Înțelese deodată plictiseala acestei vieți unde fiecare poteca era o improvizație, iar o buna parte din viata diurna ți-o petreceai urmărindu-ți pici… - William Golding

... yüzünü gözünü renkli toprakla boyar. Hem ilkel kabilelerin adamlarına benzemek, hem de kendi benliğini maskelemek için yapar bunu.

The chant was audible but at that distance still wordless. Behind Jack walked the twins, carrying a great stake on their shoulders. The gutted carcass of a pig swung from the stake, swinging heavily as the twins toiled over the uneven ground. The pig's head hung down with gaping neck and seemed to search for something on the ground. At last the words of the chant floated up to them, across the bowl of blackened wood and ashes. "Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Spill the blood!" Yet as the words became audible, the procession reached the steepest part of the mountain, and in a minute or two the chant had died away.

What was the sensible thing to do?
There was no Piggy to talk sense. There was no solemn assembly for debate nor dignity of the conch.