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Utopias Are Presented For Our Inspection As A Critique Of The Human State. If They Are To Be Treated As Anything But Trivial Exercises Of The Imagination. I Suggest There Is A Simple Test We Can Apply. We Must Forget The Whole Paraphernalia Of Social Description, Demonstration, Expostulation, Approbation, Condemnation. We Have To Say To Ourselves, How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?

-William Golding

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Utopias Are Presented For

William Golding

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Utopias Are Presented For Our Inspection As A Critique Of The Human State. If They Are To Be Treated As Anything But Trivial Exercises Of The Imagination. I Suggest There Is A Simple Test We Can Apply. We Must Forget The Whole Paraphernalia Of Social Description, Demonstration, Expostulation, Approbation, Condemnation. We Have To Say To Ourselves, How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?

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Of The Authors Writing In English, I'd Mention Shakespeare And Milton. But All This Is Terribly High-hat And Makes Me Sound Very Po-faced, I'm Afraid; However, I Just Happen To Like These Enormous, Swinging, Great Creatures.

I Mean, If We're Concerned Genuinely With Writing, I Think We Probably Get On With Our Work. I Think This Is Very True Of English Writers, But Perhaps Not So True Of French Writers, Who Seem To Read Each Other Passionately, Extensively, And Endlessly, And Who Then Talk About It To Each Other - Which Is Splendid.

In India The Odd Thing Is That English Is This Almost Artificial Language Floating On The Surface Of A Place With About Fifty Other Languages. The Same Is True Of Nigeria But Even More So.

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.

Representatives

The Writer Probably Knows What He Meant When He Wrote A Book, But He Should Immediately Forget What He Meant When He's Written It.

Before The Second World War I Believed In The Perfectibility Of Social Man; That A Correct Structure Of Society Would Produce Goodwill; And That Therefore You Could Remove All Social Ills By A Reorganisation Of Society. .... But After The War I Did Not Because I Was Unable To. I Had Discovered What One Man Could Do To Another... I Must Say That Anyone Who Moved Through Those Years Without Understanding That Man Produces Evil As A Bee Produces Honey, Must Have Been Blind Or Wrong In The Head...

As Soon As Oliver Twist Is Serialized, People Who Would Never Dream Of Reading [charles] Dickens, If They Hadn't Seen Him On Their Box, Buy The Paperback.

He Lost Himself In A Maze Of Thoughts That Were Rendered Vague By His Lack Of Words To Express Them. Frowning, He Tried Again.

One Tries To Tell A Truth, And One Hopes That The Truth Has A General Application Rather Than Just A Specific One.

The Conch Exploded Into A Thousand White Fragments And Ceased To Exist.

Maybe Half A Dozen Think They Are A Community, But, In General Terms, I Think English Writers Tend To Face Outwards, Away From Each Other, And Write In Their Own Patch, As It Were.

Kill The Pig! Cut His Throat! Kill The Pig! Bash Him In!

Even If You Got Rid Of Paper, You Would Still Have Story-tellers. In Fact, You Had The Story-tellers Before You Had The Paper.

I Am Astonished At The Ease With Which Uninformed Persons Come To A Settled, A Passionate Opinion When They Have No Grounds For Judgment.

Among The Virtues And Vices That Make Up The British Character, We Have One Vice, At Least, That Americans Ought To View With Sympathy. For They Appear To Be The Only People Who Share It With Us. I Mean Our Worship Of The Antique. I Do Not Refer To Beauty Or Even Historical Association. I Refer To Age, To A Quantity Of Years.

Which Is Better--to Have Laws And Agree, Or To Hunt And Kill?

We've Got To Have Rules And Obey Them. After All, We're Not Savages. We're English, And The English Are Best At Everything.

I Am Not A Theologian Or A Philosopher. I Am A Story Teller.

I Am Here; And Here Is Nowhere In Particular.

One's Intelligence May March About And About A Problem, But The Solution Does Not Come Gradually Into View. One Moment It Is Not. The Next It Is There.

But Forgiveness Must Not Only Be Given But Received Also.

Fancy Thinking The Beast Was Something You Could Hunt And Kill! 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?

