First Paper

Subject : Narrativa Inglesa group B

Student´s name : García Castiglioni, Belén

Title of the paper : Wars as an influence on the “Lord of the Flies ”

Author or topic : William Golding

In this paper I am dealing with this author’s chronology. In the introduction im explaining why I am focusing on how was he influenced by war to write the “Lord of the Flies“, and a bit more about this Nobel laureate. I will refer mainly to the shock the war meant to him, the track that his book has left among other British people and the impact of the Nobel Prize. My goal is to discover the effects of the Second World War on him, and I will confront it in my conclusion.

Bibliography URL’s

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Academic year 2009/2010

© a.r.e.a./Dr.Vicente Forés López

© Belén García Castiglioni

begarcas@alumni.uv.es

Introduction

William Golding is the writer of “Lord of the Flies”. The first time I heard about that book was 5 years ago when the TV show Lost started, because it is partially based on the book. Then last year my sister read it and she really enjoyed it and since then I wanted to read it but I hadn’t found the moment until I saw it was on the list of eligible authors. I haven’t been able to read the book yet, but I already bought it and read a few pages. So far I have also found out that Golding has won the Nobel Prize and that he is dead.

Golding was born in Cornwall, England, in 1911. His father, Alex, was a schoolmaster, while his mother, Mildred, was active in the Women’s Suffrage Movement. He entered Brasenose College of Oxford University to study English literature. At twenty-two, a year before taking his degree in English, Golding saw his first literary work published—a poetry collection simply titled Poems. After graduating from Oxford in 1935, Golding continued the family tradition by becoming a schoolmaster in Salisbury, Wiltshire. His teaching career was interrupted in 1940 with the outbreak of World War II (1939–45). Lieutenant Golding served five years in the British Royal Navy and saw active duty in the North Atlantic, commanding a rocket launching craft.

When he returned to his post at Bishop Wordsworth’s School in 1945, he began furthering his writing career. He wrote three novels, all of which went unpublished. In 1954 Golding created The Lord of the Flies. The novel was rejected by twenty-one publishers before Faber & Faber accepted the book. Initially, the tale of a group of schoolboys stranded on an island during their escape from war received mixed reviews and sold only modestly in its hardcover edition. But when the paperback edition was published in 1959, thus making the book more accessible to students, the novel began to sell briskly. Teachers, aware of the student interest and impressed by the strong theme and symbolism of the work, began assigning Lord of the Flies to their literature classes. As the novel’s reputation grew, critics reacted by drawing scholarly reviews out of what was previously dismissed as just another adventure story.

After the success of Lord of the Flies, Golding enjoyed success with other novels, including Pincher Martin (1957), Free Fall (1959), and The Pyramid (1967). The author’s creative output then dropped drastically. He produced no novels and only a handful of short novels, short stories, and other occasional pieces. In 1979 Golding returned with the publication of Darkness Visible which received mixed reviews. In 1983 he recived of the Nobel Prize in Literature. William Golding died in England in 1993. A year after his death, The Double Tongue was released, published from a manu script Golding completed before he died.

As William Golding’s most important work is the “Lord of the Flies” in this paper i will try to find out how the wars he was involved in impressed him and made him produce a work full of violence where the characters have to survive in adverse conditions. He took part in the Second World War and his father and uncles fought in the First World War. In order to find that out I will look for interviews and anything that talks about his inspirations.

Conclusion

“So the boys try to construct a civilisation on the island;

but it breaks down in blood and terror because the boys

are suffering from the terrible disease of being human.”

War changed the way William Golding understood human nature. After the war he believed that human are made to kill, this thought haunted him. He wrote the Lord of the Flies as a catharsis to relive his pain. He thought of himself as a monster. He regretted writing the Lord of the Flies because he became famous for a violent novel. The impression war left was very strong and ended with the innocence of many of his readers through the cruelty of the book. The Lord of the Flies is considered a masterpiece. He believed it wasn’t his best piece. He liked better “Rites od Passage” or “The Inheritors”.

When the war was over he saw that people were still shocked about how Hitler and his regime inflicted such large-scale inhumane horrors on the Jews and others. He wanted to make it clear in his book that such behavior could ocurr anywhere, even in a country like England. “The overall picture,” he wrote about the Lord of the Flies, “was to be the tragic lesson that the English have had to learn over a period of one hundred years; that one lot of people is inherently like any other lot of people; and that only enemy of man is inside him”.

His main intention was to share a point of view shared by many after the war. He states in an essay he wrote on the Lord of the Flies as a Fable: “Before the second World War I believed in the perfectability of social man; that a correct structure of society produced goodwill; and that therefore you could remove all social ills by a reorganisation of society. It is possible that I believe something of the same again; but after the war I did not because I was unable to. I had discovered what one man could do to another. I’m not talking of one man killing another with a gun, or dropping a bomb on him or blowing him up or torpedoing him. I am thinking of the vileness beyond all words that went on, year after year, in the totalitarian states. They were not done by the head hunters of New Guinea, or by some primitive tribe in the Amazon. They were done, skilfully, coldly, by educated men, doctors, lawyers, by men with a tradition of civilisation behind them, to beings of their own kind. I must say that anyone who moved through those years without understanding that man produces evil as a bee produces honey, must have been blind or wrong in the head.”

Most of his books are considered pessimistic but he believed that he was just portraying men. War marked him but he overcame it writing. It was hard to find information about him because he disliked giving interviews, and he hated talking about the Lord of the Flies, as a matter of fact he just put notes to the book at the beginning when his publisher made him do it. Later on he refused to write anything about his book.

I enjoyed reading it, although it made me feel uncomfortable at some points.

Bibliography URL’s

LORD OF THE FLIES: A PSYCHOANALYTIC VIEW OF DESTRUCTIVENESS, by JOHN MCCLEAN: http://www.aipsych.org.au/articles/aip4-lord_of_the_flies.pdf


William’s Golding chronology: http://www.william-golding.co.uk/P_Biog.pdf

William Golding: Nobel Lecture: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1983/golding-lecture.html

Educational Paperback Association: http://www.edupaperback.org/showauth.cfm?authid=92

William Golding: http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/wgolding.htm

Lord of the Flies fragment: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/jan/17/lord-flies-william-golding-condensed/print

William Golding: The Man Who Wrote Lord of the Flies | Book review:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/sep/05/william-golding-john-carey-review

The Lord of the Flies: http://www.cummingsstudyguides.net/Guides2/Golding.html#Theme

Lord of the Flies: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_of_the_Flies

William Golding Is Dead at 81; The Author of ‘Lord of the Flies’: http://www.nytimes.com/1993/06/20/obituaries/william-golding-is-dead-at-81-the-author-of-lord-of-the-flies.html?scp=9&sq=lord%20of%20the%20flies&st=cse

William Golding – Times Online: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article3084335.ece

Lord of the Flies: http://nobelprize.org/educational_games/literature/golding/index.html

Obituary: Sir William Golding – Times Online: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article3126160.ece

William Golding and the capacity for evil: http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/the_tls/article6845781.ece

William Golding – Books – guardian.co.uk: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/jun/13/william.golding

Lord of the Flies: the truth: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/aug/31/williamgolding.theatre

Lord of the Flies by William Golding: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/jan/17/lord-flies-william-golding-condensed

William Golding: Home Page: http://www.william-golding.co.uk/

Scott: http://aurora.icaap.org/index.php/aurora/article/view/50/63

William Golding: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Golding

William Golding: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1983/golding-bio.html

Lord of the Flies – Biographies: http://www.lordoftheflies.com/biographies.htm#William%20Golding


Nobel Lecture

Those of you who have some knowledge of your present speaker as revealed by the loftier-minded section of the British Press will be resigning yourselves to a half hour of unrelieved gloom. Indeed, your first view of me, white bearded and ancient, may have turned that gloom into profound dark; dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, irrecoverably dark, total eclipse. But the case is not as hard as that. I am among the older of the Nobel Laureates and therefore might well be excused a touch of – let me whisper the word – frivolity. Pray do not misunderstand me. I have no dancing girls, alas. I shall not sing to you or juggle or clown – or shall I juggle? I wonder! How can a man who has been defined as a pessimist indulge in anything as frivolous as juggling?

You see it is hard enough at any age to address so learned a gathering as this. The very thought induces a certain solemnity. Then again, what about the dignity of age? There is, they say, no fool like an old fool.

Well, there is no fool like a middle-aged fool either. Twenty-five years ago I accepted the label ‘pessimist’ thoughtlessly without realising that it was going to be tied to my tail, as it were, in something the way that, to take an example from another art, Rachmaninoff’s famous Prelude in C sharp minor was tied to him. No audience would allow him off the concert platform until he played it. Similarly critics have dug into my books until they could come up with something that looked hopeless. I can’t think why. I don’t feel hopeless myself. Indeed I tried to reverse the process by explaining myself. Under some critical interrogation I named myself a universal pessimist but a cosmic optimist. I should have thought that anyone with an ear for language would understand that I was allowing more connotation than denotation to the word ‘cosmic’ though in derivation universal and cosmic mean the same thing. I meant, of course, that when I consider a universe which the scientist constructs by a set of rules which stipulate that this construct must be repeatable and identical, then I am a pessimist and bow down before the great god Entropy. I am optimistic when I consider the spiritual dimension which the scientist’s discipline forces him to ignore. So worldwide is the fame of the Nobel Prize that people have taken to quoting from my works and I do not see why I should not join in this fashionable pastime. Twenty years ago I tried to put the difference between the two kinds of experience in the mind of one of my characters, and made a mess of it. He was in prison.

“All day long the trains run on rails. Eclipses are predictable. Penicillin cures pneumonia and the atom splits to order. All day long year in year out the daylight explanation drives back the mystery and reveals a reality usable, understandable and detached. The scalpel and the microscope fail. The oscilloscope moves closer to behaviour.

“But then, all day long action is weighed in the balance and found not opportune nor fortunate nor ill-advised but good or evil. For this mode which we call the spirit breathes through the universe and does not touch it: touches only the dark things held prisoner, incommunicado, touches, judges, sentences and passes on. Both worlds are real. There is no bridge.”

What amuses me is the thought that of course there is a bridge and that if anything it has been thrust out from the side which least expected it, and thrust out since those words were written. For we know now, that the universe had a beginning. (Indeed, as an aside I might say we always did know. I offer you a simple proof and forbid you to examine it. If there was no beginning then infinite time has already passed and we could never have got to the moment where we are.) We also know or it is at least scientifically respectable to postulate that at the centre of a black hole the laws of nature no longer apply. Since most scientists are just a bit religious and most religious are seldom wholly unscientific we find humanity in a comical position. His scientific intellect believes in the possibility of miracles inside a black hole while his religious intellect believes in them outside it. Both, in fact, now believe in miracles, credimus quia absurdum est. Glory be to God in the highest. You will get no reductive pessimism from me.

