For A Small Island [great Britain], The

He Became Absorbed Beyond Mere Happiness As He Felt Himself Exercising Control Over Living Things. He Talked To Them, Urging Them, Ordering Them. Driven Back By The Tide, His Footprints Became Bays In Which They Were Trapped And Gave Him The Illusion Of Mastery.

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.

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.

Utopias Are Presented For Our Inspection As A Critique Of The Human State. If They Are To Be Treated As Anything But Trivial Exercises Of The Imagination. I Suggest There Is A Simple Test We Can Apply. We Must Forget The Whole Paraphernalia Of Social Description, Demonstration, Expostulation, Approbation, Condemnation. We Have To Say To Ourselves, How Would I Myself Live In This Proposed Society? How Long Would It Be Before I Went Stark Staring Mad?

I Do Like People To Read The Books Twice, Because I Write My Novels About Ideas Which Concern Me Deeply And I Think Are Important, And Therefore I Want People To Take Them Seriously. And To Read It Twice Of Course Is Taking It Seriously.