wasn’t allowed. My asthma—”    “Sucks to your ass-mar!”    Piggy bore this with a sort of humble patience.    “You can’t half swim well.”    Ralph paddled backwards down the slope, immersed his mouth and blew a jet of water into the air. Then he lifted his chin and spoke.    “I could swim when I was five. Daddy taught me. He’s a commander in the Navy. When he gets leave he’ll come and rescue us. What’s your father?”    Piggy flushed suddenly.    “My dad’s dead,” he said quickly, “and my mum—”    He took off his glasses and looked vainly for something with which to clean them.    “I used to live with my auntie. She kept a candy store. I used to get ever so many candies. As many as I liked. When’ll your dad rescue us?”    “Soon as he can.”    Piggy rose dripping from the water and stood naked, cleaning his glasses with a sock. The only sound that reached them now through the heat of the morning was the long, grinding roar of the breakers on the reef.    “How does he know we’re here?”    Ralph lolled in the water. Sleep enveloped him like the swathing mirages that were wrestling with the brilliance of the lagoon.    “How does he know we’re here?”    Because, thought Ralph, because, because. The roar from the reef became very distant.    “They’d tell him at the airport.”    Piggy shook his head, put on his flashing glasses and looked down at Ralph.    “Not them. Didn’t you hear what the pilot said? About the atom bomb? They’re all dead.”    Ralph pulled himself out of the water, stood facing Piggy, and considered this unusual problem.    Piggy persisted.    “This an island, isn’t it?”    “I climbed a rock,” said Ralph slowly, “and I think this is an island.”    “They’re all dead,” said Piggy, “an’ this is an island. Nobody don’t know we’re here. Your dad don’t know, nobody don’t know—”    His lips quivered and the spectacles were dimmed with mist.    “We may stay here till we die.”    With that word the heat seemed to increase till it became a threatening weight and the lagoon attacked them with a blinding effulgence.    “Get my clothes,” muttered Ralph. “Along there.”    He trotted through the sand, enduring the sun’s enmity, crossed the platform and found his scattered clothes. To put on a grey shirt once more was strangely pleasing. Then he climbed the edge of the platform and sat in the green shade on a convenient trunk. Piggy hauled himself up, carrying most of his clothes under his arms. Then he sat carefully on a fallen trunk near the little cliff that fronted the lagoon; and the tangled reflections quivered over him.    Presently he spoke.    “We got to find the others. We got to do something.”    Ralph said nothing. Here was a coral island. Protected from the sun, ignoring Piggy’s ill-omened talk, he dreamed pleasantly.    Piggy insisted.    “How many of us are there?”    Ralph came forward and stood by Piggy.    “I don’t know.”    Here and there, little breezes crept over the polished waters beneath the haze of heat. When these breezes reached the platform the palm fronds would whisper, so that spots of blurred sunlight slid over their bodies or moved like bright, winged things in the shade.    Piggy looked up at Ralph. All the shadows on Ralph’s face were reversed; green above, bright below from the lagoon. A blur of sunlight was crawling across his hair.    “We got to do something.”    Ralph looked through him. Here at last was the imagined but never fully realized place leaping into real life. Ralph’s lips parted in a delighted smile and Piggy, taking this smile to himself as a mark of recognition, laughed with pleasure.    “If it really is an island—”    “What’s that?”    Ralph had stopped smiling and was pointing into the lagoon. Something creamy lay among the ferny weeds.    “A stone.”    “No. A shell.”    Suddenly Piggy was a-bubble with decorous excitement.    “S’right. It’s a shell! I seen one like that before. On someone’s back wall. A conch he called it. He used to blow it and then his mum would come. It’s ever so valuable—”    Near to Ralph’s elbow a palm sapling leaned out over the lagoon. Indeed, the weight was already pulling a lump from the poor soil and soon it would fall. He tore out the stem and began to poke about in the water, while the brilliant fish flicked away on this side and that. Piggy leaned dangerously.    “Careful! You’ll break it—”    “Shut up.”    Ralph spoke absently. The shell was interesting and pretty and a worthy plaything; but the vivid phantoms of his day-dream still interposed between him and Piggy, who in this context was an irrelevance. The palm sapling, bending, pushed the shell across the weeds. Ralph used one hand as a fulcrum and pressed down with the other till the shell rose, dripping, and Piggy could make a grab.    Now the shell was no longer a thing seen but not to be touched, Ralph too became excited. Piggy babbled:    “—a conch; ever so expensive. I bet if you wanted to buy one, you’d have to pay pounds and pounds and pounds—he had it on his garden wall, and my auntie—”    Ralph took the shell from Piggy and a little water ran down his arm. In color the shell was deep cream, touched here and there with fading pink. Between the point, worn away into a little hole, and the pink lips of the mouth, lay eighteen inches of shell with a slight spiral twist and covered with a delicate, embossed pattern. Ralph shook sand out of the deep tube.    “—mooed like a cow,” he said. “He had some white stones too, an’ a bird cage with a green parrot. He didn’t blow the white stones, of course, an’ he said—”    Piggy paused for breath and stroked the glistening thing that lay in Ralph’s hands.    “Ralph!”    Ralph looked up.    “We can use this to call the others. Have a meeting. They’ll come when they hear us—”    He beamed at Ralph.    “That was what you meant, didn’t you? That’s why you got the conch out of the water?”    Ralph pushed back his fair hair.    “How did your friend blow the conch?”    “He kind of spat,” said Piggy. “My auntie wouldn’t let me blow on account of my asthma. He said you blew from down here.” Piggy laid a hand on his jutting abdomen. “You try, Ralph. You’ll call the others.”    Doubtfully, Ralph laid the small end of the shell against his mouth and blew. There came a rushing sound from its mouth but nothing more. Ralph wiped the salt water off his lips and tried again, but the shell remained silent.    “He kind of spat.”    Ralph pursed his lips and squirted air into the shell, which emitted a low, farting noise. This amused both boys so much that Ralph went on squirting for some minutes, between bouts of laughter.    “He blew from down here.”    Ralph grasped the idea and hit the shell with air from his diaphragm. Immediately the thing sounded. A deep, harsh note boomed under the palms, Spread through the intricacies of the forest and echoed back from the pink granite of the mountain. Clouds of birds rose from the treetops, and something squealed and ran in the undergrowth.    Ralph took the shell away from his lips.    “Gosh!”    His ordinary voice sounded like a whisper after the harsh note of the conch. He laid the conch against his lips, took a deep breath and blew once more. The note boomed again: and then at his firmer pressure, the note, fluking up an octave, became a strident blare more penetrating than before. Piggy was shouting something, his face pleased, his glasses flashing. The birds cried, small animals scuttered. Ralph’s breath failed; the note dropped the octave, became a low wubber, was a rush of air.    The conch was silent, a gleaming tusk; Ralph’s face was dark with breathlessness and the air over the island was full of bird-clamor and echoes ringing.    “I bet you can hear that for miles.”    Ralph found his breath and blew a series of short blasts.    Piggy exclaimed: “There’s one!”    A child had appeared among the palms, about a hundred yards along the beach. He was a boy of perhaps six years, sturdy and fair, his clothes torn, his face covered with a sticky mess of fruit. His trousers had been lowered for an obvious purpose and had only been pulled back half-way. He jumped off the palm terrace into the sand and his trousers fell about his ankles; he stepped out of them and trotted to the platform. Piggy helped him up. Meanwhile Ralph continued to blow till voices shouted in the forest. The small boy squatted in front of Ralph, looking up brightly and vertically. As he received the reassurance of something purposeful being done he began to look satisfied, and his only clean digit, a pink thumb, slid into his mouth.    Piggy leaned down to him.    “What’s yer name?”    “Johnny.”    Piggy muttered the name to himself and then shouted it to Ralph, who was not interested because he was still blowing. His face was dark with the violent pleasure of making this stupendous noise, and his heart was making the stretched shirt shake. The shouting in the forest was nearer.    Signs of life were visible now on the beach. The sand, trembling beneath the heat haze, concealed many figures in its miles of length; boys were making their way toward the platform through the hot, dumb sand. Three small children, no older than Johnny, appeared from startlingly close at hand, where they had been gorging fruit in the forest. A dark little boy, not much younger than Piggy, parted a tangle of undergrowth, walked on to the platform, and smiled cheerfully at everybody. More and more of them came. Taking their cue from the innocent Johnny, they sat down on the fallen palm trunks and waited. Ralph continued to blow short, penetrating blasts. Piggy moved among the crowd, asking names and frowning to remember them. The children gave him the same simple obedience that they had given to the men with megaphones. Some were naked and carrying their clothes; others half-naked, or more or less dressed, in school uniforms, grey, blue, fawn, jacketed, or jerseyed. There were badges, mottoes even, stripes of color in stockings and pullovers. Their heads clustered above the trunks in the green shade; heads brown, fair, black, chestnut, sandy, mouse-colored; heads muttering, whispering, heads full of eyes that watched Ralph and speculated. Something was being done.    