A greater danger facing you is that an ancient schoolmaster may be carried away and forget he is not addressing a class of pupils. A man in his seventies may be tempted to think he has seen it all and knows it all. He may think that mere length of years is a guarantee of wisdom and a permit for the issuing of admonition and advice. Poor young Shakespeare and Beethoven, he thinks, dead in their youth at a mere fifty-two or three! What could young fellows such as that know about anything? But at midnight perhaps, when the clock strikes and another year has passed he may occasionally brood on the disadvantages of age rather than the advantages. He may regard more thoughtfully a sentence which has been called the poetry of the fact, a sentence that one of those young fellows stumbled across accidentally, as it were, since he was never old enough to have worked the thing out through living. “Men,” he wrote, “must endure their going hence, even as their coming hither.” Such a consideration may modify the essential jollity of an old man’s nature. Is the old man right to be happy? Is there not something unbecoming in his cheerful view of his own end? The words of another English poet seem to rebuke him.

King David and King Solomon
Led merry, merry lives,
With many, many lady friends
And many, many wives;
But when old age crept over them,
With many, many qualms,
King Solomon wrote the Proverbs
And King David wrote the Psalms.

Powerful stuff that, there’s no doubt about it. But there are two views of the matter; and since I have quoted to you some of my prose which are generally regarded as poetic I will not quote to you some of my Goon or McGonagall poetry which may well be regarded as prosaic.

Sophocles the eminent Athenian
Gave as his final opinion
That death of love in the breast
Was like escape from a wild beast.
What better word could you get?
He was eighty when he said that.
But Ninon de L’Enclos
When asked the same question said, no
She was uncommonly matey
At eighty.

Evidently age need not wither us nor custom stale our infinite variety. Let us be, for a while, not serious but considerate. I myself face another danger. I do not speak in a small tribal language as it might be one of the six hundred languages of Nigeria. Of course the value of any language is incalculable. Your Laureate of 1979, the Greek poet Elytis, made quite clear that the relative value of works of literature is not to be decided by counting heads. It is, I think, the greatest tribute one can pay your committees that they have consistently sought for value in a work without heeding how many people can or cannot read it. The young John Keats spoke of Greek poets who “died content on pleasant sward, leaving great verse unto a little clan”. Indeed and indeed, small can be beautiful. To quote yet another poet – prose writer though I am you will have begun to realise where my heart is – Ben Jonson said:

“It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald and sere:
A lily of a day,
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures, life may perfect be.”

My own language, English, I believe to have a store of poets, of writers that need not fear comparison with those of any other language, ancient or modern. But today that language may suffer from too wide a use rather than too narrow a one – may be an oak rather than a lily. It spreads right round the world as the medium of advertisement, navigation, science, negotiation, conference. A hundred political parties have it daily in their mouths. Perhaps a language subjected to such strains as that may become, here and there, just a little thin. In English a man may think he is addressing a small, distinguished audience, or his family or his friends, perhaps; he is brooding aloud or talking in his sleep. Later he finds that without meaning to he has been addressing a large segment of the world. That is a daunting thought. It is true that this year, surrounded and outnumbered as I am by American laureates, I take a quiet pleasure in the consideration that though variants of my mother tongue may be spoken by a greater number of people than are to be found in an island off the West coast of Europe nevertheless they are speaking dialects of what is still centrally English. Personally I cannot tell whether those many dialects are being rendered mutually incomprehensible by distance faster than they are being unified by television and satellites; but at the moment the English writer faces immediate comprehension or partial comprehension by a good part of a billion people. His critics are limited in number only by the number of the people who can read his work. Nor can he escape from knowing the worst. No matter how obscure the publication that has disembowelled him, some kind correspondent – let us call him “X” – will send the article along together with an indignant assurance that he, “X”, does not agree with a word of it. I think apprehensively of the mark I present, once A Moving Target but now, surely a fixed one, before the serried ranks of those who can shoot at me if they choose. Even my most famous and distinguished fellow laureate and fellow countryman, Winston Churchill, did not escape. A critic remarked with acid wit of his getting the award, “Was it for his poetry or his prose?” Indeed it was considerations such as these which have given me, I suppose, more difficulty in conceiving, let alone writing this lecture than any piece of comparable length since those distant days when I wrote set essays on set subjects at school. The only difference I can find is that today I write at a larger desk and the marks I shall get for my performance will be more widely reported.

Now when, you may say, is the man going to say something about the subject which is alleged to be his own? He should be talking about the novel! Well, I will for a while, but only for a while, and as it were, tangentially. The truth is that though each of the subjects for which the prizes are awarded has its own and unique importance, none can exist wholly to itself. Even the novel, if it climbs into an ivory tower, will find no audience except those with ivory towers of their own. I used to think that the outlook for the novel was poor. Let me quote myself again. I speak of boys growing up – not exceptional boy, but average boy.

“Boys do not evaluate a book. They divide books into categories. There are sexy books, war books, westerns, travel books, science fiction. A boy will accept anything from a section he knows rather than risk another sort. He has to have the label on the bottle to know it is the mixture as before. You must put his detective story in a green paperback or he may suffer the hardship of reading a book in which nobody is murdered at all; – I am thinking of the plodders, the amiable majority of us, not particularly intelligent or gifted; well-disposed, but left high and dry among a mass of undigested facts with their scraps of saleable technology. What chance has literature of competing with the defined categories of entertainment which are laid on for them at every hour of the day? I do not see how literature is to be for them anything but simple, repetitive and a stop-gap for when there are no westerns on the telly. They will have a far less brutish life than their Nineteenth-Century ancestors, no doubt. They will believe less and fear less. But just as bad money drives out good, so inferior culture drives out superior. With any capacity to make value judgements vitiated or undeveloped, what mass future is there, then, for poetry, for belles-lettres, for real fearlessness in the theatre, for the novel which tries to look at life anew – in a word, for intransigence?”

I wrote that some twenty years ago I believe and the process as far as the novel is concerned has developed but not improved. The categories are more and more defined. Competition from other media is fiercer still. Well, after all the novel has no build – it claims on immortality.

“Story” of course is a different matter. We like to hear of succession of events and as an inspection of our press will demonstrate have only a marginal interest in whether the succession of events is minutely true or not. Like the late Mr. Sam Goldwyn who wanted a story which began with an earthquake and worked up to a climax, we like a good lead in but have most pleasure in a succession of events with a satisfactory end-point. Most simply and directly – when children holler and yell because of some infant tragedy or tedium, at once when we take them on our knee and begin shouting if necessary – “once upon a time” they fall silent and attentive. Story will always be with us. But story in a physical book, in a sentence what the West means by “a novel” – what of that? Certainly, if the form fails let it go. We have enough complications in life, in art, in literature without preserving dead forms fossilised, without cluttering ourselves with Byzantine sterilities. Yes, in that case, let the novel go. But what goes with it? Surely something of profound importance to the human spirit! A novel ensures that we can look before and after, take action at whatever pace we choose, read again and again, skip and go back. The story in a book is humble and serviceable, available, friendly, is not switched on and off but taken up and put down, lasts a lifetime.

Put simply the novel stands between us and the hardening concept of statistical man. There is no other medium in which we can live for so long and so intimately with a character. That is the service a novel renders. It performs no less an act than the rescue and the preservation of the individuality and dignity of the single being, be it man, woman or child. No other art, I claim, can so thread in and out of a single mind and body, so live another life. It does ensure that at the very least a human being shall be seen to be more than just one billionth of one billion.

I spoke of the ivory tower and the unique importance of each of our studies. Now I must add, having said my bit about the novel – that those studies converge, literature with the rest. Put bluntly, we face two problems – either we blow ourselves off the face of the earth or we degrade the fertility of the earth bit by bit until we have ruined it. Does it take a writer of fiction to bring you the cold comfort of pointing out that the problems are mutually exclusive? The one problem, the instant catastrophe, is not to be dealt with here. It would be irresponsible of me to turn this platform into a stage for acting out some antiatomic harangue and equally irresponsible at this juncture in history for me to ignore our perils. You know them as well as I do. As so often, when the unspeakable is to be spoken, the unthinkable thought, it is Shakespeare we must turn to; and I can only quote Hamlet with the skull:

“Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chop-fallen? Now get you to my lady’s chamber and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.”

I am being rather unfair to the lady, perhaps, for there will be skulls of all shapes and sizes and sexes. I speak tangentially. No other quotation gives the dirt of it all, another kind of poetry of the fact. I must say something of this danger and I have said it for I could do no less. Now as far as this matter is concerned, I have done.

The other danger is more difficult to combat. To quote another laureate, our race may end not with a bang but a whimper. It must be nearer seventy years ago than sixty that I first discovered and engaged myself to a magic place. This was on the west coast of our country. It was on the seashore among rocks. I early became acquainted with the wonderful interplay of earth and moon and sun, enjoying them at the same time as I was assured that scientifically you could not have action influenced at a distance. There was a particular phase of the moon at which the tide sank more than usually far down and revealed to me a small recess which I remember as a cavern. There was plenty of life of one sort or another round all the rocks and in the pools among them. But this pool, farthest down and revealed, it seemed, by an influence from the sky only once or twice during the times when I had the holiday privilege of living near it – this last recess before the even more mysterious deep sea had strange inhabitants which I had found nowhere else. I can now remember and even feel but alas not describe the peculiar engagement, excitement and, no, not sympathy or empathy, but passionate recognition of a living thing in all its secrecy and strangeness. It was or rather they were real as I was. It was as if the centre of our universe was there for my eyes to reach at like hands, to seize on by sight. Only a hand’s breadth away in the last few inches of still water they flowered, grey, green and purple, palpably alive, a discovery, a meeting, more than an interest or pleasure. They were life, we together were delight itself; until the first ripples of returning water blurred and hid them. When the summer holidays were over and I went back again about as far from the sea as you can get in England I carried with me like a private treasure the memory of that cave – no, in some strange way I took the cave with me and its creatures that flowered so strangely. In nights of sleeplessness and fear of the supernatural I would work out the phase of the moon, returning in thought to the slither and clamber among the weeds of the rocks. There were times when, though I was far away, I found myself before the cavern watching the moon-dazzle as the water sank and was comforted somehow by the magical beauty of our common world.

I have been back, since. The recess – for now it seems no more than that – is still there, and at low water springs if you can bend down far enough you can still look inside. Nothing lives there any more. It is all very clean now, ironically so, clean sand, clean water, clean rock. Where the living creatures once clung they have worn two holes like the orbits of eyes, so that you might well sentimentalize yourself into the fancy that you are looking at a skull. No life.

