The novel is very much alive, indeed. In Toronto at the Sixth Annual International Festival of Authors (October 1985) I listened to novelists by the dozen.

Beethoven for listening; Liszt, Chopin, and Beethoven for playing as well as Bach and Prokofiev and so on. If I kept going, this list would spiral. It's as wide as literature; in fact, it is probably wider.

You'll get back to where you came from.

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

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.

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

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