The children who came along the beach, singly or in twos, leapt into visibility when they crossed the line from heat haze to nearer sand. Here, the eye was first attracted to a black, bat-like creature that danced on the sand, and only later perceived the body above it. The bat was the child’s shadow, shrunk by the vertical sun to a patch between the hurrying feet. Even while he blew, Ralph noticed the last pair of bodies that reached the platform above a fluttering patch of black. The two boys, bullet-headed and with hair like tow, flung themselves down and lay grinning and panting at Ralph like dogs. They were twins, and the eye was shocked and incredulous at such cheery duplication. They breathed together, they grinned together, they were chunky and vital. They raised wet lips at Ralph, for they seemed provided with not quite enough skin, so that their profiles were blurred and their mouths pulled open. Piggy bent his flashing glasses to them and could be heard between the blasts, repeating their names.    “Sam, Eric, Sam, Eric.”    Then he got muddled; the twins shook their heads and pointed at each other and the crowd laughed.    At last Ralph ceased to blow and sat there, the conch trailing from one hand, his head bowed on his knees. As the echoes died away so did the laughter, and there was silence.    Within the diamond haze of the beach something dark was fumbling along. Ralph saw it first, and watched till the intentness of his gaze drew all eyes that way. Then the creature stepped from mirage on to clear sand, and they saw that the darkness was not all shadow but mostly clothing. The creature was a party of boys, marching approximately in step in two parallel lines and dressed in strangely eccentric clothing. Shorts, shirts, and different garments they carried in their hands; but each boy wore a square black cap with a silver badge on it. Their bodies, from throat to ankle, were hidden by black cloaks which bore a long silver cross on the left breast and each neck was finished off with a hambone frill. The heat of the tropics, the descent, the search for food, and now this sweaty march along the blazing beach had given them the complexions of newly washed plums. The boy who controlled them was dressed in the same way though his cap badge was golden. When his party was about ten yards from the platform he shouted an order and they halted, gasping, sweating, swaying in the fierce light. The boy himself came forward, vaulted on to the platform with his cloak flying, and peered into what to him was almost complete darkness.    “Where’s the man with the trumpet?”    Ralph, sensing his sun-blindness, answered him.    “There’s no man with a trumpet. Only me.”    The boy came close and peered down at Ralph, screwing up his face as he did so. What he saw of the fair-haired boy with the creamy shell on his knees did not seem to satisfy him. He turned quickly, his black cloak circling.    “Isn’t there a ship, then?”    Inside the floating cloak he was tall, thin, and bony; and his hair was red beneath the black cap. His face was crumpled and freckled, and ugly without silliness. Out of this face stared two light blue eyes, frustrated now, and turning, or ready to turn, to anger.    “Isn’t there a man here?”    Ralph spoke to his back.    “No. We’re having a meeting. Come and join in.”    The group of cloaked boys began to scatter from close line. The tall boy shouted at them.    “Choir! Stand still!”    Wearily obedient, the choir huddled into line and stood there swaying in the sun. None the less, some began to protest faintly.    “But, Merridew. Please, Merridew … can’t we?”    Then one of the boys flopped on his face in the sand and the line broke up. They heaved the fallen boy to the platform and let him lie. Merridew, his eyes staring, made the best of a bad job.    “All right then. Sit down. Let him alone.”    “But Merridew.”    “He’s always throwing a faint,” said Merridew. “He did in Gib.; and Addis; and at matins over the precentor.”    This last piece of shop brought sniggers from the choir, who perched like black birds on the criss-cross trunks and examined Ralph with interest. Piggy asked no names. He was intimidated by this uniformed superiority and the offhand authority in Merridew’s voice. He shrank to the other side of Ralph and busied himself with his glasses.    Merridew turned to Ralph.    “Aren’t there any grownups?”    “No.”    Merridew sat down on a trunk and looked round the circle.    “Then we’ll have to look after ourselves.”    Secure on the other side of Ralph, Piggy spoke timidly.    “That’s why Ralph made a meeting. So as we can decide what to do. We’ve heard names. That’s Johnny. Those two—they’re twins, Sam ‘n Eric. Which is Eric—? You? No—you’re Sam—”    “I’m Sam—”    “‘n I’m Eric.”    “We’d better all have names,” said Ralph, “so I’m Ralph.”    “We got most names,” said Piggy. “Got ’em just now.”    “Kids’ names,” said Merridew. “Why should I be Jack? I’m Merridew.”    Ralph turned to him quickly. This was the voice of one who knew his own mind.    “Then,” went on Piggy, “that boy—I forget—”    “You’re talking too much,” said Jack Merridew. “Shut up, Fatty.”    Laughter arose.    “He’s not Fatty,” cried Ralph, “his real name’s Piggy!”    “Piggy!”    “Piggy!”    “Oh, Piggy!”    