Was it a natural process? Was it fuel oil? Was it sewage or chemicals more deadly that killed my childhood’s bit of magic and mystery? I cannot tell and it does not matter. What matters is that this is only one tiny example among millions of how we are impoverishing the only planet we have to live on.

Well now, what has literature to say to that? We have computers and satellites, we have ingenuities of craft that can land a complex machine on a distant planet and get reports back. And so on. You know it all as well and better than I. Literature has words only, surely a tool as primitive as the flint axe or even the soft copper chisel with which man first carved his own likeness in stone. That tool makes a poor showing one would think among the products of the silicon chip. But remember Churchill. For despite the cynical critic, he got the Nobel Prize neither for poetry nor prose. He got it for about a single page of simple sentences which are neither poetry nor prose but for what, I repeat, has been called finely the poetry of the fact. He got it for those passionate utterances which were the very stuff of human courage and defiance. Those of us who lived through those times know that Churchill’s poetry of the fact changed history.

Perhaps then the soft copper chisel is not so poor a tool after all. Words may, through the devotion, the skill, the passion, and the luck of writers prove to be the most powerful thing in the world. They may move men to speak to each other because some of those words somewhere express not just what the writer is thinking but what a huge segment of the world is thinking. They may allow man to speak to man, the man in the street to speak to his fellow until a ripple becomes a tide running through every nation – of commonsense, of simple healthy caution, a tide that rulers and negotiators cannot ignore so that nation does truly speak unto nation. Then there is hope that we may learn to be temperate, provident, taking no more from nature’s treasury than is our due. It may be by books, stories, poetry, lectures we who have the ear of mankind can move man a little nearer the perilous safety of a warless and provident world. It cannot be done by the mechanical constructs of overt propaganda. I cannot do it myself, cannot now create stories which would help to make man aware of what he is doing; but there are others who can, many others. There always have been. We need more humanity, more care, more love. There are those who expect a political system to produce that; and others who expect the love to produce the system. My own faith is that the truth of the future lies between the two and we shall behave humanly and a bit humanely, stumbling along, haphazardly generous and gallant, foolishly and meanly wise until the rape of our planet is seen to be the preposterous folly that it is.

For we are a marvel of creation. I think in particular of one of the most extraordinary women, dead now these five hundred years, Juliana of Norwich. She was caught up in the spirit and shown a thing that might lie in the palm of her hand and in the bigness of a nut. She was told it was the world. She was told of the strange and wonderful and awful things that would happen there. At the last, a voice told her that all things should be well and all manner of things should be well and all things should be very well.

Now we, if not in the spirit, have been caught up to see our earth, our mother, Gaia Mater, set like a jewel in space. We have no excuse now for supposing her riches inexhaustible nor the area we have to live on limitless because unbounded. We are the children of that great blue white jewel. Through our mother we are part of the solar system and part through that of the whole universe. In the blazing poetry of the fact we are children of the stars.

I had better come down, I think. Churchill, Juliana of Norwich, let alone Ben Jonson and Shakespeare – Lord, what company we keep! Reputations grow and dwindle and the brightest of laurels fade. That very practical man, Julius Caesar – whom I always think of for a reason you may guess at, as Field Marshal Lord Caesar – Julius Caesar is said to have worn a laurel wreath to conceal his baldness. While it may be proper to praise the idea of a laureate the man himself may very well remember what his laurels will hide and that not only baldness. In a sentence he must remember not to take himself with unbecoming seriousness. Fortunately some spirit or other – I do not presume to put a name to it – ensured that I should remember my smallness in the scheme of things. The very day after I learned that I was the laureate for literature for 1983 I drove into a country town and parked my car where I should not. I only left the car for a few minutes but when I came back there was a ticket taped to the window. A traffic warden, a lady of a minatory aspect, stood by the car. She pointed to a notice on the wall. “Can’t you read?” she said. Sheepishly I got into my car and drove very slowly round the corner. There on the pavement I saw two county policemen.

I stopped opposite them and took my parking ticket out of its plastic envelope. They crossed to me. I asked if, as I had pressing business, I could go straight to the Town Hall and pay my fine on the spot. “No, sir,” said the senior policeman, “I’m afraid you can’t do that.” He smiled the fond smile that such policemen reserve for those people who are clearly harmless if a bit silly. He indicated a rectangle on the ticket that had the words ‘name and address of sender’ printed above it. “You should write your name and address in that place,” he said. “You make out a cheque for ten pounds, making it payable to the Clerk to the Justices at this address written here. Then you write the same address on the outside of the envelope, stick a sixteen penny stamp in the top right hand corner of the envelope, then post it. And may we congratulate you on winning the Nobel Prize for Literature.”

Nobel Lectures, Literature 1981-1990, Editor-in-Charge Tore Frängsmyr, Editor Sture Allén, World Scientific Publishing Co., Singapore, 1993. 5/11/2009, http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1983/golding-lecture.html –

William Golding, Biographical essay

Once dubbed “Lord of the Campus” by Time magazine, Nobel Prize-winning British novelist William Golding spent an entire writing career living down his first novel, Lord of the Flies. A relative of Robinson Crusoe, Golding’s dystopian tale of juvenile survival and tyranny made its author’s fame and became part of the campus canon on both sides of the Atlantic. Interweaving an allegory of Original Sin with descriptions of human primitivism, Lord of the Flies is ranked with George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Ninety Eighty-four as a novel that invites–even demands–analysis. Golding produced other fables in his long writing career: both The Inheritors and Pincher Martin are takes on the limits of so-called rational man. Later in life, he also dabbled in social comedy with The Pyramid and The Paper Men, while with his eighteenth-century sea trilogy–Rites of Passage, Close Quarters, and Fire Down Below–Golding turned a ship into a metaphor of the British Empire.

Golding has been described as pessimistic, mythical, spiritual–an allegorist who used his novels as a canvas to paint portraits of man’s constant struggle between his civilized self and his hidden, darker nature. With the appearance of Lord of the Flies, the author began his career as both a campus cult favorite and one of the late twentieth century’s distinctive–and much debated–literary talents. Golding’s appeal was summarized by the Nobel Prize committee, which issued this statement when awarding him the prestigious literature prize in 1983: “[His] books are very entertaining and exciting. They can be read with pleasure and profit without the need to make much effort with learning or acumen. But they have also aroused an unusually great interest in professional literary critics [who find] deep strata of ambiguity and complication in Golding’s work, . . . in which odd people are tempted to reach beyond their limits, thereby being bared to the very marrow.”

An “Idyllic” Childhood
Writing in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, Bernard Oldsey called Golding’s childhood “rather idyllic and isolated.” Born on September 19, 1911, in St. Columb Minor, in Cornwall, William Gerald Golding came into a family that expected much of its progeny. His father, Alec Golding, was a distinguished educator who served as senior assistant master at the Marlborough School his son would eventually attend. Descended from a long line of schoolmasters, Alec Golding had also written textbooks on botany, chemistry, zoology, physics, and geography, and was an accomplished musician, playing the violin, cello, viola, flute, and piano. Golding’s mother, Mildred, was an early suffragette and feminist. Thus, on the one side, Golding was influenced by his polymath father, and on the other by his activist mother. In the end, it was the former that stuck.

Many writers have noted that, less than a year after Golding’s birth, the Titanic sank. At its time, this event proved symbolic: the greatest creation of man was not safe from the forces of Nature. As Golding once commented in the Spectator, his mother confided to him that the sinking of the world-famous passenger liner confirmed in her the belief that the world is an “exhilarating but risky place.” Some critics credit this awakening in his mother–which was passed along to her son–as being responsible for what Dictionary of Literary Biography essayist Joyce T. Forbes called “the critique of single-minded rationalism that runs throughout [Golding’s] novels and essays.”

Until he reached school age, Golding’s acquaintances were limited to family, and he remembered little from those years save walks with his parents or his nurse, Lily, and the long Cornish vacations by the seaside. During these early years he developed a love for books and a passion for words, but little affinity for math. As a child, Golding was also fascinated by the “terror and darkness of his family’s fourteenth-century home in Marlborough and the nearby graveyard,” according to Forbes. He took to reading the classics, including Homer’s Odyssey, as well as books closer to his era, such as Gulliver’s Travels, Pilgrim’s Progress, Robinson Crusoe, and the novels of Alfred Henty, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Jules Verne, and Edgar Allan Poe. From copying word lists obsessively when he was seven, Golding decided to tackle a novel by age twelve. Influenced by his reading, young Golding intended to incorporate the rise of trade unionism in the projected twelve-volume opus. In the event, only the beginning sentence of the cycle remains, as quoted by Oldsey: “I was born in the Duchy of Cornwall on the eleventh of October, 1792, of rich but honest parents.” The use of the conjunction is particularly telling.

Golding attended Marlborough School for his secondary education, and then, after brushing up on his Latin, entered Brasenose College, Oxford, planning to study science. It took Golding two years to see the error of his ways, at which time he changed his area of concentration to literature. Still, his tastes veered away from the ordinary and the contemporary, leading him to focus on Anglo-Saxon studies. “This fascination with primitive subjects and ancient means of expressions remains apparent in much of his writing,” noted Oldsey. During his Oxford years, Golding began writing poetry, at first as a palliative to his science studies. Loaned a typewriter by a friend, Golding began putting down his reflections “on nature, unrequited love, the call of the sea, and the seduction of rationalism,” according to Bernard F. Dick in his critical study, William Golding. One of Golding’s friends gathered these fragmentary reflections together and secretly submitted them to Macmillan Publishers, who were in the process of establishing a series imprint for young poets. To Golding’s surprise, a check for five pounds showed up in the mail one day, his first indication that he was now a published poet. In 1934, one year before his graduation, Golding’s Poems appeared. Oldsey remarked that “these pieces are undistinguished enough for their author to wish they might be lost sight of,” while Dick maintained that as “literature they have no great value; but as documents illustrating the young Golding’s concerns, they indicate that he was preoccupied with two themes that later became dominant motifs in his fiction: the divided society and single-minded rationalism.” Poems contains, among others, “Non-Philosopher’s Song,” a sonnet distinguishing between head and heart, as well as the anti-rationalist “Mr. Pope.” Sold for a shilling in 1934, a copy of Poems eventually sold for thousands of dollars once its author became a famous author. However, all this was in the future; publication of his next book would not come for two more decades.

A Good War
After graduating from Oxford, Golding worked for a time as a social worker at a London settlement house. He also devoted himself to more creative activities as writer, actor, and producer at a small theater. He married in 1939, to Ann Brookfield, an analytical chemist, and then–true to family tradition–became a teacher himself. Moving with his new wife to Salisbury, Wiltshire, he took a position teaching English and philosophy at Bishop Wordsworth’s School. Here he settled down to married and professional life, and had two children. Like many others, his world changed on September 1, 1939, the date of the German invasion of Poland and the beginning of World War II.

