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 the others; falls from the heavens; the second is summoned from the sea to make war upon the saints and overe them; the third; emerging from the earth itself; induces man to make and worship an image of the beast。 It also decrees that this image 〃should both speak and cause that as many as should not worship〃 the beast should be killed。 Each devil in turn lords over the earth for an era; and then the long nightmare of history is broken by the second ing and the divine millennium。 In Lord of the Flies (note some of the chapter tides) we see much the same sequence; but it occurs in a highly accelerated evolution。 The parallel ends; however; with the irony of Golding's climactic revelation。 The childish hope of rescue perishes as the beast…man es to the shore; for he bears in his nature the bitter promise that things will remain as they are; and as they have been since his first appearance ages and ages ago。
 The rebirth of evil is made certain by the fatal defects inherent in human nature; and the haunted island we occupy must always be a fortress on which enchanted hunters pursue the beast。 There is no rescue。 The making of history and the making of myth are finally the selfsame process…an old process in which the soul makes its own place; its own reality。
 In spite of its rich and varied metaphor Lord of the Flies is not a bookish fable; and Golding has warned that he will concede little or nothing to The Golden Bough。16 There are real dangers in ignoring this disclaimer。 To do so obscures the contemporary relevance of his art and its experiential sources。 During the period of World War II he observed first hand the expenditure of human ingenuity in the old ritual of war。 As the illusions of his early rationalism and humanism fell away; new images emerged; and; as for Simon; a picture of 〃a human at once heroic and sick〃 formed in his mind。 When the war ended; Golding was ready to write (as he had not been before); and it was natural to find in the traditions he knew the metaphors which could define the continuity of the soul's flaws。 In one sense; the 〃fable〃 was already written。 One had but to trace over the words upon the scroll17 and so collaborate with history。
 
 16。See Golding's reply to Professor Kermode in 〃The Meaning of It All;〃 p。 199 in this volume。
 17。In a letter to me (September; 1962) Professor Frank Kermode recalls Golding's remark to the effect that he was 〃tracing words already on the paper〃 during the writing of Lord of the Flies。
 
 For my mother and father
 CHAPTER ONE
 The Sound of the Shell
 
 The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon。 Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand; his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead。 All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat。 He was clambering heavily among the creepers and broken trunks when a bird; a vision of red and yellow; flashed upwards with a witch…like cry; and this cry was echoed by another。
 〃Hi!〃 it said。 〃Wait a minute!〃
 The undergrowth at the side of the scar was shaken and a multitude of raindrops fell pattering。
 〃Wait a minute;〃 the voice said。 ' I got caught up。〃
 The fair boy stopped and jerked his stockings with an automatic gesture that made the jungle seem for a moment like the Home Counties。
 The voice spoke again。
 〃I can't hardly move with all these creeper things。〃
 The owner of the voice came backing out of the undergrowth so that twigs scratched on a greasy wind…breaker。 The naked crooks of his knees were plump; caught and scratched by thorns。 He bent down; removed the thorns carefully; and turned round。 He was shorter than the fair boy and very fat。 He came forward; searching out safe lodgments for his feet; and then looked up through thick spectacles。
 〃Where's the man with the megaphone?〃
 The fair boy shook his head。
 〃This is an island。 At least I think it's an island。 That's a reef out in the sea。 Perhaps there aren't any grownups anywhere。〃
 The fat boy looked startled。
 'There was that pilot。 But he wasn't in the passenger cabin; he was up in front。〃
 The fair boy was peering at the reef through screwed…up eyes。
 〃All them other lads;〃 the fat boy went on。 〃Some of them must have got out。 They must have; mustn't they?〃
 The fair boy began to pick his way as casually as possible toward the water。 He tried to be offhand and not too obviously uninterested; but the fat boy hurried after him。
 〃Aren't there any grownups at all?〃
 〃I don't think so。〃
 The fair boy said this solemnly; but then the delight of a realized ambition overcame him。 In the middle of the scar he stood on his head and grinned at the reversed fat boy。
 〃No grownups!〃
 The fat boy thought for a moment。
 〃That pilot。〃
 The fair boy allowed his feet to e down and sat on the steamy earth。
 〃He must have flown off after he dropped us。 He couldn't land here。 Not in a plane with wheels。〃
 〃We was attacked!〃
 〃He'll be back all right。〃
 The fat boy shook his head。
 〃When we was ing down I looked through one of them windows。 I saw the other part of the plane。 There were flames ing out of it。〃
 He looked up and down the scar。
 〃And this is what the cabin done。〃
 The fair boy reached out and touched the jagged end of a trunk。 For a moment he looked interested。
 〃What happened to it?〃 he asked。 〃Where's it got to now?〃
 〃That storm dragged it out to sea。 It wasn't half dangerous with all them tree trunks falling。 There must have been some kids still in it。〃
 He hesitated for a moment; then spoke again。
 〃What's your name?〃
 〃Ralph。〃
 The fat boy waited to be asked his name in turn but this proffer of acquaintance was not made; the fair boy called Ralph smiled vaguely; stood up; and began to make las way once more toward the lagoon。 The fat boy hung steadily at his shoulder。
 〃I expect there's a lot more of us scattered about。 You haven't seen any others; have you?〃
 Ralph shook his head and increased his speed。 Then he tripped over a branch and came down with a crash。
 The fat boy stood by him; breathing hard。
 〃My auntie told me not to run;〃 he explained; 〃on account of my asthma。〃
 〃Ass…mar?〃
 〃That's right。 Can't catch me breath。 I was the only boy in our school what had asthma;〃 said the fat boy with a touch of pride。 〃And I've been wearing specs since I was three。〃
 He took off his glasses and held them out to Ralph; blinking and smiling; and then started to wipe them against his grubby wind…breaker。 An expression of pain and inward concentration altered the pale contours of his face。 He smeared the sweat from his cheeks and quickly adjusted the spectacles on his nose。
 〃Them fruit。〃
 He glanced round the scar。
 〃Them fruit;〃 he said; 〃I expect…〃
 He put on his glasses; waded away from Ralph; and crouched down among the tangled foliage。
 〃Ill be out again in just a minute…〃
 Ralph disentangled himself cautiously and stole away through the branches。 In a few seconds the fat boy's grunts were behind him and he was hurrying toward the screen that still lay between him and the lagoon。 He climbed over a broken trunk and was out of the jungle。
 The shore was fledged with palm trees。 These stood or leaned or reclined against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in the air。 The ground beneath them was a bank covered with coarse grass; torn everywhere by the upheavals of fallen trees; scattered with decaying coconuts and palm saplings。 Behind this was the darkness of the forest proper and the open space of the scar。 Ralph stood; one hand against a grey trunk; and screwed up his eyes against the shimmering water。 Out there; perhaps a mile away; the white surf flinked on a coral reef; and beyond that the open sea was dark blue。 Within the irregular arc of coral the lagoon was still as a mountain lake…blue of all shades and shadowy green and purple。 The beach between the palm terrace and the water was a thin stick; endless apparently; for to Ralph's left the perspectives of palm and beach and water drew to a point at infinity; and always; almost visible; was the heat。
 He jumped down fr

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