The Trouble Was, If You Were A Chief You Had To Think, You Had To Be Wise.

Childhood Is A Disease - A Sickness That You Grow Out Of.

When You Take A Child Who's Hollering Like Hell, Sit Him On Your Knee, And Say "once Upon A Time", You Stop Him Hollering. As Long As You Go On Telling Him A Story, He Will Listen. Novelists Who Neglect This Fundamental Effect Do So At Their Peril. They Become What Is Known As The Experimental Novelist, And An Experimental Novel Is Not Really A Novel At All.

Once Upon A Time

If Faces Were Different When Lit From Above Or Below -- What Was A Face? What Was Anything?

This Is Our Island. It's A Good Island. Until The Grownups Come To Fetch Us We'll Have Fun.

It Is At Least Scientifically Respectable To Postulate That At The Centre Of A Black Hole The Laws Of Nature No Longer Apply. Since Most Scientists Are Just A Bit Religious And Most Religious Are Seldom Wholly Unscientific We Find Humanity In A Comical Position. His Scientific Intellect Believes In The Possibility Of Miracles Inside A Black Hole While His Religious Intellect Believes In Them Outside It.

The Thing Is - Fear Can't Hurt You Any More Than A Dream.

What A Man Does Defiles Him, Not What Is Done By Others.

The Greatest Ideas Are The Simplest.

For A Small Island [great Britain], The Place Is Remarkably Diverse.

Life's Scientific, But We Don't Know, Do We? Not Certainly, I Mean.

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.

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.

I've Come Across A Novel Called The Palm-wine Drinkard, By The Nigerian Writer Amos Tutuola, That Is Really Remarkable Because It Is A Kind Of Fantasy Of West African Mythology All Told In West African English Which, Of Course, Is Not The Same As Standard English.

The Novel Is Very Much Alive, Indeed. In Toronto At The Sixth Annual International Festival Of Authors (october 1985) I Listened To Novelists By The Dozen.

I Think There Might Even Come A Time When I Would Read Virgil Again. Ovid's Metamorphoses, Perhaps, Not Because The Music Goes Round And Round And Never Comes Out, But Because It's An Extraordinary Picture Of Ceaseless Change That Never Comes To An End.

What Are We? Humans? Or Animals? Or Savages?

I Hope My Books Make Statements About Our General Condition.

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.

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.

I Think Women Are Foolish To Pretend They Are Equal To Men, They Are Far Superior And Always Have Been.

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The Skull Regarded Ralph Like One Who Knows All The Answers And Won't Tell.

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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While I Am On, I Can Discipline Myself To That Extent. When I Am Off, I Can't Discipline Myself At All. On The Other Hand, When I Am Off, There Are So Many Things I Like Doing, It Doesn't Really Matter.

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As Far As The Novel Is Concerned In My Own Country, I Think It's In A Pretty Healthy State.

Sleep Is When All The Unsorted Stuff Comes Flying Out As From A Dustbin Upset In A High Wind.

Life Should Serve Up Its Feast Of Experience In A Series Of Courses.

Don't Get Me Wrong. I Have Nothing Against This As A Method, But It Is Not What English Writers Do.

You Have The Older Generation Like Iris Murdoch And Angus Wilson Who Are Not As Old As Graham Greene, But Still Are Coming On. I Dare Say Anyone Who Knew The Scene Better Than I Know It Could Fill It In With A Very Satisfactory Supply Of Novels.

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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At The Moment Of Vision, The Eyes See Nothing.

What Could Be Safer Than The Bus Center With Its Lamps And Wheels?

The World, That Understandable And Lawful World, Was Slipping Away.

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We Have A Disharmony In Our Natures. We Cannot Live Together Without Injuring Each Other.

Experimental Novels Are Sometimes Terribly Clever And Very Seldom Read. But The Story That Appeals To The Child Sitting On Your Knee Is The One That Satisfies The Curiosity We All Have About What Happened Then, And Then, And Then. This Is The Final Restriction Put On The Technique Of Telling A Story. A Basic Thing Called Story Is Built Into The Human Condition. It's What We Are; It's Something To Which We React.