Golding served in the Royal Navy most of the war years, engaged in active sea duty, and had what the British term a “good war.” Though he afterward made light of his experiences, he was “present when the Bismarck was sunk,” according to Oldsey. “He saw action against battleships, submarines, and aircraft, and took his . . . ship to France on D-day.” His war experiences “shattered his Candide-like optimism,” according to Dick. Golding himself later reported to Douglas A. Davis in the New Republic, “When I was young, before the war, I did have some airy-fairy views about man. . . . But I went through the war and that changed me. The war taught me different and a lot of others like me.”

Back in civilian life in 1945, Golding once more took up teaching at Bishop Wordsworth’s School and now turned his reading attention to Greek literature. “If I really had to adopt literary parentage . . . I should name thunderous great names like Euripides, and Sophocles, and perhaps even Herodotus,” Golding reported to James Baker in his William Golding, A Critical Study. “And I might go so far as to say that I have a profound admiration . . . for Homer.” It was during these early postwar years, also, that Golding returned to his love of writing. At first his literary efforts were unsuccessful. His few publications during this period were reviews and magazine articles; several novels failed to gain publication and are now lost. Golding later said that these efforts were doomed to failure because they were written to please publishers rather than himself. With sufficient wartime experience, one could imagine him producing a book based on those adventures–either memoir or novel. Instead, Golding took up a fable-like story of a group of young schoolboys marooned on an island during some unnamed future war.

Lord of the Flies
The novel that established Golding’s reputation, Lord of the Flies, was rejected by twenty-one publishers before Faber & Faber accepted the forty-three-year-old schoolmaster’s book. While the story has been compared to such works as Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe and Richard Hughes’s A High Wind in Jamaica, Golding’s novel is actually the author’s “answer” to nineteenth-century writer R. M. Ballantyne’s children’s classic The Coral Island: A Tale of the Pacific Ocean. These two books share the same basic plot line and even some of the same character names (two of the lead characters are named Ralph and Jack in both books). The similarity, however, ends there. Ballantyne’s story about a trio of boys stranded on an otherwise uninhabited island shows how, by pluck and resourcefulness, the young castaways survive with their morals strengthened and their wits sharpened. Lord of the Flies, on the other hand, is “an allegory on human society today, the novel’s primary implication being that what we have come to call civilization is, at best, not more than skin-deep,” James Stern explained in the New York Times Book Review.

Initially, the tale of a group of schoolboys stranded on an island during their escape from atomic war received mixed reviews and sold only modestly in its hardcover edition. But when the paperback edition was published in 1959, thus making the book more accessible to students, the novel began to sell briskly. Teachers, aware of student interest and impressed by the strong theme and stark symbolism in the work, assigned Lord of the Flies to literature classes. As the novel’s reputation grew, critics reacted by drawing scholarly theses out of what was previously dismissed as just another adventure story.

In his study The Tragic Past, David Anderson finds Biblical implications in Golding’s novel. “Lord of the Flies,” wrote Anderson, “is a complex version of the story of Cain–the man whose smoke-signal failed and who murdered his brother. Above all, it is a refutation of optimistic theologies which believed that God had created a world in which man’s moral development had advanced pari passu with his biological evolution and would continue so to advance until the all-justifying End was reached.” Lord of the Flies presents moral regression rather than achievement, Anderson argued. “And there is no all-justifying End,” the critic continued, “the rescue-party which takes the boys off their island comes from a world in which regression has occurred on a gigantic scale–the scale of atomic war. The human plight is presented in terms which are unqualified and unrelieved. Cain is not merely our remote ancestor: he is contemporary man, and his murderous impulses are equipped with unlimited destructive power.”

The work has also been called Golding’s response to the popular artistic notion a postwar society primed for such manifestations as “flower children” and the “Beats” that young people were basically innocent victims of adult society. In 1960, C. B. Cox deemed Lord of the Flies “probably the most important novel to be published . . . in the 1950s.” Cox, writing in Critical Quarterly, continued: “[To] succeed, a good story needs more than sudden deaths, a terrifying chase and an unexpected conclusion. Lord of the Flies includes all these ingredients, but their exceptional force derives from Golding’s faith that every detail of human life has a religious significance. This is one reason why he is unique among new writers in the `50s. . . . Golding’s intense conviction [is] that every particular of human life has a profound importance. His children are not juvenile delinquents, but human beings realising for themselves the beauty and horror of life.”

The Dissector of Human Society
Golding stayed on at his teaching post until 1960, continuing to write in the free time he could steal. And with his second novel, The Inheritors, he took his theme of tracing the defects of society back to the defects of human nature a step further. The Inheritors is set at the beginning of human existence itself, during the prehistoric age. A tribe of Neanderthals, as seen through the characters of Lok and Fa, live a peaceful, primitive life. Their happy world, however, is doomed: evolution brings in its wake the new race, Homo sapiens, who demonstrate their acquired skills with weapons by killing the Neanderthals. The book, which Golding has called his favorite, is also a favorite with several critics. Inevitably, comparisons were made between The Inheritors and Lord of the Flies.

To Peter Green, in A Review of English Literature, “it is clear that there is a close thematic connection between [the two novels]: Mr. Golding has simply set up a different working model to illustrate the eternal human verities from a new angle. Again it is humanity, and humanity alone, that generates evil; and when the new men triumph, Lok, the Neanderthaler, weeps as Ralph wept for the corruption and end of innocence [in Lord of the Flies].” Oldsey, writing in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, saw the comparison in religious terms: “[The Homo sapiens] represent the Descent of Man, not simply in the Darwinian sense, but in the Biblical sense of the Fall. Peculiarly enough, the boys [in Lord of the Flies] slide backward, through their own bedevilment, toward perdition; and Lok’s Neanderthal tribe hunches forward, given a push by their Homo sapiens antagonists, toward the same perdition. In Golding’s view, there is precious little room for evolutionary slippage: progression in The Inheritors and retrogression in Lord of the Flies have the same results.”

Just as Lord of the Flies is Golding’s rewriting, in his own terms, of The Coral Island, Golding claimed that he wrote The Inheritors to refute H. G. Wells’s controversial sociological study Outline of History. “[One] can see that between the two writers there is a certain filial relation, though strained,” commented a Times Literary Supplement critic. “They share the same fascination with past and future, the extraordinary capacity to move imaginatively to remote points in time, the fabulizing impulse, the need to moralize. There are even similarities in style. And surely now, when Wells’s reputation as a great writer is beginning to take form, it will be understood as high praise of Golding if one says that he is our Wells, as good in his own individual way as Wells was in his.” Taken together, the author’s first two novels are, according to Lawrence R. Ries in Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Fiction, “studies in human nature, exposing the kinds of violence that man uses against his fellow man. It is understandable why these first novels have been said to comprise [Golding’s] `primitive period.'”

Golding’s “primitive period” ended with the publication of his third novel, Pincher Martin (published in the United States as The Two Deaths of Christopher Martin, out of the publishers’ concern for American readers who would not know that “pincher” is British slang for “petty thief”). Stylistically similar to Ambrose Bierce’s famous short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” Pincher Martin is about a naval officer who, after his ship is torpedoed in the Atlantic, drifts aimlessly before latching on to a barren rock. Here he clings for days, eating sea anemones and trying his best to retain consciousness. Delirium overtakes him, though, and through his rambling thoughts he relives his past. The discovery of the sailor’s corpse at the end of the story in part constitutes what has been called a “gimmick” ending, and gives the book a metaphysical turn–the reader learns that Pincher Martin has been dead from the beginning of the narrative.

The author’s use of flashbacks throughout the narrative of Pincher Martin was discussed by Avril Henry in Southern Review: “On the merely narrative level [the device] is the natural result of Martin’s isolation and illness, and is the process by which he is gradually brought to his ghastly self-knowledge.” In fact, said Henry, the flashbacks “function in several ways. First the flashbacks relate to each other and to the varied forms in which they themselves are repeated throughout the book; second, they relate also to the details of Martin’s `survival’ on [the rock]. . . . Third, they relate to the six-day structure of the whole experience: the structure which is superficially a temporal check for us and Martin in the otherwise timeless and distorted events on the rock and in the mind, and at a deeper level is a horrible parody of the six days of Creation. What we watch is an unmaking process, in which man attempts to create himself his own God, and the process accelerates daily.”

While acknowledging the influences present in the themes of Pincher Martin–from Homer’s Odysseus to Robinson Crusoe again–Stephen Medcalf in William Golding suggests that the novel is Golding’s most autobiographical work to date. The author, said Medcalf, “gave [to] Martin more of the external conditions of his own life than to any other of his characters, from [his education at] Oxford . . . through a period of acting and theatre life to a commission in the wartime Navy.” Golding adds still another dimension from his own past, noted Medcalf: “His childhood fear of the darkness of the cellar and the coffin ends crushed in the walls from the graveyard outside [his childhood home]. The darkness universalizes him. It becomes increasingly but always properly laden with symbolism: the darkness of the thing that cannot examine itself, the observing ego: the darkness of the unconscious, the darkness of sleep, of death and, beyond death, heaven.”

Experiments in Fiction
To follow Pincher Martin, Golding “said that he next wanted to show the patternlessness of life before we impose our patterns on it,” according to Green. However, the resulting book, Free Fall, Green noted, “avoids the amoebic paradox suggested by his own prophecy, and falls into a more normal pattern of development: normal, that is, for Golding.” Not unlike Pincher Martin, Free Fall depicts through flashbacks the life of its protagonist, artist Sammy Mountjoy. Imprisoned in a darkened cell in a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp, Mountjoy, who has been told that his execution is imminent, has only time to reflect on his past.

Despite the similarity in circumstance to Pincher Martin, Oldsey found one important difference between that novel and Free Fall. In Free Fall, a scene showing Sammy Mountjoy’s tortured reaction on (symbolically) reliving his own downfall indicates a move toward atonement. “It is at this point in Golding’s tangled tale that the reader begins to understand the difference between Sammy Mountjoy and Pincher Martin,” Oldsey said. “Sammy escapes the machinations of the camp psychiatrist, Dr. Halde, by making use of man’s last resource, prayer. It is all concentrated in his cry of `Help me! Help me!’–a cry which Pincher Martin refuses to utter. In this moment of desperate prayer, Sammy spiritually bursts open the door of his own selfishness.”

