The darkness of man's heart.

More than a decade ago, I lighted upon a book by William Golding called "Lord of the Flies". It is in truth a very renowned novel, probably his most conspicuous written work, and hypothetically a well earned trigger for the Nobel Prize for Literature. And still I had not read a single piece of his brochures before — though I would make it up to him in the future by reveling in "The Pyramid" or "The Double Tongue", for instance. Nonetheless, it should be noted that I am no literary expert whatsoever, ergo my presumptions should be granted as merely subjective. I have read — quite a lot, to be honest — but, as a human being, my viewpoints are stained by personal experiences and plain propensities as far as preferences are concerned. Bear in mind dystopia is by far my favourite genre, and this gave "Lord of the Flies" a head start on my particular podium. And yet there is something about this book which still haunts me with a delicacy so paradoxically powerful, I always feel I am reading it for the first time, as there is always something new to it I had not spotted on previous readings. 

First of all, I feel obliged to state Golding's main doctrine is almost shockingly lax. There is a beautiful allusion to Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness", as "Lord of the Flies"'s finale prongs to an apotheosis: "... and 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". I do see Golding's point. Throughout the entire plot, he implies humans are naturally evil. Courtesy and reason surrender to ruthlessness and hunger for power. There are noticeable clues which personify that. Ralph himself represents democracy and freedom. Piggy exemplifies science and intellect. Simon stands for religion and mysticism. Jack embodies dictatorships, oppression and ambition. Roger stages psychopaths in the form of remorseless sadism and lack of empathy. The little kids are ordinary day-to-day citizens, nameless creatures who tend to seem irrelevant, yet comprise a vast majority. It all fits. It encloses society. A metaphoric society on an island where a group of boys — for there are no girls, as Golding believed they would despoil the setup of its betrothed aggressiveness — are trapped after a plane crash. And it is somehow funny, since it is clearly foreshadowed that these boys were initially fleeing from the Second World War itself. A wonderful paradox, considering they end up reawakening their own distinct bloodshed. 

However, such characters are fashioned to a very imprecise extent. Good and evil are scattered according to extreme criteria — regardless how young or unexperienced I might still be, I have latterly come to terms with the fact that there is both good and evil in all of us, and that any predominance should be heeded to specific circumstances each of us harbour as individuals. We all act and speak conforming to our secluded happenstances — which brings me into believing good and evil are nothing but sheer delusions society has brought about in order to classify us and steer our behaviour to a common moral path. Which, yet again, makes Golding's arguments far too primo. There is no good and evil — just people who spawn decisions their past has led them to. But I guess this comprises another topic, and it is not my intention to get carried away. 

Something which captivated me at once was the notion that every character who died was physically handicapped. The first boy to die in the book was a little one who had a birthmark across his face. He died in a fire which was initially meant to attract ships to the island, but lost control due to negligence. And then there was this quote I personally loved — "the drumroll continued" — as though something both horrific and heinous was bound to happen. A foretelling, an augury. A warning. And then it was Simon who followed — and he suffered from epileptic fits — supervened by Piggy — asthmatic, nearsighted and rather chubby. Now then, did Golding disdain these minutiae? Where they there by accident? I do not think so. I genuinely sense there are two main motives to such choice. One is that burdened people are first to «fall», both because of their frailty and because of society's implicit «superiority» in comparison. Which brings about another slant of Golding's — society is not meant to harm the weak. It is individuals who do. But Simon was killed by the boys as a whole — «society». Piggy was killed by Roger, under Jack and his hunters' tacit orders — once again, «society». Even Ralph, who was naturally gentle and kindhearted, turned his back on Piggy himself at several points in the story, and did not really bond with Simon. Be that as is may, Golding was particularly inaccurate when it came to envisioning his teachings to the real world. 

But back to the metaphor itself — the boy with the birthmark on his face was part of the «little ones», the citizens. Simon represented religion, as Piggy equated science. All of them were defective, and their deaths prompted a violent outbreak which culminated in a fire and an end to what had started off as a civilised companionship. Was Golding implying it is the lack of coherence and faith which makes the world unsteady? There is definitely food for thought in there. 

And what about the conch? The conch symbolises democracy, allegorically beauteous — but proportionally delicate. It is when it shatters and "ceases to exist" when everything wrecks and culminates on an untellable debacle. Once again, something to reflect on. 

As for those deaths — I felt truly bewildered by Golding's startling writing skills. Let us take Simon's death, just for the sake of it. The description really matched Simon's flair. It was exquisitely aerial, almost esoteric. I have never read a death scene so bewitching and eerie at the same time. Just like Simon, his passing away, though brutal, ended up sweet and ghostly — whereas Piggy's murder was indescribably graphic — "Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across the square red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red...". Compelling, precise, definite. Just like Piggy's mind. Portraying things just as they were. 

On the subject of the fire, little is to be said. A ship missed the island when Jack failed to watch the pyre and it was fortuitously put out. And then, satirically, a ship was lured when Jack created a blaze intended to annihilate Ralph. Which is ironic, since such flames were not originally meant to attract saviours — and here we recur to my formal remark, which suggests everything happens for a reason, still and all such reason does not always concur to our intentions. Per contra, this is not the quirk I wanted to unearth here — it is the saviours themselves. The adults who dock on the island's shore and aid the children. They are grown ups, presumptively shrewd and sentient grown ups who tower over the kids and  curtain the incubus, pretty much like a deus ex machina. And such deus ex machina is characterised by a naval officer who subsumes a barrier between savagery and order, smudging them together and entailing a subliminal boundary amidst the two — for it is the savagery which actually saves them all. 

Even so, "Lord of the Flies"'s outcome is loaded with gloom and torment. While the officer points out how appalling it is for British boys to act so poorly, he ironically belongs to a world where viciousness coexists with law and justice. Is this signifying humanity's unspoken hypocrisy? Moreover, Jack is now described as «a little boy», and Ralph starts weeping tears — afflictive, rather than joyful tears — which are instantly followed by the other childrens'. Children who striked as dire and almost beastly when alone in the island, and now exhibit nigh signs of fragility. Why is this so? Is it because everything we discern — every conclusion, every sentiment, every theorem — is just a matter of perspective? Was Golding connoting there is no right or wrong when it comes to analogies? Are superiority and inferiority purely meaningless impressions?  

To sum up, there is much more to "Lord of the Flies" than can be seen with the naked eye. Many might brand it as another hollow adventure novel, and there is nothing wrong to that. Veritably, literature is all about biased introspections, and my presumptions are not necessarily faultless. Nevertheless, and bypassing my disagreements with Sir Golding, I sincerely hold this book as a masterpiece. It is critical, dark, savage and piteous, all in one sole piece of work. Just like feelings, just like conceptions — just like life itself. 

Addah Monoceros.