At The Moment Of Vision, The Eyes

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.

Percival Was Mouse-coloured And Had Not Been Very Attractive Even To His Mother.

I Wouldn't Have Thought That The Techniques Of Story-telling, Which Is What The Novel Is After All, Can Vary Much Because There Are Two Things Involved.there's A Story And There's A Listener, Whose Attention You Have To Keep. Now The Only Way In Which You Can Keep A Reader's Attention To A Story Is In His Wanting To Know What Is Going To Happen Next. This Puts A Fairly Close Restriction On The Method You Must Use.

Which Is Better -- To Be A Pack Of Painted Indians Like You Are, Or To Be Sensible Like Ralph Is? Which Is Better -- To Have Rules And Agree, Or To Hunt And Kill? Which Is Better, Law And Rescue, Or Hunting And Breaking Things Up?

The Water Rose Further And Dressed Simon's Coarse Hair With Brightness. The Line Of His Cheek Silvered And The Turn Of His Shoulder Became Sculptured Marble.