Medcalf saw the story as Dantéesque in nature (Mountjoy’s romantic interest is even named Beatrice) and remarked: “Dante, like Sammy, came to himself in the middle of his life, in a dark wood [the cell, in Sammy’s case], unable to remember how he came there. . . . His only way out is to see the whole world, and himself in its light. Hell, purgatory and heaven are revealed to him directly, himself and this world of sense in glimpses from the standpoint of divine justice and eternity.” In Free Fall Golding’s intent “is to show this world directly, in other hints and guesses. He is involved therefore in showing directly the moment of fall at which Dante only hints. He has a hero without reference points, who lives in the vertigo of free fall, therefore, reproachful of an age in which those who have a morality or a system softly refuse to insist on them: a hero for whom no system he has will do, but who is looking for his own unity in the world–and that, the real world, is `like nothing, because it is everything.’ Golding, however, has the advantage of being able to bring Dante’s world in by allusion: and he does so with a Paradise hill on which Beatrice is met.”

In Golding’s fifth novel, The Spire, “the interest is all in the opacity of the man and in a further exploration of man’s all-sacrificing will,” according to Medcalf. Fourteenth-century clergyman Dean Jocelin “is obsessed with the belief that it is his divine mission to raise a 400-foot tower and spire above his church,” Oldsey related. “His colleagues protest vainly that the project is too expensive and the edifice unsuited for such a shaft. His master builder (obviously named Roger Mason) calculates that the foundation and pillars of the church are inadequate to support the added weight, and fruitlessly suggests compromises to limit the shaft to a lesser height. The townspeople–amoral, skeptical, and often literally pagan–are derisive about `Jocelin’s Folly.'” Dean Jocelin, nonetheless, strives on. The churchman, in fact, “neglects all his spiritual duties to be up in the tower overseeing the workmen himself, all the while choosing not to see within and without himself what might interrupt the spire’s dizzying climb,” Oldsey continued. The weight of the tower causes the church’s foundations to shudder; the townspeople increasingly come to see Jocelin as a man dangerously driven.

The Spire “is a book about vision and its cost,” observed New York Review of Books critic Frank Kermode. “It has to do with the motives of art and prayer, the phallus turned spire; with the deceit, as painful to man as to God, involved in structures which are human but have to be divine, such as churches and spires. But because the whole work is a dance of figurative language such an account of it can only be misleading.” As with all Golding’s work, The Spire can be read on two levels, as either an engrossing story or a biting analysis of human nature. As Nigel Dennis commented in the New York Times Book Review, Golding “has always written on these two levels. But The Spire will be of particular interest to his admirers because it can also be read as an exact description of his own artistic method. This consists basically of trying to rise to the heights while keeping himself glued to the ground. Mr. Golding’s aspirations climb by clinging to solid objects and working up them like a vine. This is particularly pronounced in [The Spire], where every piece of building stone, every stage of scaffolding, every joint and ledge, are used by the author to draw himself up into the blue.”

The Later Period
By 1965 Golding found himself gaining both increasing critical acclaim and popular acceptance; “then matters changed abruptly,” Oldsey related. The writer’s output dropped dramatically and for the next fifteen years he produced no novels and only a handful of novellas, short stories, and occasional pieces. Of this period, The Pyramid, a collection of three related novellas–considered a novel proper by some critics–is generally regarded as among Golding’s weaker efforts. The episodic story of a man’s existence in the suspiciously named English town of Stilbourne, The Pyramid proved a shock to “even Golding’s most faithful adherents [who] wondered if the book was indeed a novel or if it contributed anything to the author’s reputation. To some it seemed merely three weak stories jammed together to produce a salable book,” said Oldsey. The Pyramid, however, did have its admirers. To a Times Literary Supplement critic the book “will astonish by what it is not. It is not a fable, it does not contain evident allegory, it is not set in a simplified or remote world. It belongs to another, more commonplace tradition of English fiction; it is a low-keyed, realistic novel of growing up in a small town–the sort of book H. G. Wells might have written if he had been more attentive to his style.”

The Scorpion God: Three Short Novels, another collection of novellas, was somewhat better received. One Times Literary Supplement reviewer, while calling the work “not major Golding,” nevertheless found the book “a pure example of Golding’s gift. . . . The title story is from Golding’s Egyptological side and is set in ancient Egypt. . . . By treating the unfamiliar with familiarity, explaining nothing, he teases the reader into the strange world of the story. It is as brilliant a tour de force as The Inheritors, if on a smaller scale.”

Golding’s reintroduction to the literary world was acknowledged in 1979 with the publication of Darkness Visible. Despite some fifteen years’ absence from novel writing, the author “returns unchanged,” Samuel Hynes observed in a Washington Post Book World article. “[He is] still a moralist, still a maker of parables. To be a moralist you must believe in good and evil, and Golding does; indeed, you might say that the nature of good and evil is his only theme. To be a parable-maker you must believe that moral meaning can be expressed in the very fabric of the story itself, and perhaps that some meanings can only be expressed in this way; and this, too, has always been Golding’s way.”

The title of Darkness Visible derives from Milton’s description of Hell in Paradise Lost, and from the first scenes of the book Golding confronts the reader with images of fire, mutilation, and pain–which he presents in Biblical terms. For instance, noted Commonweal reviewer Bernard McCabe, the novel’s opening describes a small child, “horribly burned, horribly disfigured, [who walks] out of the flames at the height of the London blitz. . . . The shattered building he emerges from . . . is called `a burning bush,’ the firemen stare into `two pillars of lighted smoke,’ the child walks with a `ritual gait,’ and he appears to have been `born from the sheer agony of a burning city.'” The rescued youth, dubbed Matty, the left side of whose face has been left permanently mutilated, grows up to be a religious visionary.

“If Matty is a force for light, he is opposed by a pair of beautiful twins, Toni and Sophy Stanhope,” continued Susan Fromberg Schaeffer in her Chicago Tribune Book World review. “These girls, once symbols of innocence in their town, discover the seductive attractions of darkness. Once, say the spirits who visit Matty, the girls were called before them, but they refused to come. Instead, obsessed by the darkness loose in the world, they abandon morality, choosing instead a demonic hedonism that allows them to justify anything, even mass murder.”

Some of the ideas explored in Golding’s next book trace back to Lord of the Flies “and to the view [the author] held then of man as a fallen being capable of a `vileness beyond words,'” in the opinion of New Statesman reviewer Blake Morrison. Set in the early nineteenth century, Rites of Passage tells of a voyage from England to Australia as recounted through the shipboard diary of young aristocrat Edmund Talbot. “He sets down a vivid record of the ship and its characters,” explained Morrison. They include “the irascible Captain Anderson . . . , the `wind-machine Mr. Brockleband,’ the whorish `painted Magdalene’ called Zenobia, and the meek and ridiculous `parson,’ Mr. Colley, who is satirised as mercilessly as the clerics in [Henry] Fielding’s Joseph Andrews.” This last character is the one through which much of the dramatic action in Rites of Passage takes place. For Colley, this “country curate . . . this hedge priest,” as Golding’s Talbot describes him, “is the perfect victim–self-deluding, unworldly, sentimentally devout, priggish, and terrified. Above all he is ignorant of the powerful homosexual streak in his nature that impels him toward the crew and especially toward one stalwart sailor, Billy Rogers,” explained Robert Towers in the New York Review of Books. Driven by passion yet torn by doubt, ridiculed and shunned by the other passengers on the ship, Colley literally dies of shame during the voyage. Rites of Passage won the Booker McConnell Prize for 1981 and began a trilogy that would be finally completed in 1989.

Winning the Nobel Prize in 1983, the author faced his harshest criticism to date with the publication of The Paper Men the following year. A farce-drama about an aging, successful novelist’s conflicts with his pushy, overbearing biographer, The Paper Men “tells us that biography is the trade of the con man, a fatuous accomplishment, and the height of impertinence in both meanings of the word,” according to London Times critic Michael Ratcliff. Unfortunately for Golding, many critics found The Paper Men to be sorely lacking in the qualities that distinguish the author’s best work. As Michiko Kakutani observed in the New York Times: “Judging from the tired, petulant tone of [the novel], Mr. Golding would seem to have more in common with his creation than mere appearance–a `scraggy yellow-white beard, yellow-white thatch and broken-toothed grin.’ He, too, seems to have allowed his pessimistic vision of man to curdle his view of the world and to sour his enjoyment of craft.” As the novelist David Lodge noted in a New Republic review of The Paper Men, “Anything a writer does after winning the Nobel Prize is apt to seem an anti-climax. William Golding’s new novel . . . is no exception to the rule.”

Completion of the Sea Trilogy
Golding saw the publication of two more novels before his death in 1993. Close Quarters, published in 1987, and Fire down Below, published in 1989, complete the trilogy begun with Rites of Passage. Close Quarters, according to Bernard F. Dick in World Literature Today, “portrayed a voyage to Australia on a ship that symbolized class-conscious Britain (circa 1810) facing the rise of the middle class. . . . Close Quarters continues the voyage, but this time the ship, which is again a symbol of Britain, is near collapse.” The story is told through the journal entries of Edmund FitzHenry Talbot, “a well-meaning, somewhat uncertain, slightly pompous officer and gentleman enroute to Sydney and a career in His Majesty’s service,” a Publishers Weekly reviewer observed. When an inexperienced sailor’s error destroys the ship’s masts, the crew and passengers are left to ponder their mortality. “As with most of Golding’s fiction,” David Nokes asserted in the Times Literary Supplement, “it is impossible to escape a brooding, restless intensity which turns even the most trivial incident or observation into a metaphysical conceit.” As the ship founders and its captives become increasingly agitated, it seems to become a living thing itself, with twigs sprouting from its timbers and discernable creeping movements in its deck planks underfoot. “As a story-teller [Golding’s] touch never falters,” Nokes concluded. “His attention to details of idiom and setting show a reverence for his craft that would do credit to a master-shipwright. It is in the dark undertow of his metaphors and in the literary ostentation of his allusions that a feeling of strain and contrivance appears. As he steers us through the calms and storms, we are never quite sure whether we are in the safe hands of a master-mariner or under the dangerous spell of an Old Man of the Sea.”

New York Times Book Review contributor Robert M. Adams had high hopes for the final book of the trilogy based on his reading of Close Quarters. He asserted that the second volume “will not stand up by itself as an independent fiction the way Rites of Passage did. . . . But this is the wrong time to pass final judgment on a project, the full dimensions of which can at this point only be guessed. In one sense, the very absence from this novel of strong scenes and sharply defined ironies confirms one’s sense of a novelist who is still outward bound, firmly in control of his story, and preparing his strongest effects for the resolutions and revolutions to come.” Los Angeles Times Book Review critic Richard Hough also found Close Quarters unable to stand alone: “This reviewer confesses to being totally mystified by Golding’s sequel to Rites of Passage. It is neither an allegory, nor a fantasy, nor an adventure, nor even a complete novel, as it has a beginning, a middle (of sorts) but an ending only at some unspecified future date when Golding chooses to complete it, if he does.”

