Lord of the Flies

by William Golding

“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

Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life.

Round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law. Roger’s arm was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.

Jack was standing under a tree about ten yards away. When Roger opened his eyes and saw him, a darker shadow crept beneath the swarthiness of his skin; but Jack noticed nothing. He was eager, impatient, beckoning, so that Roger went to him.

He looked in astonishment, no longer at himself but at an awesome stranger.

He capered toward Bill, and the mask was a thing on its own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-consciousness.

knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink. He spread his arms wide. “You should have seen the blood!”

“You and your blood, Jack Merridew! You and your hunting!

This from Piggy, and the wails of agreement from some of the hunters, drove Jack to violence. The bolting look came into his blue eyes. He took a step, and able at last to hit someone, stuck his fist into Piggy’s stomach.

Jack stood over him. His voice was vicious with humiliation.

“Maybe,” he said hesitantly, “maybe there is a beast.”

Jack’s voice sounded in bitter mimicry. “Jack! Jack!” “The rules!” shouted Ralph. “You’re breaking the rules!” “Who cares?” Ralph summoned his wits. “Because the rules are the only thing we’ve got!” But Jack was shouting against him. “Bollocks to the rules! We’re strong—we hunt! If there’s a beast, we’ll hunt it down! We’ll close in and beat and beat and beat—!”

He laid the conch with great care in the grass at his feet. The humiliating tears were running from the corner of each eye. “I’m not going to play any longer. Not with you.” Most of the boys were looking down now, at the grass or their feet. Jack cleared his throat again. “I’m not going to be a part of Ralph’s lot—”

“I’m going off by myself. He can catch his own pigs. Anyone who wants to hunt when I do can come too.”

He was safe from shame or self-consciousness behind the mask of his paint and could look at each of them in turn.

“Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!” said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter. “You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?”

Simon’s body was arched and stiff. The Lord of the Flies spoke in the voice of a schoolmaster. “This has gone quite far enough. My poor, misguided child, do you think you know better than I do?”

We are going to have fun on this island! So don’t try it on, my poor misguided boy, or else—”

The dark sky was shattered by a blue-white scar. An instant later the noise was on them like the blow of a gigantic whip. The chant rose a tone in agony. “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!” Now out of the terror rose another desire, thick, urgent, blind. “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

“Him! Him!” The circle became a horseshoe. A thing was crawling out of the forest. It came darkly, uncertainly.

At once the crowd surged after it, poured down the rock, leapt on to the beast, screamed, struck, bit, tore. There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.

The others nodded. They understood only too well the liberation into savagery that the concealing paint brought.

Jack made a rush and stabbed at Ralph’s chest with his spear. Ralph sensed the position of the weapon from the glimpse he caught of Jack’s arm and put the thrust aside with his own butt. Then he brought the end round and caught Jack a stinger across the ear. They were chest to chest, breathing fiercely, pushing and glaring.

By common consent they were using the spears as sabers now, no longer daring the lethal points.

Samneric protested out of the heart of civilization.

The booing rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell. “Which is better—to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?” A great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again. “Which is better—to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?”

High overhead, Roger, with a sense of delirious abandonment, leaned all his weight on the lever.

He ran forward, stooping. “I’m chief!” Viciously, with full intention, he hurled his spear at Ralph. The point tore the skin and flesh over Ralph’s ribs, then sheared off and fell in the water.

Roger edged past the chief, only just avoiding pushing him with his shoulder. The yelling ceased, and Samneric lay looking up in quiet terror. Roger advanced upon them as one wielding a nameless authority.

He paused, sun-flecked, holding up a bough, prepared to duck under it. A spasm of terror set him shaking and he cried aloud. “No. They’re not as bad as that. It was an accident.”

There were sounds coming from behind the Castle Rock. Listening carefully, detaching his mind from the swing of the sea, Ralph could make out a familiar rhythm. “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!” The tribe was dancing.

“Roger sharpened a stick at both ends.” Roger sharpened a stick at both ends. Ralph tried to attach a meaning to this but could not.

What did it mean? A stick sharpened at both ends. What was there in that? They had thrown spears and missed; all but one. Perhaps they would miss next time too.

Roger spoke. “If you’re fooling us—” Immediately after this, there came a gasp, and a squeal of pain. Ralph crouched instinctively. One of the twins was

Squirming a little, conscious of his filthy appearance, Ralph answered shyly. “Hullo.”

“Are there any adults—any grownups with you?” Dumbly, Ralph shook his head.

“Fun and games,” said the officer.

Other boys were appearing now, tiny tots some of them, brown, with the distended bellies of small savages.

“I know. Jolly good show. Like the Coral Island.” Ralph looked at him dumbly.

But the island was scorched up like dead wood—Simon was dead—and Jack had. . . . The tears began to flow and sobs shook him. He gave himself up to them now for the first time on the island;

Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.