100 Quotes By Sir William Gerald Golding, The Author Of Lord Of The Flies
Sir William Gerald Golding was a famous British poet, novelist and playwright. Knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1988, his controversial life of was full of recognition and war glories. He has long list of awards including James Trait Black Memorial Prize, the Noble Prize, Booker Prize for 'Lord of the Flies' and the Booker Prize for 'Rites of Passage'. Golding is best known for his trilogy 'To the Ends of the Earth', especially ‘Close Quarters’ and ‘Fire Down Below’. Golding ranked Third on The Time's list of '50 Greatest British Writers since 1945'. Some of his notable works include ‘The Inheritors’, ‘The Paper Men’, ‘The Pyramid’ and ‘The Blitz’. The veteran author started his professional career in theatre and settlement houses at first, but eventually settled for a teaching position at Bishop Wordsworth's School in Salisbury. He temporarily abandoned his profession to fight in World War II. He joined the Royal Navy in 1940 to fight on board. He saw action during the sinking of Bismarck 'the German battleship' and the assault of Normandy on D-Day. In his autobiography, Golding portrayed the 'monstrous' part of his character by confessing that he tried to molest one of his friends 'Dora' at school. This stirred up controversies in the literary world. He is known for his views and thoughts on several issues including women and these quotes are quite famous. We have collected some of Sir William Gerald Golding’s quotes from his famous books and writings. One can easily come across his popular quotes on social media and internet these days. Presenting a collection of Sir William Gerald Golding quotes about women, books, writing, men, language, feminism, ideas, love and much more!
Maybe there is a beast… maybe it's only us. 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. My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder. The thing is - fear can't hurt you any more than a dream. The greatest ideas are the simplest. We did everything adults would do. What went wrong? Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are? I think women are foolish to pretend they are equal to men, they are far superior and always have been. What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages? If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything? 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 world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet. They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate. The mask was a thing on it's own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-conciousness. Which is better--to have laws and agree, or to hunt and kill? They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate. The rules!" shouted Ralph, "you're breaking the rules!"
"Who cares? I am by nature an optimist and by intellectual conviction a pessimist. Maybe," he said hesitantly, "maybe there is a beast." [...] "What I mean is, maybe it's only us. He lost himself in a maze of thoughts that were rendered vague by his lack of words to express them. Frowning, he tried again. The conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness. Language fits over experience like a straight jacket. What I mean is... maybe it's only us... Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood. I believe man suffers from an appalling ignorance of his own nature. I produce my own view in the belief that it may be something like the truth. The water rose further and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble... Ralph... would treat the day's decisions as though he were playing chess. The only trouble was that he would never be a very good chess player. 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. I am here; and here is nowhere in particular. The beast was harmless and horrible; and the news must reach the others as soon as possible. Worse than madness. Sanity. The skull regarded Ralph like one who knows all the answers but won't tell. We're not savages. We're English. Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in! We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement. The trouble was, if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise. You'll get back to where you came from. This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun. 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. At the moment of vision, the eyes see nothing. He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were. We have a disharmony in our natures. We cannot live together without injuring each other. I am astonished at the ease with which uninformed persons come to a settled, a passionate opinion when they have no grounds for judgment. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, and unwiped nose, 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. Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! They agreed passionately out of the depths of their tormented lives. What kind of human person has a favorite eraser? Art is partly communication, but only partly. The rest is discovery. The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away. Once there was this and that; and now-and the ship had gone. Listen, Ralph. Never mind what's sense. That's gone--- You're a beast and a swine and a bloody, bloody thief! It wasn't until I was 37 that I grasped the great truth that you've got to write your own books and nobody else's, and then everything followed from there. Life's scientific, but we don't know, do we? Not certainly, I mean. No human endeavour can ever be wholly good... it must always have a cost. We musn't let anything happen to Piggy, must we? The half-shut eyes were dim with the infinite cynicism of adult life. The air was heavy with unspoken knowledge. Sam twisted and the obscene word shot out of him. "--dance?"
Memory of the dance that none of them had attended shook all four boys convulsively. The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers... Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island. Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!" said the head.; "You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you? Close, close, close! The greatest pleasure is not - say - sex or geometry. It is just understanding. And if you can get people to understand their own humanity - well, that's the job of the writer. He knelt among the shadows and felt his isolation bitterly. They were savages it was true; but they were human. Towards midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars. Percival was mouse-coloured and had not been very attractive even to his mother. He forgot his wounds, his hunger and thirst, and became fear; hopeless fear People don't help much.'
He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were. The thing is---fear can't hold you any more than a dream... But nobody else understands about the fire. If someone threw you a rope when you were drowning. If a doctor said take this because if you don't take you'll die - you would, wouldn't you? There ought to be some mode of life where all love is good, where one love can't compete with another but adds to it. The flames, as though they were a kind of wild life, crept as a jaguar creeps on its belly toward a line of birch-like saplings that fledged an outcrop of the pink rock. It's simpler to believe in a miracle. This was a savage whose image refused to blend with that ancient picture of a boy in shorts and a shirt. 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. I came to see you two-" Words could not express the dull pain of these things. Other people could stand up and speak to an assembly, apparently, without that dreadful feeling of pressure of personality; could say what they would as though they were speaking to only one person If only one had time to think! I wish my auntie was here."
"I wish my father.. O, what's the use? Life […] is scientific, that’s what it is. There's a kinship among men who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it. The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. The crucifixion should never be depicted. It is a horror to be veiled. You don't even care enough about us to hate us, do you? The way towards simplicity is through outrage. I cannot convince myself that my mental capacities are important enough to justify either the good or the harm they started. I do think that art that doesn't communicate is useless. Perhaps the various burnings of the Alexandria Library were necessary, like those Australian Forest Fires without which the new seeds cannot burst their shells and make a young, healthy forest. Fat lot of good we are," said Ralph. "Three blind mice. What did it mean? A stick sharpened at both ends. What was there in that?
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.
And dying is more natural than living, because what could be more unnatural than that panicstricken thing leaping and falling like a last flame beneath the ribs?
His manual of heaven and hell lay open before me, and I could perceive my nothingness in this scheme.
Who would sharpen a point aginst the darkness of the world?
I'm the reason why it's no go? Why things are what they are? A single drop of water that had escaped Piggy's fingers now flashed on the delicate curve like a star.