Lord of the Flies Quotes - Page 3 | Just Great DataBase

Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation and a considerable amount of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.

Înțelese deodată plictiseala acestei vieți unde fiecare poteca era o improvizație, iar o buna parte din viata diurna ți-o petreceai urmărindu-ți piciorele

Ralph chose the firm strip as a path because he needed to think, and only here could he allow his feet to move without having to watch them. Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. 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.

Daylight might have answered yes; but darkness and the horrors of death said no.

Piggy took off his shoes and socks, ranged them carefully on the ledge and tested the water with one toe. 'It's hot!' 'What did you expect?' 'I didn't expect nothing. My auntie-' 'Sucks to your auntie!

Sucks to your asma,'Lord of the flies

Which is better -- to be a pack of painted niggers like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is

Lying there in the darkness, he knew he was an outcast.  ’Cos I had some sense.

حال دیگر نور آفتاب رفته بود و تاریکی بیرون می‌آمد. راه‌های میان درختان دیگر دیده نمی‌شد و همه‌جا همچون کف دریا تیره‌وتار و شگفت می‌نمود. گل‌های بازشده سفیدرنگ زیر نور ستاره‌ها می‌درخشیدند.

Bollocks to the rules!

As lágrimas começaram a correr-lhe pelas faces e soluços sacudiram-no. Pela primeira vez, desde que chegara à ilha, entregou-se ao choro; grandes e convulsivos espasmos de tristeza pareciam torcer todo o seu corpo. Sua voz elevou-se sob a fumaça negra diante dos restos incendiados da ilha; contagiados por aquela emoção, os outros meninos começaram a tremer e a soluçar. No meio deles, com o corpo sujo, cabelo emaranhado e nariz escorrendo, Ralph chorou pelo fim da inocência, pela escuridão do coração humano e pela queda no ar do verdadeiro e sábio amigo chamado Porquinho.O oficial, cercado por todo esse ruído, ficou emocionado e um pouco embaraçado. Virou-se para dar tempo a que se recuperassem. Esperou, deixando os olhos fixos no garboso cruzador a distância.

Which is better - to have rules and agree or to hunt and kill? ...law and rescue or hunting and breaking things up?

Le più grandi idee sono le più semplici.

islanded in a sea of meaningless color,

the best novels, the writer’s imagination becomes the reader’s reality.

The thing is-fear can't hurt you any more than a dream.

You don’t really mean that we got to be frightened all the time of nothing? Life, said Piggy expansively, is scientific, that’s what it is. In a year or two when the war’s over they’ll be traveling to Mars and back. I know there isn’t no beast—not with claws and all that, I mean—but I know there isn’t no fear, either.

He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things.

Then the clouds opened and let down the rain like a waterfall. The water bounded from the mountain-top, tore leaves and branches from the trees, poured like a cold shower over the straggling heap on the sand. Presently the heap broke up and the figures broke away. Only the beast lay still, a few yards from the sea. Even in the rain they could see how small it was; and already its blood was staining the sand

The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world.

I dunno, Ralph. We just got to go on, that's all. That's what grown-ups would do.

was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink.

As long as there's light we're brave enough

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 hurt you any more than a dream.

This day promised, like the others, to be a sunbath under a blue dome.

There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the beast.

Mata a fera! Corta-lhe as goelas! Espalha o sangue!

To me, Lord of the Flies has always represented what novels are for, what makes them indispensible. Should we expect to be entertained when we read a story? Of course. An act of the imagination that doesn’t entertain is a poor act indeed. But there should be more. A successful novel should erase the boundary-line between writer and reader, so they can unite. When that happens, the novel becomes a part of life – the main course, not the dessert. A successful novel should interrupt the reader’s life, make him or her miss appointments, skip meals, forget to walk the dog. In the best novels, the writer’s imagination becomes the reader’s reality. It

with an inner intensity of avoidance and secrecy.

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.

an incantation of hatred.

Jak vás jen mohlo napadnout, že obluda je něco, co se dá ulovit a zabít.

There is nothing in it of course. Just a feeling. But you can feel as if you're not hunting, but - being hunted, as if something's behind you all the time in the jungle.

Thought was a valuable thing, that got results.

Piggy was a bore; his fat, his ass-mar and his matter-of-fact ideas were dull,

Johnny, yawning still, burst into noisy tears and was slapped by Bill till he choked on them.

The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, travelled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on his back across that square, red rock in the sea. His head opened and stuff came out and turned red. Piggy's arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig's after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone.

Again he lost himself in deep waters.

He walked slowly into the middle of the clearing and looked steadily at the skull that gleamed as white as ever the conch had done and seemed to jeer at him cynically An inquisitive ant was busy in one of the eye sockets but otherwise the thing was lifeless. Or was it?

ambushed by sleep.

A successful novel should interrupt the reader’s life, make him or her miss appointments, skip meals, forget to walk the dog. In the best novels, the writer’s imagination becomes the reader’s reality. It glows, incandescent and furious.

So the last part, the bit we can all talk about, is kind of deciding on the fear.We've got to talk about this fear and decide there's nothing in it.

The moral is that the shape of a society must depend on the ethical nature of the individual and not on any political system however apparently logical or respectable.

They were miles wide, apparently not breakers or the banked ridges of shallow water. They travelled the length of the island with an air of disregarding it and being set on other business; they were less a progress than a momentous rise and fall of the whole ocean. Now the sea would suck down, making cascades and waterfalls of retreating water, would sink past the rocks and plaster down the seaweed like shining hair: then, pausing, gather and rise with a roar, irresistibly swelling over point and outcrop, climbing the little cliff, sending at last an arm of surf up a gully to end a yard or so from him in fingers of spray.Wave after wave, Ralph followed the rise and fall until something of the remoteness of the sea numbed his brain. Then gradually the almost infinite size of this water forced itself on his attention. This was the divider, the barrier. On the other side of the island, swathed at midday with mirage, defended by the shield of the quiet lagoon, one might dream of rescue; but here, faced by the brute obtuseness of the ocean, the miles of division, one was clamped down, one was helpless, one was condemned, one was . . .

Here at last was the imagined but never fully realized place leaping into real life.

powerless and raged without knowing why.

Of course we’re frightened sometimes but we put up with being frightened.

They knew very well why he hadn't: because of the enormity of the knife descending and cutting into living flesh; because of the unbearable blood

Piggy, saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded twice and was lost in the forest. 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. Piggy’s arms and legs twitched a bit, like a pig’s after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was gone.