So I had Peter Brook's Lord of the Flies on while I was writing, and it reminded me of my June 1 post about Beelzebub and Binsfield's classification. I read the book again a while back and recalled when I first read it and how much Simon's death really affected me. I read it over and over and over again, sickened by adolescent brutality (not even adolescent--many a time I've witnessed a little four-year-old bulldozer, flattening a smaller one to the ground, even when the weaker one is crying and on his knees and not fighting anymore), so filled with frustration and misanthropy for how pathetic and absurd it was. And then the ocean just washes him away, into its injudicious depths (very tragically beautiful, really). It really hurt my feelings...being the weak kid with the asthma problem. Did he have respiratory problems?
And then, of course, the pig and her piglets, and the pig's head on a spike...the gluttonous demon Beelzebub incarnate, foreshadowing the death of Piggy, his little porcine body rupturing like some infected pustule on the rocks. That was such a wonderfully disturbing book.
Presently, I'm in the midst of Lolita and can't get Jeremy Irons out of my mind. Way scarier than James Mason. Ehh. Creepy Creepy. Humbert Humbert, the silver-tongued rake (or so he says). Amateur poet, professional pedophiliac. BANGING writing. I'm so envious of Nabokov.
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