A storm of laughter arose and even the tiniest child joined in. For the moment the boys were a closed circuit of sympathy with Piggy outside: he went very pink, bowed his head and cleaned his glasses again.    Finally the laughter died away and the naming continued. There was Maurice, next in size among the choir boys to Jack, but broad and grinning all the time. There was a slight, furtive boy whom no one knew, who kept to himself with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy. He muttered that his name was Roger and was silent again. Bill, Robert, Harold, Henry; the choir boy who had fainted sat up against a palm trunk, smiled pallidly at Ralph and said that his name was Simon.    Jack spoke.    “We’ve got to decide about being rescued.”    There was a buzz. One of the small boys, Henry, said that he wanted to go home.    “Shut up,” said Ralph absently. He lifted the conch. “Seems to me we ought to have a chief to decide things.”    “A chief! A chief!”    “I ought to be chief,” said Jack with simple arrogance, “because I’m chapter chorister and head boy. I can sing C sharp.”    Another buzz.    “Well then,” said Jack, “I—”    He hesitated. The dark boy, Roger, stirred at last and spoke up.    “Let’s have a vote.”    “Yes!”    “Vote for chief!”    “Let’s vote—”    This toy of voting was almost as pleasing as the conch. Jack started to protest but the clamor changed from the general wish for a chief to an election by acclaim of Ralph himself. None of the boys could have found good reason for this; what intelligence had been shown was traceable to Piggy while the most obvious leader was Jack. But there was a stillness about Ralph as he sat that marked him out: there was his size, and attractive appearance; and most obscurely, yet most powerfully, there was the conch. The being that had blown that, had sat waiting for them on the platform with the delicate thing balanced on his knees, was set apart.    “Him with the shell.”    “Ralph! Ralph!”    “Let him be chief with the trumpet-thing.”    Ralph raised a hand for silence.    “All right. Who wants Jack for chief?”    With dreary obedience the choir raised their hands.    “Who wants me?”    Every hand outside the choir except Piggy’s was raised immediately. Then Piggy, too, raised his hand grudgingly into the air.    Ralph counted.    “I’m chief then.”    The circle of boys broke into applause. Even the choir applauded; and the freckles on Jack’s face disappeared under a blush of mortification. He started up, then changed his mind and sat down again while the air rang. Ralph looked at him, eager to offer something.    “The choir belongs to you, of course.”    “They could be the army—”    “Or hunters—”    “They could be—”    The suffusion drained away from Jack’s face. Ralph waved again for silence.    “Jack’s in charge of the choir. They can be—what do you want them to be?”    “Hunters.”    Jack and Ralph smiled at each other with shy liking. The rest began to talk eagerly.    Jack stood up.    “All right, choir. Take off your togs.”    As if released from class, the choir boys stood up, chattered, piled their black cloaks on the grass. Jack laid his on the trunk by Ralph. His grey shorts were sticking to him with sweat. Ralph glanced at them admiringly, and when Jack saw his glance he explained.    “I tried to get over that hill to see if there was water all round. But your shell called us.”    Ralph smiled and held up the conch for silence.    “Listen, everybody. I’ve got to have time to think things out. I can’t decide what to do straight off. If this isn’t an island we might be rescued straight away. So we’ve got to decide if this is an island. Everybody must stay round here and wait and not go away. Three of us—if we take more we’d get all mixed, and lose each other—three of us will go on an expedition and find out. I’ll go, and Jack, and, and….”    He looked round the circle of eager faces. There was no lack of boys to choose from. Read more <div id="

  • In my quest to read the greatest American horror stories of all time, I’m so elated to say I’ve finally reached Lord of the Flies. Oh my, what an epic story in great proportions! I think what scared me the most about this story are the parallels between the timeline in the story and our time we’re living right now.Our story begins with a plane crash that lands the boys on this beautiful coral oasis island in the middle of who-knows-where. Immediately, Ralph, being one of the eldest boys decides to take it upon himself to explore the island and find out how many others are there. He takes a conch shell and blows through it and discovers there are various size boys displaced the same as he.Until they can be rescued, Ralph takes a poll and asks the boys to vote who should be their chief to help guide them. Hands down, Ralph wins. It is realized very early that the littler boys are frightened and crying for their mothers, while the bigger boys begin to think of survival straight away. As they explore and learn about the island, they find fruit they can eat, while some of them ate things that weren’t so good, causing them to get sick.The longer they stayed on the island, it was becoming obvious that