Lord of the Flies

Celebrating William Golding''s dystopian classic of boyhood and the savagery of humanity, now a Penguin Classics Black Spine The Penguin Classics is the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world, representing a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.

Autorentext

William Golding; Foreword by Lois Lowry; Introduction by Rachel Greenwald Smith;Suggestions for Further Exploration by Jennifer Buehler

Klappentext

William Golding’s profound tale of stranded youth, survival, and the shadowy depths of human nature

A Penguin Classic

At the dawn of the next World War, a plane crash strands a group of schoolboys on a remote island. There are no grownups. No rules. Freedom is celebrated. But when strange, distant noises and visions of a beast begin to haunt the boys, their fragile order unravels, and all hopes of rescue fade.

Since 1954, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies has shaped our understanding of human nature — the latent darkness within, and the destructive or creative capacity of collective will. This edition also includes essays on reading and teaching the novel, an introduction from the 1962 edition by E. M. Forster, and notes by E. L. Epstein, scholar and book editor of the first 1959 American paperback edition, to contextualize Golding’s classic as one of the most timeless and socially relevant texts in the last century of literature.

Penguin Classics is the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world, representing a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.

Leseprobe
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 witchlike 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 around. 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 kids," 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 come down and sat on the steamy earth.

    "He must have flown off after he dropped us. He couldn't land here. Not in a place with wheels."

    "We was attacked!"

    "He'll be back all right."

    The fat boy shook his head.

    "When we was coming down I looked through one of them windows. I saw the other part of the plane. There were flames coming 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 his 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 my 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.

    "I'll 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 gra…