This was a different voice; not the voice of the people. It was the voice of other.
When spring comes, the people leave their winter cave, foraging for honey, grubs, and the hot richness of a deer’s brain. They awaken the fire to heat their naked bodies, lay down their thorn bushes, and share pictures in their minds. But strange things are happening: inexplicable scents and sounds.
Imaginable beasts are half-glimpsed in the forest; upright creatures of bone-faces and deerskins. What the people do not know is that their day is already over . . .
‘A visionary dream. Shakespearean.’ Ted Hughes
‘I admire Golding pushing beyond his own experiences to explore ancient worlds and altered states of consciousness.’ Rose Tremain
Infinite Depths . . .
William Golding’s is not a large oeuvre: fifteen books, a play, an unfinished novel. Rereading everything, I am struck by the modesty of the pile through which I have worked, and the brevity of the...
Read more. . . and Tempests and Doldrums
William Golding was the only writer I have ever pursued. An Angry Young novel I wrote in three weeks when up at Cambridge, The Breaking of Bumbo, outsold Lord of the Flies that year for Faber &...
Read moreFrom World to World
We are observing a group of people trying to find a log. The log is not where they left it. They have been away for some time. Now it is not where it was, and they are perturbed. It is, we gather, a...
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