a shift was changing within ‘some’ of the boys. Ralph could clearly see that his word was no longer being listened to. They seemed to be interested in Jack Merridew and what he had to say. After all, he was about killing pigs for meat to eat, and killing anything ‘else’ that stood in his way. As the story advances, it becomes very clear that these young boys have turned into total savages. They reverted back to caveman days without thought or a care in the world.Eventually, as the boys began to divide, Jack’s tribe was much larger than Ralph’s. Poor Ralph had no one he could confide in or help him. Jack had a thirst for blood and didn’t mind spilling it–and it did not have to be a pig’s blood. If you didn’t follow ‘his’ rules, you might find a spear stuck in your chest.I’ve always heard about Lord of the Flies and I knew when someone said people are acting like the named title, I knew exactly what they meant. The saddest thing of all, Golding wrote this novel 64 years ago, and here I can see things happening to our country right now! Actually, not just our country, but the world. With social media and politicians who feel it’s quite all right to say and act any way they please as if this is the norm! All the laws and rights we Americans have fought so hard for to ensure an equality for all Americans, was for not. Our country is reverting back to a time I dare not think of. Hmm, see the similarities of the story and today! Who knew Golding would tell a story that would eventually come true. How terrifying is that!
  • all the pages were cut improperly
  • I was tempted to give this five stars, since in so many ways it strikes me as the kind of masterpiece, like Heart of Darkness, that I imagine will retain its horror and readability for centuries. The prose veers (or as Golding would say it, “tends”) from plain to painterly. The story is well known: a sort of allegorical morality play set in modern times — fancy English boys left to their own devices don’t so much as revert to darkness as discover primitive outlets for the darkness reflected in their greater society. This is what I love about Heart of Darkness: try as one might, Kurtz cannot be pigeonholed into good or evil. He is excellent at what he does, and what he does is evil. Kurtz is a true reflection of what excellence was to Colonial Europe, and in so far as Colonial Europe was good, cultivated, honorable, and esteemed, so is Kurtz. Kurtz isn’t good or evil; he is true.Golding’s version is darker. It centers mostly around the corrupting power of urges to overwhelm social order. Freudian criticism abounds, but the parallel I kept coming back to was Rome. I found that Piggy, no matter how truly annoying he is (another brilliant stroke by Golding is to make Piggy strangely unsympathetic), recalled those numerous Republicans of the Early Empire who advocated in a shrill but useless manner for a return to Senate rule but were shunted aside and usually killed by deranged sociopaths who behaved quite like like Jack. But be it Freudian or historic, any framing of this book feels cheap and hollow because the story has such a complexity of primal urges that it feels almost biological.Golding said he came up with the idea of book after reading his children “Treasure Island or Coral Island or some such Island” in the years of the hydrogen bomb and Stalin and asked his wife, “why don’t I write a children’s story about how people really are, about how people actually behave?” To me that’s a chilling question and it reveals an architecture not based on rigid Freudian or historical or symbolic parallels. Its portrait of sadism could have been lifted out of the newspapers; its struggle for dominion over the weak is an almost sexual frenzy recalls everything I know about torture in the dungeons of Argentine or US military prisons. In this respect, I think the book, like Heart of Darkness, is timeless.But I chose not to give it five stars because at the center of Golding’s book is a kind of rigid Christian iconography, like that you find in the Poisonwood Bible, that offends me, perhaps because it reminds me of the way I wrote my Freshman year of college, or perhaps because that rigidity, that allegiance to a=b symbolic logic insults my intelligence. The martyrdom of Simon, I felt, demeaned the human quality of Simon. I liked him best because he struck me as the most shrewd and practical. Reducing him to an icon transforms him into a variable: Simon = Paul or Peter or whomever, but ergo facto Simon ≠ Simon. When he comes down to the beach mutting “something about a body on a hill” Simon ceases to be a reflection of human complexity, or biological completeness, and instead becomes a rehashed precedent from Sunday school.I’ve often felt that Heart of Darkness’ genius was that it somehow reflected the effect of Darwin and modern thinking on the antiquated ideas of Colonial Europe, ie Kurtz isn’t good or evil because good and evil are artifices that wilt beneath analysis. When Golding adheres to this materialist perspective, the book is masterly. When he swears allegiance to worn out Christian parables, that complexity is reduced to slips of paper.