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Percival Was Mouse-coloured And Had Not Been Very Attractive Even To His Mother.

We're Not Savages. We're English.

Art Is Partly Communication, But Only Partly. The Rest Is Discovery.

The Greatest Pleasure Is Not - Say - Sex Or Geometry. It Is Just Understanding. And If You Can Get People To Understand Their Own Humanity - Well, That's The Job Of The Writer.

I Really Feel The Novel Has Certain Conveniences About It And Has Something So Fundamental About It You Could Almost Say That As Long As There Is Paper, There Is Going To Be The Novel.

They Looked At Each Other, Baffled, In Love And Hate.

I Do Like People To Read The Books Twice, Because I Write My Novels About Ideas Which Concern Me Deeply And I Think Are Important, And Therefore I Want People To Take Them Seriously. And To Read It Twice Of Course Is Taking It Seriously.

Ralph... Would Treat The Day's Decisions As Though He Were Playing Chess. The Only Trouble Was That He Would Never Be A Very Good Chess Player.

I Know There Isn't No Beast—not With Claws And All That, I Mean—but I Know There Isn't No Fear, Either." Piggy Paused. "unless—" Ralph Moved Restlessly. "unless What?" "unless We Get Frightened Of People.

I Am By Nature An Optimist And By Intellectual Conviction A Pessimist.

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.

The Navy's A Very Gentlemanly Business. You Fire At The Horizon To Sink A Ship And Then You Pull People Out Of The Water And Say, 'frightfully Sorry, Old Chap.'

I Also Know Patrick White In Australia, Both Personally And As A Writer, And Salman Rushdie In India.

Roger Stooped, Picked Up A Stone, Aimed And Threw It At Henry-threw It To Miss. The Stone, That Token Of Preposterous Time, Bounced Five Yards To Henry's Right And Fell In The Water. Roger Gathered A Handful Of Stones And Began To Throw Them. Yet There Was A Space Round Henry, Perhaps Six Yards In Diameter, Into Which He Dare Not Throw. 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 Was Conditioned By A Civilization That Knew Nothing Of Him And Was In Ruins.

My Father Was Very Musical, And Music Plays Quite A Large Part In My Life.

However You Disguise Novels, They Are Always Biographies.

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.

A Star Appeared...and Was Momentarily Eclipsed By Some Movement.

You'll Get Back To Where You Came From.

A Crowd Of Grade-three Thinkers, All Shouting The Same Thing, All Warming Their Hands At The Fire Of Their Own Prejudices, Will Not Thank You For Pointing Out The Contradictions In Their Beliefs. Man Is A Gregarious Animal, And Enjoys Agreement As Cows Will Graze All The Same Way On The Side Of A Hill.

Which Is Better -- To Be A Pack Of Painted Indians Like You Are, Or To Be Sensible Like Ralph Is? Which Is Better -- To Have Rules And Agree, Or To Hunt And Kill? Which Is Better, Law And Rescue, Or Hunting And Breaking Things Up?

How Can You Expect To Be Rescued If You Don’t Put First Things First And Act Proper?

Put First Things First

First Things First

They Walked Along, Two Continents Of Experience And Feeling Unable To Communicate.

One Thing Should Be Put Firmly. Where People Have Commented On That Novel [the Paper Men], They Generally Criticize The Poor Academic, Rick L. Tucker, Who Is Savaged By The Author, Wilfred Barclay. I Don't Think People Have Noticed That I Have Been Far Ruder About Barclay Than I Have Been About Tucker. Tucker Is A Fool, But Barclay Is A Swine. The Author Really Gets His Come-uppance.

Graham Greene At 82 Years Old Was Still Writing, And I Don't Think Anyone Can Deny The Force, The Expertise, And The Unique Quality Of His Writing, If You Take His Complete Oeuvre.

The Rules!" Shouted Ralph, "you're Breaking The Rules!" "who Cares?

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.

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.

