What a man does defiles him, not what is done by others.

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 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.

No human endeavour can ever be wholly good... it must always have a cost.

We have a disharmony in our natures. We cannot live together without injuring each other.

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.