The final volume of the trilogy, Fire down Below, appeared in 1989. The title refers to a plan for repairing the ship’s masts that entails creating iron bands to pull together the split in the wood that is preventing the masts from bearing the weight of the sails, but which also incurs the danger of fire in the hold during the blacksmithing process. Quill and Quire reviewer Paul Stuewe described Fire down Below as an “ambitious and satisfying novel” and “a rousing finale to an entertaining exercise in historical pastiche.” While asserting that neither Fire down Below nor Close Quarters “works as powerfully and coherently as Rites of Passage with its strongly structured story of a parson who literally died of shame,” New Statesman & Society contributor W. L. Webb observed that “what keeps one attending still, as to the other ancient mariner’s tales of ice mast-high, are [Golding’s] magic sea pictures: faces on the quarter-deck masked in moonlight, the eerie `shadow’ that falls behind solid bodies in mist and spray, storm-light and a droning wind, and the sailors swarming out like bees as the wounded ship yaws close to the ice cliffs. There’s nothing quite like it in our literature.”

Four years after publishing Fire down Below, the eighty-one-year-old Golding died of a heart attack near Falmouth, England. He remains one of the most debated “great” writers of the twentieth century, some critics even disputing the appellation of “great” despite the fact that Golding won the Nobel Prize for literature. Stanley Kaufmann, for one, referred in the New Republic to the “murmur of amused surprise” from the literary world that greeted the announcement that Golding had won the Nobel. Nor do all agree that his most famous creation, Lord of the Flies, is a true masterpiece. Again, Kaufmann noted that it “isn’t a novel, it’s a mechanism.” Writing in the Atlantic, Jonathan Raban called Golding “in his way, a famous preacher,” adding: “His books owe at least as much to the tradition of the sermon as they do to the tradition of the novel. Golding is not good at creating the illusion of reality in his work; fiction events occur in it the way they do in parables. His prose style lacks melody and often seems clumsy.” For Raban, the true strength of Golding’s prose can be found “in its knottiness, its sinewy way of worrying at large moral issues and making slow, insistent sense of them.” Yet many others have found power in Golding both as sermonizer and storyteller. “As a novelist, William Golding had the gift of terror,” Joseph J. Feeney wrote in an obituary of the novelist for America. “It is not the terror of a quick scare–a ghost, a scream, a slash that catches the breath–but a primal, fearsome sense of human evil and human mystery. . . . William Golding was, with Graham Greene, the finest British novelist of our half-century. His fellow novelist Malcolm Bradbury memorialized him as `a writer who was both impishly difficult, and wonderfully monumental,’ and a teller of `primal stories–about the birth of speech, the dawn of evil, the strange sources of art.'”

PERSONAL INFORMATION
Born September 19, 1911, in St. Columb Minor, Cornwall, England; died of a heart attack, June 19, 1993, in Perranarworthal, near Falmouth, England; son of Alex A. (a schoolmaster) and Mildred A. Golding; married Ann Brookfield, 1939; children: David, Judith. Education: Brasenose College, Oxford, B.A., 1935, M.A., 1960. Hobbies and other interests: Sailing, archaeology, and playing the piano, violin, viola, cello, and oboe.

AWARDS
Commander, Order of the British Empire, 1965; D.Litt., University of Sussex, 1970, University of Kent, 1974, University of Warwick, 1981, Oxford University, 1983, and University of Sorbonne, 1983; James Tait Black Memorial Prize, 1980, for Darkness Visible; Booker McConnell Prize, 1981, for Rites of Passage; Nobel Prize for literature, 1983, for body of work; LL.D., University of Bristol, 1984; knighted, 1988.

CAREER
Writer. Worked in a settlement house after graduating from Oxford University; taught English and philosophy at Bishop Wordsworth’s School, Salisbury, Wiltshire, England, 1939-40, 1945-61; wrote, produced, and acted on London stage, 1934-40, 1945-54. Writer-in-residence, Hollins College, 1961-62; honorary fellow, Brasenose College, Oxford University, 1966. Military service: Royal Navy, 1940-45; became rocket ship commander.

“William Golding.” Authors and Artists for Young Adults, Volume 44. Gale Group, 2002. Reproduced in Biography Resource Center. Farmington Hills, Mich.: Thomson Gale. 2007, 5/11/2009, http://www.edupaperback.org/showauth.cfm?authid=92 –

William Golding

William Golding (1911-1993) – in full Sir Willam Gerald Golding
English novelist, who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1983. The choice was unexpected, because the internationally famous novelist Graham Greene (1904-1991) was considered the strongest candidate from the English writers. In many novels Golding has revealed the dark places of human heart, when isolated individuals or small groups are pushed into extreme situations. His work is characterized by exploration of ‘the darkness of man’s heart’, deep spiritual and ethical questions.

“Twenty-five years ago I accepted the label ‘pessimist’ thoughtlessly without realising that it was going to be tied to my tail, as it were, in something the way that, to take an example from another art, Rachmaninoff’s famous Prelude in C sharp minor was tied to him. No audience would allow him off the concert platform until he played it. Similarly critics have dug into my books until they could come up with something that looked hopeless. I can’t think why. I don’t feel hopeless myself.” (from Nobel Lecture, 1983)

William Golding was born in the village of St. Columb Minor in Cornwall. His father, Alec, was a schoolmaster, who had radical convictions in politics and a strong faith in science. Golding’s mother, Mildred, was a supporter of the British suffragate movement. Golding started writing at the age of seven, but following the wishes of his parents, he studied first natural sciences and then English at Brasenose College, Oxford. Golding’s first book, a collection of poems, appeared in 1934, a year before he received his B.A. in English and a diploma in education.

From 1935 to 1939, Golding worked as a writer, actor, producer, and a settlement house worker. In 1939 he moved to Salisbury, where he began teaching English and philosophy at Bishop Wordsworth’s School. He married Ann Brookfield; they had two children. In his private journal Golding described how he once set two groups of boys against one another. These psychological experiments most likely inspired later his novel LORD OF THE FLIES (1954).

During World War II, Golding served in the Royal Navy in command of a rocket ship. His active service included involvement in the sinking of the German battleship Bismarck in 1940 and participating in the Normandy invasion. Demobilised in 1945, Golding returned to writing and teaching, with a dark view of the European civilization. Recalling later his war experiences, he remarked that “man produces evil, as a bee produces honey.”

In Salisbury Golding wrote four books, but did not get them published. Lord of tghe Flies, an allegorical story set in the near future during wartime, was turned down by twenty-one publishes until it finally accepted by Faber and Faber after substantial revisions. E.M. Forster named it Book of the Years and in the late 1950s it became a bestseller among American readers. At the time of its appearance, Golding was 44, but the success of the novel allowed him to give up teaching. In the gripping story a group of small British boys, stranded on a desert island, lapse into violence after they have lost all adult guidance. Ironically, the adult world is devastated by nuclear war.

Lord of the Flies was followed by THE INHERITORS (1955), which overturned H.G. Wells‘s Outline of History (1920) and depicted the extermination of Neanderthal man by Homo Sapiens. Neanderthals are first portrayed compassionate and communal, but when they meet the more sophisticated Cro-Magnons, their tribe is doomed. The Finnish professor of paleontology, Björn Kurtén has offered in his novel Dance of the Tiger (1978) the explanation, that the Neanderthals disappeared because they fell fatally in love with their black and beautiful Cro-Magnon neighbours. In The Inheritors there is no understanding or love between these two races.

PINCHER MARTIN (1956) was story of a naval officer, Christopher Hadley Martin, who faces death after his ship is torpedoed. Like in Ambroce Bierce‘s ‘Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge’, the protagonist imagines his survival and struggle against the sea and coldChristopher believes he is on a rock island in Mid-Atlantic. The rock he clings is metaphorically analogous to his diseased tooth. The FREE FALL (1959) was set in contemporary society. Sammy Mountjoy, the narrator, is an artist, who looks back over his past to find the crossroads of his life, and the moment he lost his freedom.

Golding resigned in 1961 from teaching and devoted himself entirely to writing. He lived quietly in Corwall, gaining the reputation of a mildly eccentric and reclusive person. In 1965 he received the honorary designation Commander of the British Empire (CBE) and in 1988 he was knighted. Golding died in Perranarworthal on June 19, 1993. His last novel, THE DOUBLE TONGUE, left in draft at his death, was published in 1995. The story was set in the ancient Greece, and depicted the life of the last Delphic oracle, the Pythia, who witnesses the rise of the Roman power, and the decline of the Hellenistic culture.

THE SPIRE (1964), which shared some motifs with Iris Murdoch‘s novel The Bell (1958), concerned the construction of a cathedral spire. Jocelin, a medieval dean, has decided to erect a 400-foot spire to the top of the catdedral before his death. But its construction causes sacrifice of others, treachery, and murder; the Dean’s own faith is tested. From this novel Golding’s work developed into three directions: novels dealing with contemporary society without mythical substructure, the metaphysical novels in which the theme of fall from innocence into guilt was central, and sea novels imitating an 18th-century style. Golding also used in his works ideas familiar from science fiction, such as the origin of man, nuclear holocaust, and highly advanced inventions. In the play THE BRASS BUTTERFLY (1958), based on Golding’s short story ‘Envoy Extraordinary’, an Greek inventor Phanocles tries to get his steam engine, gun, pressure-cooker, and printing press accepted by the Roman emperor.

Among Golding’s later works is the historical trilogy RITES OF PASSAGE (1980), which portrayed life abroad an ancient ship of the line at the end of the Napoleonic Wars. It was awarded the Booker Prize. Other parts of the trilogy, narrated by young Edmund FitzHenry Talbot, were CLOSE QUARTERS (1987) and FIRE DOWN BELOW (1989). “The author seems intent on making the ship’s voyage parallel what is supposed to be Talbot’s inner voyage of self-discovery, but once the ship docks, the young man is little more than the opinionated fop he was at the novel’s beginning.” (Dierdre Bair, in The New York Times, April 2, 1989) THE PAPER MEN (1984), condemned by reviewers as Golding’s worst work, was about the battle between the world-famous English novelist Wilfred Barclay and the American academic Rick L. Turner, who has decided to write Barclay’s biography. “In this book, however, Barclay and Tucker are not only poorly defined as individuals, but are also wholly inadequate as symbols. They are indeed no more than paper men.” (Michiko Kakutani, inThe New York Times, March 26, 1984)

Golding’s most widely read work, Lord of the Flies, has been translated into many languages and filmed in 1963 and 1990. It is an ironic comment on R.M. Ballantyne‘s Coral Island, using also the names of its characters. The story describes a group of children, who are evacuated from Britain because of a nuclear war. Their airplane crashes on an uninhabited island, and all the adults are killed. The boys create their own society, which gradually degenerates from democratic, rational, and moral community to tyrannical and cruel. “They cried for their mothers much less often than might have been expected; they were very brown, and filthily dirty.” (from Lord of the Flies)

The older boys take control, a boy called Piggy, who is asthmatic and nearsighted, becomes a target of teasing and torment. Leaders emerge, two of the older boys get killed, and they begin to hunt another, just as a ship arrives. Golding’s view is pessimistic: human nature is inherently corruptible and wicked. Thus the 19th century ideals of progress and education are based on false premises. Although the boys have been taught social skills, their desire to kill is unleashed when there are no strict rules of the English public-school system to control their behavior. This is the world of freedom, that is ruled by savages and the ultimate evil, the Lord of the Flies, Beelzebub, Prince of Devils, whom the boys worship in the form of a decapitated boar’s head.