  • I purchased this book for my sons required reading for English. The book was misprinted and damaged. This did not show up until chapter 19. There are two chapter 19 pages and all pages from 207-215 are duplicated but the second set of pages is in the book backwards and ripped. We can’t tell if it’s missing any pages. My son needs this for his class and now I’ll have to go buy another copy so he won’t get behind.
  • Knowing a little about the general plot and theme of the book, I must admit I was nonetheless taken aback by how dark the novel gets. Set on an unnamed island, the tale explores the fates of a group of children of varying ages, who find themselves stranded and unaccompanied by any adults after a mysterious plane crash.At first, the children appear to maintain some semblance of order and cohesion as they elect the discerning Ralph as their leader. He is supported by the loyal and effervescent Piggy, a plump boy who, for large parts of the novel, is ostracised and bullied by the other boys. Yet, as the novel develops, we quickly realise that Piggy is the voice of reason and democracy in the text, though his words all too often fall on deaf ears.Golding is masterful at showing the gradual decline of Ralph’s leadership, much of which is tested by the fractious and perverse Jack, who at once embodies the primitive and megalomaniac nature of man. While Ralph stresses the importance of maintaining a fire in order to attract passing ships, Jack’s desires are far more primordial as he sets about hunting the numerous pigs that inhabit the island, as well as the mysterious ‘Beast’, a creature whose existence is both denied yet feared by the boys.As the days go by, the governance the boys initially upheld dissipates. The words of Yeats seem all too apt here: ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; / Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’. Without giving too much away, the ending is at once symbolic of lost innocence; these are schoolboys, yet they possess the same flaws that inhabit grown men.Golding’s prose is extremely polished and there are numerous passages abundant in imagery that reflects the state of society the boys find themselves in. Golding is particularly adroit at juxtaposing the seemingly idyllic island with the anarchic primitivism of the boys.This is a must-read for anyone who wishes to explore the great texts of the twentieth-century. It is widely read in schools but, as anyone who touches this book will discover, its relevance extends far beyond the walls of the classroom.
  • This is another in the series of books that I am making myself read in my late 50s that were books I was supposed to have read at school in the 70s (Brave New World, Animal Farm, and so on).No doubt it was shocking when it was written but the world has overtaken it in shockability now (almost any American crime TV series, almost anything on the www). Like others in ‘my’ series I found this not spectacularly entertaining – although I do respect them for being perhaps the first of their kind. I found the prose to be adequate but not especially flowing – as compared to John Steinbeck, for example.Having attended an all-male grammar school from age 11 to 18 none of the story surprised me; I imagine that if I had been at a boarding school from an earlier age I would be even more inured to the events. Maybe Tom Brown’s Schooldays next.
  • I ordered this for my daughter, as she is about to begin her GCSE studies, and her teacher thought it beneficial to read over the holidays. So I chose this version as the review which mat the hat gave in January 2018 said that notes were after the main novel, so did not interrupt the story. Perfect! Or so I thought…On receiving our copy, I felt very disappointed that the notes were not included, as I believed and any possible advantage of choosing this copy had been dashed. Disappointed daughter and motherI would appreciate any comments from amazon on this please
  • This kept me absorbed and, being set on a beach, easily passed my Beach Read Test. Particular strengths of Lord of the Flies are its imaginative plot, unpredictable story-line and thrilling ending. The one weakness is that it can be difficult to navigate through some of the longer passages. Golding, like Gibbon, might have laid out more navigational markers. That said, having to concentrate now and again is good for the brain. Who might enjoy this? The book will work for both adults and teenagers – but my littlun nephews won’t be getting a gift copy anytime soon. I will certainly read more of Golding’s books.
  • Lord of the Flies is one of those classic books that most people only read in school. I read it years ago and remember enjoying it but not being blown away, and to be for the first half of the book, it was the same this time around. The setup is interesting enough, but the petty fallings out are not all that interesting. Then halfway through, everything changes and the book gets really dark, really quick before speeding along to a thrilling conclusion.This is one of those rare books where the characters are not that interesting in themselves. They lean heavily on archetypes that have become cliche if they weren’t already. The smart fat kid, the charismatic bad guy, the hopeful good guy trying to hold it all together. However, what the book loses in characterisation it more than makes up for with some wonderfully evocative and really powerful story beats.A true classic worth anyone’s time to read.
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