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.

I am astonished at the ease with which uninformed persons come to a settled, a passionate opinion when they have no grounds for judgment.

Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us.

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.

As far as the novel is concerned in my own country, I think it's in a pretty healthy state.

My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.

The rules!" shouted Ralph, "you're breaking the rules!" "Who cares?