Thumboo, E. "Golding's Lord of the Flies: Topography, Character and Theme". Literary Criterion. Xiii, no.3, 1978: 6-17.

**GOLDING'S LORD OF THE FLIES: TOPOGRAPHY, CHARACTER AND THEME**

EDWIN THUMBOO
University of Singapore

Investigations into the means Golding employs to structure ‘meaning' in Lord of the Flies have touched on the scenes of lush tropicality, the play of light and shadow, the physical character of the island and so forth, and the stages through which these work to acquire a second, more potent power tend to neglect the island's topography as a modest but clearly distinguishable element in the novel's strategy:

nature (its beauty may be usefully contrasted with the increasing savagery on the island) has no connection with the human actions. The physical surroundings do nothing to advance or detract from man's awareness of his predicament.1

Not for the boys it may be conceded. References to ‘scenic qualities' and ‘consolidating details' are linked to and explained as a desire to possess an image of the island in which the chief features arc prominent. But ought it follow that the reader remains insensitive to the full potential at what Golding constructs? The view urged here is that neglect to recognise a broader, more energetic function of the description encourages too static a view of the island's physical setting.

Topography becomes prominent incrementally as Golding is careful not to bring it in too early. As the novel unfolds the sense of evil abroad is seen as connected to the evil in some of the boys - Jack and Roger especially - in how the games they play, in particular the hunting of pigs, progressively erode decency and restraint to release the evil side of their nature. Simon comes to an early realisation of the actual nature of this evil. But it is Ralph, finally the sole survivor of the side of reason who, through his growing perception of things, makes the intimate connection between the topography and this theme in the novel. Consequently, how the community of boys is slowly fractured, how tensions emerge to show up the real character of the boys and how their character in turn shapes events is essential to any, consideration of the island's topography.

The first descriptions of the island suggest that it is a tropical paradise.

The shore was fledged with palm trees. These too or leaned or reclined against the light and their green feathers were a hundred feet up in the air. The ground beneath them was a bank covered with coarse grass, torn everywhere by the upheavals of fallen trees, scattered with decaying coconuts and palm saplings. Behind this as the darkness of the forest proper and the open space of the scar…Within the irregular arc of coral the lagoon was still as a mountain lake,-blue of all shades and shadowy green and purple. . . . Beyond the platform there was more enchantment. (pp. 14-15, 17)2

What ambiguity there is in the description does not at this juncture modify the impression of splendour. The metamorphosis of beach and lagoon into places of death and terror will be a consequence of developments at the centre of the plot.

In the early sections of the novel the boys are comrades in the game of exploration; animosities remain mildly abrasive, easily absorbed by the excitement of the moment. The narrative has yet to have occasion to exploit the island's physical features as a clarifying metaphor, though the possibilities are latent in the description; they will surface and strengthen in parallel to and at a pace dictated by the tensions governing the Ralph/Jack polarisation.

Initially, Ralph and Jack achieve a certain bond; they are the leaders, the ‘adults' of the group. Jack, who wants to be Merridew to the others, wishes to be leader. His disappointment at not being elected is temporarily mollified as he has charge of the hunters. For Ralph

‘This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grown-ups come to fetch us we'll have fun.'

Jack held out his hand for the conch.

‘There's pigs,' he said. ‘There's food; and bathing-water in that little stream along there - and everything. Didn't anyone find anything else?' (p. 45)

Both take the prospect of fun for granted hut Ralph's words conceal a responsibility that includes a desire for their rescue. But the episode contains the first mention of the snake-thing, the beastie; the small boy's fears provoke laughter but this is quickly muted, replaced by discomfort and gravity. Ralph feels he is con tending with ‘something ungraspable' but manages to control the situation by insisting that there is no beast. Jack seizes the opportunity to talk of hunting the snake down. But it is Ralph who revives the boys' spirits - ‘We want to have fun. And we want to be rescued' (p. 48) - and when he suggests a fire to make smoke on the top of the mountain to attract a passing ship, the boys led by Jack rush off, much to Piggy's disgust.