For further reading: William Golding: a Critical Study by I. Gregor and M. Kinkead-Weekes (1967); The Novels of William Golding by H.S. Babb (1973); W. Golding: Lord of the Flies by J. Whitley (1970); William Golding by S. Medcalf (1975); William Golding: Some Critical Considerations, ed. by J.I. Biles and R.D. Evans (1978); William Golding: A Structural Reading of His Fiction by Philip Redpath (1987); The Modern Allegories of William Goldman by L.KL. Dickson (1990); William Golding by Lawrence S. Friedman (1992); William Golding by Pralhad A. Kulkarni (1994); The Robinsonade Tradition in Robert Michael Ballantyne’s the Coral Island and William Golding’s the Lord of the Flies by Karin Siegl (1996); Readings on Lord of the Flies, ed. by Clarice Swisher (1997); Language and Style in the Inheritors by David L. Hoover (1998);Politics and History in William Golding: The World Turned Upside Down by Paul Crawford (2002); William Golding: The Unmoved Target by Virginia Tiger (2003) – See: Daniel Defoe and Robinsonade, a story of a person marooned on a desert island.

– Petri Liukkonen, William Golding, 5/11/2009, http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/wgolding.htm –

Theme explained by the author

The theme is an attempt to trace the defects of society back to the defects of human nature. 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. The whole book is symbolic in nature except the rescue in the end where adult life appears, dignified and capable, but in reality enmeshed in the same evil as the symbolic life of the children on the island. The officer, having interrupted a man-hunt, prepares to take the children off the island in a cruiser which will presently be hunting its enemy in the same implacable way. And who will rescue the adult and his cruiser?

-E.L. Epstein. “Notes on Lord of the Flies.” The Lord of the Flies, by William Golding. New York: Berkley Publishing Group, 1954, Page 204. 05/11/2009, http://www.cummingsstudyguides.net/Guides2/Golding.html#AuthorMeaning –

Obituary: Sir William Golding – Times Online

Printed in the Times on Monday, June 21, 1993

Sir William Golding, CBE, English novelist and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1983), died suddenly at his home near Truro, Cornwall, on June 19 aged 81. He was born in St Columb Minor, Cornwall, on September 19, 1911.

WILLIAM GOLDING was one of only four English authors (the others are Kipling, Galsworthy and Winston Churchill) to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. Some felt it might justly have gone to Graham Greene, Anthony Powell or James Hanley, but none questioned his suitability for the award, as is so often the case.

He was a “big” novelist, most of whose work could usually carry the weight he put into it. He lived outside literary coteries, struggled with grave and ponderous themes, and took risks which lesser writers could not dare to take. As is the case with all such writers there is general disagreement about which is his masterpiece but no doubt as to whether he produced one. Is it Lord of the Flies (1954), The Inheritors (1955), The Spire (1964), Darkness Visible (1979) or the last trilogy consisting of Rites of Passage, Close Quarters and Fire Down Below (1981-89)? This is in any case a formidable list and some would add to it.

William Gerald Golding’s father, a Quaker turned atheist, was a master at Marlbrough Grammar School where William was educated. He then went on to Brasenose College, Oxford, from which he graduated in 1935. While still at Oxford he published, as “W.G. Golding”, a volume Poems (1934) with Macmillan in London, and in New York (1935). What reviews this received were indifferent, and of the book he later declared that he made “furtive efforts to conceal, destroy, or at any rate disclaim that melancholy slim volume of my extreme youth.” For some years, indeed, there was no copy of it in the British Museum Reading Room. However, slim and melancholy though it may have been, some have found in it vital clues to his later struggles and achievements.

From 1935 until 1940 and again, part-time, from 1945 to 1954 Golding worked in small theatre companies in Wiltshire as writer, actor and director. Some of his impressions of this work may be gathered from his novel The Pyramid (1967), not one of his best books. In 1940 he joined the Royal Navy which he admired and enjoyed “because it worked.” During his service he became officer in charge of a rocket ship and (and as a schoolteacher) instructed naval cadets. In 1945 he returned to Bishop Wordsworth’s School, Salisbury, whose staff he had joined in 1939. He remained there until 1961 when the success of Lord of the Flies enabled him to resign.

This novel was the fruition of half a lifetime. Golding was 43 when he published it. Its knowledge of youth in particular and of human nature in general was immediately apparent. Yet, anthropologically, this story of boys who, isolated from adult supervision, become brutal and self-destructive is “wrong”: studies have shown that boys who are actually thus isolated do not behave as Golding had them behave in Lord of the Flies. The force of his fable rose from its being, not based on “fact” but on what any sensitive and highly-imaginative schoolmaster might dream up while performing his duties on a wet afternoon. It was R.M. Ballantyne’s charming Victorian tale, Coral Island, turned on its head; but its “boys” are really terrible little men as in Kipling’s Stalky & Co which Golding rewrites with the venom its author was unable to put into it.

Read like that, Lord of the Flies is the story of adults (at least males) in the 20th century with its politicians and its “experts” and its wars. Yet Faber’s reader had originally famously said of it: “Rubbish and dull. Pointless.” The public disagreed and the book quickly acquired a cult reputation, especially in the United States, where it succeeded The Catcher in the Rye as the most popular novel for young Americans. By the mid-1960s it had been widely translated, had sold over two million copies and had been made into a successful film (the success was part of the reason why Golding could eventually give up teaching).

Golding liked to change his style and mood with each book: his gear changes were never those of a “minor” writer and his fiction covered an enormous range of subject matter from prehistoric man to 19th-century sea voyagers, from Ancient Egypt to Britain during the Blitz. The Inheritors (1955) is one of the most remarkable tours de force in postwar fiction of any nationality. It tells of the defeat of a group of Neanderthals at the hands of homo sapiens. Some would say this is Golding’s greatest novel.

His work had at all times a pronounced sense of the religious, but nowhere more so than in his next magnificent novel, The Spire (1964) set in Medieval England: a priest, Jocelin, tries to crown his cathedral with a four-hundred foot spire, even against the laws of gravity. He, a “flesh dog”, is inspired by angels and tempted by demons at every step.

Golding always waited until he was ready, and this meant long periods of comparative silence. The 15 years from 1964 to 1979 saw only the relatively minor The Pyramid, a collection of three novellas called The Scorpion God (1971), and a book of essays The Hot Gates and other Occasional Pieces (1966). During this period Golding had almost drowned his family and himself in the English Channel while pursuing his most beloved recreation, sailing. It was, he said: “A traumatic experience which stopped me doing anything for two or three years.”

In other respects, however, he made good use of his time. He kept a journal, travelled widely and developed his love of music, particularly the piano. His reputation was by now intact: he had received a CBE in 1966, and throughout the 1960s and 1970s academic articles continued to pour out. As a novelist, however, he was silent but not forgotten.

He returned triumphantly with Darkness Visible (1978) and dispelled any lingering doubts among his followers that he was a one, or at most two, novel writer. Pincher Martin (1956) had not provoked uniformly good reviews and critics continued to quarrel over the respective merits of Lord of the Flies and The Spire, and to interpret the latter in various wild ways as anything from a Christian allegory to a Freudian phallic fantasy.

Darkness Visible is set in England from 1940 to the late 1970s. It has a relatively simple, thriller-like plot at its centre, but its complex characterisation, (of the boy Matty, in particular), its moral seriousness and dense symbolism attracted critics who, although they could not agree about it recognised that they had a real, and a really tragic, book on their hands. Golding was no help: he refused interviews and was himself profoundly disturbed by what he had produced.

Of the final trilogy and the separate novel, The Papermen (1984), perhaps the latter, a grim parable about the trials and tribulations of a writer’s life, is the more powerful and satisfying. The trilogy, beginning with Rites of Passage, is less intense and written at a lower level of energy, although it is a profoundly interesting work by a man by no means written out. Its first half is Golding’s most exhuberant and humorous work, and the one which best reveals his love-hate relationship with the sea. In the work as a whole, Golding tried to express his curiosity about and sympathy with homosexuality, and to portray the nature of male sexual desire as distinct from female. It was, as always, highly unusual.

“Miss Pulkinhorn” a short story published in Encounter in August 1960 and adapted for radio by Golding in that year, should be mentioned as one of Golding’s outstanding uncollected works.

William Golding was a private man who was careful to stay well outside the literary politics of the metropolitan world. That independence of spirit lay at the heart of his fictional achievement. But he was also genial and courteous with friends, and those who knew him spoke warmly of him.

He had been well before his sudden collapse. He leaves a widow, Ann, whom he married in 1939, and a son and a daughter.

Obituary: Sir William Golding – Times Online., 05/11/2009, http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/article3126160.ece

William Golding and the capacity for evil reviewed by Allan Massie – TLS

Few thought he was even a starter.
There were many who thought themselves smarter.
But he ended PM,
CH and OM,
A peer and a Knight of the Garter.

Clement Attlee’s neat summary of his career might be adapted for William Golding. He too was a late starter, one oppressed in youth by doubts and feelings of social, and perhaps intellectual, inferiority. Until his middle forties he was a poor, reluctant and unsatisfied provincial schoolmaster. But, like Attlee, he outstripped many who had a head-start on him and he ended with a knighthood and the Nobel Prize for Literature, the first English novelist to be awarded it since Galsworthy. His life was transformed in 1954 by the publication of Lord of the Flies, the novel to which his biographer has thought fit to call to our attention in his subtitle – in case Golding’s name might otherwise be unfamiliar. Yet Lord of the Flies came close to sharing the fate of three novels Golding had already written, which had failed to find a publisher. Five publishers and one literary agency returned it, and the reader for Faber & Faber recommended its rejection as an “absurd and uninteresting fantasy . . . . Rubbish and dull. Pointless”.

