Somehow, I knew almost nothing about William Golding’s The Lord of the Flies prior to my beginning reading it. I had no ideas about any of the characters, the plot, or even the setting. The only thing I had heard about the book came from my cat. Well, to an extent anyhow. I was on the Amazon page for the book when my cat decided it had been long enough since the last time he walked across my keyboard. His paws expertly scrolled my browser down to the product reviews section of the page. There, before I was able to toss him aside and scroll back up and away from any potential spoilers, I read the title of a single review: “Terrifying”. Back up at the top of the page, away from the synopsis and reviews, a click of an icon immediately and magically deposited the book onto my Kindle. A few cups of coffee, a comfortable chair, and an empty house (save for the cat with his obnoxious food-anxiety issues: you keep his bowl full or he snaps into a violent rage; otherwise, he’s quite congenial) and I was deposited onto an uninhabited tropical island, spectator to unsupervised children finding their way in a seeming paradise.
I sat there, enjoying a paradisaical retreat from the burdens of reality. I quickly realized this book fell into the genre known as ‘Robinsonade’: survivalist fiction set in some sort of isolated locale, taking its name from the 1719 novel Robinson Crusoe. As the pages turned, a portion of my thoughts wandered into any number of fantasies, and memories of fantasies, that all kids, as well as adults, have about the prospects of being marooned on an uninhabited and unknown tropical island. Conveniently, our imaginations shy away from an examination into the circumstances that put us there to begin with: the scream of wind buffeting against failed jet engines, the mumbled prayers of the passenger next to you, and then, of course, everything that happens in conjunction with a jetliner tearing a scar through a jungle. If you can avoid thinking about the scene the survivors, and they’re more than likely the less-fortunate ones, find themselves in, only then do we allow our fantasy to begin. The dead and severely maimed fade away, along with the flames and toxic stench of what burning jet fuel does to metal, plastic, and corpses, leaving us conveniently plopped, and remarkably unscathed, into a simple paradise.
I relaxed as I tap-tap-tapped my way through the Kindle version of the Lord of the Flies, the completion percentage steadily reaching for 100.
A plane full of school children, all boys, crashes on an uninhabited tropical island. The pilot and all other adults are not featured, leaving the reader to presume they perished in the crash. In any case, the cast of characters essentially consists of preadolescent boys.
Now, I’m not going to go any further than this. If you’ve read the book, you know where this all ends up going. If you somehow have not read the book and are not familiar with its twist—a group I was fortunate enough to find myself a member of—then you simply must read this story. Do not seek further reviews or commentary, the less you know the more you’ll enjoy the book.
A little past half-way through the story is when things really take a sudden turn. At one point, I set the book down and said aloud, “Whoa, that escalated quickly.” By then, the hook was set and, with a jerk on the line, I had no choice but to ride this thing out. The curtain is lifted and the allegory reveals itself. The second half of the book moves very quickly, and by the end you find yourself sitting there not unlike a scared child that just became aware that they lost their innocence.
I’ve often fantasized about finding myself mostly alone on an uninhabited island. Now, maybe not so much.
My Rating: 5 out of 5 (a must read allegory a la 1984, Animal Farm, etc.)
Genre: Robinsonade, Dystopia, classics, fiction, allegory
Length: 227 pages (Kindle version)
Kindle Price: $5.66 as of March 2014
Paperback Price: $12.11 as of March 2014
Year of Publication: 1954
THE BOY with fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way toward the lagoon. Though he had taken off his school sweater and trailed it now from one hand, his grey shirt stuck to him and his hair was plastered to his forehead. All round him the long scar smashed into the jungle was a bath of heat.
“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.”
“The crying went on, breath after breath, and seemed to sustain him upright as if he were nailed to it.”