Chapter One: The sound of the shell

My sister gave me her original copy of Lord of the Flies, all tattered and browned and falling out of its spine. It’s beautiful. As is Piggy’s well-debated-by-me myopia.

These are the first words of William Golding’s first novel (1954):

“The boy with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat. He was clambering heavily among the creepers and broken trunks when a bird, a vision of red and yellow, flashed upwards with a witch-like cry; and this cry was echoed by another.

“Hi!” it said. “Wait a minute!”

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