It was fortunate for Golding that a new editor at Faber, Charles Monteith, had picked up the scruffy typescript, read a few pages, found himself gripped, and managed to persuade his colleagues that they should publish the book if the author would be prepared to revise it. Golding was very lucky indeed. Monteith would remain his editor, friend, comforter, confessor and encourager for more than thirty years, a rock on which Golding’s enviable career was built. And Lord of the Flies was an almost immediate success. It made Golding’s reputation and his fortune. It was soon adopted as a standard school text, eventually selling several million copies in Britain and the United States. When, towards the end of his life, he considered selling the manuscript, its value was put at £250,000. However, “Golding worked out, as he notes in his journal, that after tax and agent’s fees, the manuscript could not be expected to yield more than £100,000, and ‘We don’t need a hundred thousand that bad’”. In 1954, the advance on royalties had been £60.

As with other comparatively late starters, Muriel Spark and Angus Wilson for example, the publication of one novel released Golding’s creative energies. Others quickly followed: The Inheritors (1955), Pincher Martin (1956), Free Fall (1959) and The Spire (1964). Given that all Golding’s novels went through several drafts, partly because he rarely seems to have had much idea of where he was heading when he started to write, this was a remarkable rate of production. Though reviewers were often mystified, and sometimes dismissive – and though his concerns were unfashionably metaphysical rather than social – nevertheless, within ten years Golding was firmly established as one of the most original and formidable of contemporary novelists. His own view of his novels was ambiguous, and his responses to questions about them often evasive. Reviewers and academic critics hunted, successfully, for symbols; he insisted that he was only a storyteller, or at least a storyteller first and foremost. Yet, until his last more relaxed novels, readers often had to work hard to follow the narrative.

Of none of his books was this more true than Darkness Visible, which he worked on intermittently for more than ten years. He despaired of it often, sometimes suffering from writer’s block, and after its publication in 1979, refused to discuss it or respond to questions about it. John Carey recounts the plot in detail, with notes about the way the novel changed in the writing. “Windover”, Golding noted in January 1974, “now I think is possibly a coloured gent” who might be extradited to a country that would “do him”, perhaps Portugal. “Two years later”, Carey remarks, “he reminds himself that ‘the proper person for the British Government to sell for oil would be a Jew’, so perhaps Windover could be a ‘coloured Jew’ who is ‘framed’ by MI5 and maybe the CIA as well.” According to Carey, “his decision to ditch these ideas and make international terrorism his political subject seems to have been a response to events”. Many good novelists often have little idea where their novel will take them when they write its first sentence and opening pages, but it does seem that Golding, especially in writing Darkness Visible, had fewer signposts along the road than most like to have. He told Monteith, “The basic difficulty is that I don’t know what the damn thing is about either”. He had written so many versions that “I can’t remember what is which”.

Carey suggests that “his refusal ever to discuss the book may relate to this inner bewilderment”. And Carey himself (who edited William Golding: The man and his books in 1986) eschews explication. His biography is not an essay in criticism; for the most part he contents himself with reporting the response of reviewers, most of whom were favourable, while often puzzled. That, as I recall, was my position when I reviewed Darkness Visible for The Scotsman. I thought there was something remarkable going on, but I couldn’t say exactly what it was. A. S. Byatt identified the mysterious Matty as “the incarnate Second Coming”, but also as the Egyptian God Horus, which suggests uncertainty on her part. She found the book “spattered with clues and signs, clotted with symbols and puns” – an observation, Carey says, that was “intended as praise, not blame”. But, whatever its difficulty, the book sold well, 15,000 copies in the first month in Britain, with another printing of 10,000; in the US, 45,000 copies were printed in the first year.

“It would be hard to think of two novels more unlike than Darkness Visible and Rites of Passage”, Carey writes, “but they were written in tandem”. Indeed, the name of a character sometimes slipped from one book to another in Golding’s drafts. This leads Carey to suggest that the two books are not quite as dissimilar as they appear: “For both novels are, though different in tone and period, about despised victims who are redeemed and justified”. The victim in Rites of Passage is the young clergyman Colley, who takes to his bed and apparently dies of shame after participating in a drunken homosexual incident on the lower deck. Some of Golding’s friends believed that he had homosexual tendencies himself, and after a dream in which he had dressed up in his mother’s clothes Golding wrote in his notebooks: “I pretend to be immune to such bent delights as homosexuality and transvestism, but my dreams won’t let me get away with standard attitudes about myself”. He dreamed of making love to two of his Oxford contemporaries and of being invited by a small Ethiopian boy “to bugger him”. He declined the invitation “with a gloomy sense that he has missed the only thing the place has to offer”. Such dreams represented his unconscious self, and he denied any “real life” homosexual experience. Carey, perhaps wisely, does not indulge in further speculation, though he notes that when Golding’s daughter published a novel, it was one in which the heroine’s father “reveals that he was in love with another man before meeting her mother”.

Rites of Passage won the Booker Prize of 1980, which many thought should have gone to Anthony Burgess’s Earthly Powers. Burgess, who had announced that he would attend the Booker Prize dinner only if he had won, shared that opinion. He took his revenge in an apparently generous review of Golding’s 1984 novel The Paper Men (in which a famous novelist is pursued by a tiresome biographer). The dust jacket for the novel declared that the Nobel Prize had been “the final recognition of Golding’s genius” (“come; how about the OM?”, Burgess asked) and confirmation of his unique greatness. “It would seem to me”, Burgess wrote, inserting his stiletto, “that, with right British modesty, Golding has deliberately produced a post-award novel that gives the lie to the great claim. He is a humble man, and The Paper Men is a gesture of humility.”

In this biography, even the best novels receive little more attention than accounts of the many holidays taken by the Golding family. The book is as much about the man as the author, and the social self Golding presented was very different from the self who wrote the novels. This is of course true of most novelists, but evidently more so in Golding’s case than in many others’. His family and friends knew him as Bill. But Carey “would never have dreamed” of following suit, partly because he “respected him far too much”, partly because “the whole ‘Bill’ business seemed and still seems an element in the bluff, affable old sea-dog disguise which hid the real Golding”. At their first meeting he “could not believe that this was the man who had written the novels”.

Yet the man Carey presents to us was complicated enough. From a lower middle-class family with, in his own words, “proletarian roots”, his father a rationalist schoolteacher, Golding was acutely classconscious until well into middle life, resentment being fed by the contrast between his own Marlborough Grammar School and the neighbouring public school, Marlborough College. Yet the schoolboy Golding had certain advantages over the privileged pupils of Marlborough College, one of which was the availability of girls. Two in particular attracted him in his teens. One, a couple of years younger than himself, seemed sexually willing, but when on one occasion she resisted his advances, he attempted to rape her. It would have been what we now call “date-rape”, and it was a couple of years before she protested, volubly, in a pub. This, Golding later wrote, was “the logical, vicious end of a relationship that had begun in vice and prospered viciously”. The other girl, called Mollie, was gentle and chaste. For a time they were engaged, or there was at least an “understanding” between them. Then he ditched her when he met Ann Brookfield who became, and remained, his wife. Mollie subsequently suffered mental problems, for which Golding held himself to some extent responsible. Another cause of guilt.

Despite his comparatively humble background, Golding won a place at Brasenose College, Oxford, to study science. He did little work and wasn’t happy, feeling out of place, and eventually switched to English Literature. After Oxford, he drifted, tried his hand at acting, had a volume of poems published (old-fashioned Georgian verses), before training as a teacher. Carey thinks badly of the appointments board’s judgement that Golding was “a day school type”, but they were probably right. On the outbreak of war he joined the RNVR and married Ann. He had a good war, first as an ordinary seaman, then as an officer in command of a Landing Craft Tank (Rocket) on D-Day and later at Walcheren, a grisly experience, memories of which would haunt him all his life. Then it was back to teaching, music-making, chess-playing, putting on school plays, sailing, and writing, or trying to write, novels.

It sounds a pleasant life, but Golding was discontented, and would remain so until Lord of the Flies and its immediate successors set him free. One wonders how it would have continued if Charles Monteith had not picked up that yellowing typescript and seen there what other readers had been blind to. A private man, uneasy with people he didn’t know well, cagey and often unforthcoming in interviews, Golding nevertheless adapted to his new-found celebrity and wealth. He did stints of teaching at American universities, which he seems to have enjoyed, and which helped to make him known there, even though for some time his American publishers failed to push his books as enthusiastically as he and Faber thought they should. He became a member of London clubs (the Savile, the Athenaeum and the Garrick), and lectured widely, heading eagerly overseas at the drop of the British Council’s hat. Rather to one’s surprise, he lobbied energetically to get his knighthood. Within twenty years of his first novel being published, he was earning enough to resent having to pay so much tax, and went so far as to investigate the possibility of using tax havens, while asking that some overseas royalties be held over to be collected on foreign trips. This doesn’t appear to have offended his wife, whose social democratic principles remained strong enough for her to refuse to visit Greece during the regime of the Colonels. (Carey describes Ann’s family and friends as “staunchly left-wing”. Would he, I wonder, apply that adverb to anyone holding right-wing views?) But success did not resolve tensions, and may even have exacerbated them. Golding was a heavy drinker, and, though stopping short of alcoholism (probably), he sometimes became incapably drunk at inappropriate moments, on one occasion emptying a Paris hotel mini-bar before a dinner at the Paris Book Fair. Sobered up with black coffee, he then asked the South African anti-apartheid poet and novelist Breyten Breytenbach, “What makes you think you can write a novel just because you have been in solitary confinement?” “I am entirely disgusted with myself”, he wrote in his journal.

Golding was uncomfortably conscious of his capacity for evil, or at least for entertaining evil thoughts. “I have always understood the Nazis”, he said, “because I am of that sort by nature”; it was “partly out of that sad self-knowledge” that Lord of the Flies was written; Darkness Visible and Free Fall also. His war experiences brought about “a sort of religious convulsion which is not uncommon among people of a passionate and morbid habit”. The war let him see the “viciousness” and “cruelty” of his own youth, something not apparent to most who knew him, even though, in drink, he was sometimes a conversational bully.

Carey treats him with sympathy and intelligence, eschewing any attempt at amateur psychoanalysis of this complicated man and writer. One might wish that he had applied his own critical skills more often to the novels, especially the more puzzling ones, rather than being content to report the opinions of others, but this is an admirable and continuously interesting literary biography. It is scrupulously done, though it is odd to find Carey reporting a colleague of Golding’s at the Rudolf Steiner School where they taught in 1935 praising C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books, the first of which was not published till 1950.

-Massie, Allan., William Golding and the capacity for evil reviewed by Allan Massie , The Times Online, 05/11/2009, http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/the_tls/article6845781.ece