We're not savages. We're English.

Nothing is so impenetrable as laughter in a language you don't understand.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against this as a method, but it is not what English writers do.

He lost himself in a maze of thoughts that were rendered vague by his lack of words to express them. Frowning, he tried again.

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.

The thing is - fear can't hurt you any more than a dream.

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.