Consider A Man Riding A Bicycle. Whoever He Is, We Can Say Three Things About Him. We Know He Got On The Bicycle And Started To Move. We Know That At Some Point He Will Stop And Get Off. Most Important Of All, We Know That If At Any Point Between The Beginning And The End Of His Journey He Stops Moving And Does Not Get Off The Bicycle He Will Fall Off It. That Is A Metaphor For The Journey Through Life Of Any Living Thing, And I Think Of Any Society Of Living Things.

Philosophy And Religion-what Are They When The Wind Blows And The Water Gets Up In Lumps?

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.

Serve You Right If Something Did Get You, You Useless Lot Of Cry-babies!

No Human Endeavour Can Ever Be Wholly Good... It Must Always Have A Cost.

Language Fits Over Experience Like A Straight-jacket.

Simon Became Inarticulate In His Effort To Express Mankind's Essential Illness.

Beethoven For Listening; Liszt, Chopin, And Beethoven For Playing As Well As Bach And Prokofiev And So On. If I Kept Going, This List Would Spiral. It's As Wide As Literature; In Fact, It Is Probably Wider.

Are We Savages Or What?

Malcolm Bradbury Made The Point, And I Don't Know Whether It's A Valid One Or Not, That The Real English At The Moment Is Not The English Spoken In England Or In America Or Even In Canada Or Australia Or New Zealand. The Real English Is The English Which Is A Second Language, So That It's Rather Like Latin In The Days Of The Roman Empire When People Had Their Own Languages, But Had Latin In Order To Communicate.

There Were No Words, And No Movements But The Tearing Of Teeth And Claws.

Only One Novel Is A Novel: That Is A Successful Novel.

I Do Think That Art That Doesn't Communicate Is Useless.

Maybe There Is A Beast… Maybe It's Only Us.

People Don't Help Much.

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.

Every Novel Is A Biography. Well, Then, This Is A Novel [the Paper Men] Which Is A Biography That Is Pretending To Be An Autobiography. That's What You Could Say About It.

The Candle-buds Opened Their Wide White Flowers....their Scent Spilled Out Into The Air And Took Possession Of The Island.

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.

Which Is Better, Law And Rescue, Or Hunting And Breaking Things Up?

To Be In A World Which Is A Hell, To Be Of That World And Neither To Believe In Or Guess At Anything But That World Is Not Merely Hell But The Only Possible Damnation: The Act Of A Man Damning Himself. It May Be

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.

Heaven Lies Around Us In Our Infancy.

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.

Kill The Pig. Cut Her Throat. Spill Her Blood.

How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?

The Beast Was Harmless And Horrible; And The News Must Reach The Others As Soon As Possible.

Utopias Are Presented For Our Inspection As A Critique Of The Human State. If They Are To Be Treated As Anything But Trivial Exercises Of The Imagination. I Suggest There Is A Simple Test We Can Apply. We Must Forget The Whole Paraphernalia Of Social Description, Demonstration, Expostulation, Approbation, Condemnation. We Have To Say To Ourselves, How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?

The Mask Was A Thing On It's Own, Behind Which Jack Hid, Liberated From Shame And Self-conciousness.

He Who Rides The Sea Of The Nile Must Have Sails Woven Of Patience.

The Water Rose Further And Dressed Simon's Coarse Hair With Brightness. The Line Of His Cheek Silvered And The Turn Of His Shoulder Became Sculptured Marble.

Nothing Is So Impenetrable As Laughter In A Language You Don't Understand.

I Began To Write When I Was Seven, And I Have Been Writing Off And On Ever Since. It Is Still Off And On. You Can Say That When I Am On, When I Know I Have A Book Which I Am Going To Write, Then I Write Two Thousand Words A Day. That's So Many Pages Longhand.

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.

Worse Than Madness. Sanity.

I Believe Man Suffers From An Appalling Ignorance Of His Own Nature. I Produce My Own View In The Belief That It May Be Something Like The Truth.

What Kind Of Human Person Has A Favorite Eraser?

Together, Joined In Effort By The Burden, They Staggered Up The Last Steep Of The Mountain. Together, They Chanted One! Two! Three! And Crashed The Log On To The Great Pile. Then They Stepped Back, Laughing With Triumphant Pleasure.

I'm Not A Critic So Much Of My Own Writing. People Must Make Up Their Own Minds Over That.

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