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.

They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers....Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

My father was very musical, and music plays quite a large part in my life.

But forgiveness must not only be given but received also.

How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?

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.