If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything?

Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!

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.

Percival was mouse-coloured and had not been very attractive even to his mother.

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 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.

Only one novel is a novel: that is a successful novel.