The Novel Is Very Much Alive, Indeed.

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.

It Is At Least Scientifically Respectable To Postulate That At The Centre Of A Black Hole The Laws Of Nature No Longer Apply. Since Most Scientists Are Just A Bit Religious And Most Religious Are Seldom Wholly Unscientific We Find Humanity In A Comical Position. His Scientific Intellect Believes In The Possibility Of Miracles Inside A Black Hole While His Religious Intellect Believes In Them Outside It.

Maybe There Is A Beast… Maybe It's Only Us.

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.

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?