I think women are foolish to pretend they are equal to men, they are far superior and always have been.

— William Golding

The most surprising William Golding quotes that are proven to give you inner joy

A crowd of grade-three thinkers, all shouting the same thing, all warming their hands at the fire of their own prejudices, will not thank you for pointing out the contradictions in their beliefs. Man is a gregarious animal, and enjoys agreement as cows will graze all the same way on the side of a hill.


We're all mad, the whole damned race.

We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.


I am astonished at the ease with which uninformed persons come to a settled, a passionate opinion when they have no grounds for judgment.


I am by nature an optimist and by intellectual conviction a pessimist.


My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.


The greatest ideas are the simplest.


Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.


Marx, Darwin and Freud are the three most crashing bores of the Western World.

Simplistic popularization of their ideas has thrust our world into a mental straitjacket from which we can only escape by the most anarchic violence.


We've got to have rules and obey them.

After all, we're not savages. We're English, and the English are best at everything.


He who rides the sea of the Nile must have sails woven of patience.


Towards midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars.


Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.


About William Golding

Quotes 145 sayings
Nationality English
Profession Novelist
Birthday October 16

We're not savages. We're English.


To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or guess at anything but that world is not merely hell but the only possible damnation: the act of a man damning himself. It may be


Novelists do not write as birds sing, by the push of nature.

It is part of the job that there should be much routine and some daily stuff on the level of carpentry.


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?


If faces were different when lit from above or below -- what was a face? What was anything?


The greatest pleasure is not - say - sex or geometry.

It is just understanding. And if you can get people to understand their own humanity - well, that's the job of the writer.


How can you expect to be rescued if you don’t put first things first and act proper?


The world, that understandable and lawful world, was slipping away.


I know there isn't no beast—not with claws and all that, I mean—but I know there isn't no fear, either." Piggy paused. "Unless—" Ralph moved restlessly. "Unless what?" "Unless we get frightened of people.


Which is better--to have laws and agree, or to hunt and kill?


Language fits over experience like a straight-jacket.


Childhood is a disease - a sickness that you grow out of.


I mean, if we're concerned genuinely with writing, I think we probably get on with our work. I think this is very true of English writers, but perhaps not so true of French writers, who seem to read each other passionately, extensively, and endlessly, and who then talk about it to each other - which is splendid.


Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?


What kind of human person has a favorite eraser?


He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life,where every path was an improvisation and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet.


I've come across a novel called The Palm-Wine Drinkard, by the Nigerian writer Amos Tutuola, that is really remarkable because it is a kind of fantasy of West African mythology all told in West African English which, of course, is not the same as standard English.


How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?


Serve you right if something did get you, you useless lot of cry-babies!


Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?


Kill the pig! Cut his throat! Kill the pig! Bash him in!


I'm scared of him," said Piggy, "and that's why I know him.

If you're scared of someone you hate him but you can't stop thinking about him. You kid yourself he's all right really, an' then when you see him again; it's like asthma an' you can't breathe.


There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.


Ralph... would treat the day's decisions as though he were playing chess. The only trouble was that he would never be a very good chess player.


It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.


Childhood is a disease -- a sickness that you grow out of.


Of the authors writing in English, I'd mention Shakespeare and Milton.

But all this is terribly high-hat and makes me sound very po-faced, I'm afraid; however, I just happen to like these enormous, swinging, great creatures.


They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate.


It wasn't until I was 37 that I grasped the great truth that you've got to write your own books and nobody else's, and then everything followed from there.


Philosophy and Religion-what are they when the wind blows and the water gets up in lumps?


And I've been wearing specs since I was three.


Among the virtues and vices that make up the British character, we have one vice, at least, that Americans ought to view with sympathy. For they appear to be the only people who share it with us. I mean our worship of the antique. I do not refer to beauty or even historical association. I refer to age, to a quantity of years.


This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun.


Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.


Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.


The trouble was, if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise.


You have the older generation like Iris Murdoch and Angus Wilson who are not as old as Graham Greene, but still are coming on. I dare say anyone who knew the scene better than I know it could fill it in with a very satisfactory supply of novels.