Differences between Ralph and Jack arc key elements in the novel's plot. These arise, then escalate stressing the fact that their friendship is fragile and, when put to the test, incapable of withstanding the impositions of what Ralph sees as sensible needs which have to be catered to if they are to survive and keep alive the hope of rescue. In terms of the pattern of characters Ralph stands between Simon and Piggy, who embody abundant sympathy and practical intelligence respectively. Ralph, Simon, Piggy and Samneric are in varying degrees on the side of reason, of decency and - in, the case of Ralph especially - a searching uncertainty which amounts to the beginnings of reflection. Their interest in others as well as the community is broadly altruistic though, clearly, Simon is a special case, a saint without a doctrine or a congregation. On the other side are Jack and Roger, each only capable of forging relationships and perpetrating acts that directly or at one remove are dictated by some inner urge to power, to domination, cruel and hurting, moved as they are by an intelligence that is coercive, destructive. Ralph develops where Jack and his pack regress. Among Golding's achievements is the handling of this process in Ralph to show how he increasingly feels compelled to mediate their condition on the island, learning from Piggy and Simon, neither of whom can function directly. Simon cannot articulate his insights or argue from the strength of his understanding which is expressed practically in good works like helping the little 'uns to ripe fruit. Piggy, while articulate, gets baulked at every turn because his physical appearance, asthma etc., are formidable impediments to his general acceptance. Fortunately Ralph is there to take up his suggestions, and in so doing, demonstrate a potential for healthy leadership that justly marks him off from Jack.

The first description of the island is factual; features are identified free from any overt purpose:

It was roughly boat-shaped: humped near this end with behind them the jumbled descent to the shore. On either side rocks, cliffs, tree-tops and a steep slope: forward there, the length of the boat, a tamer descent, tree-clad, with hints of pink: and then the jungly flat of the island, dense green, but drawn at the end of a pink tail. There, where the island petered out in water, was another island; a rock, almost detached, standing like a fort, facing them across the green with one bold, pink bastion. (p. 38)

There are two sides and there is ‘a rock, almost detached'. What the boys thought was their beach lay protected from the ocean by a reef, giving calm waters. When Ralph looked the other way ‘there was no reef' and as Jack noted, it was steeper (p. 39), supporting the forest which promises a ready source of fuel for the fire (p. 50). But it is this forest on fire which takes the little 'un who had a mark on his face, a tragedy that leaves the boys looking ‘at each other fearfully, unbelieving' and Ralph shameful ‘(p. 60). We read that ‘Beneath them, on the unfriendly side of the mountain, the drum-roll continued.' (p. 60; italics added). The prose is factual; the same prospect is later seen as instinct with a dark power. But other thematic and character developments are to occur before the prose takes a corresponding, answering turn.

‘Huts on the Beach', open with Jack on the hunt for pigs. His metamorphosis is dramatic, vivid.

Jack was bent double. He was down like a sprinter, his nose only a few inches from the humid earth. . . . Then dog-like, uncomfortably on all fours. . . . The tendril was polished on the underside; pigs, passing through the loop, brushed it with their bristly hide. (p. 61)

Changes in appearances are unmistakable symptoms of changes within personality. Jack's testing of the wind for the scent of pigs with ‘flared nostrils', eyes that ‘seemed bolting and mad' mark a transformation virtually inevitable when we recall his reaction at having missed the piglet: ‘He snatched his knife out of the sheath and slammed it into a tree trunk. Next time there would be no mercy.' (p. 41).

Jack rejoins the group - consisting only of Ralph, Simon and Piggy of the big 'uns - busy building the shelters. Ralph complains of the lack of support which Jack takes as an accusation: ‘Suddenly Jack shouted in rage: "Are you accusing - ?"' (p. 65). Tempers abate when the conversation moves to the little 'uns talking and screaming at night. The beastie rears its head again. Simon thinks that perhaps it is the island which isn't good. Jack scoffs but confesses that when hunting he has a feeling of being hunted. Out of his fear will emerge the Lord of the Flies to whom he will in turn sacrifice. Jack is by now obsessed with hunting while Ralph attends to the shelters and bothers about the fire. It does not take long before their thinking and actions drift further apart. Each in his chosen course is under twin compulsions. Each has to succeed in what he undertakes and at the same time contend with the alternative ‘game' the other offers. Ralph's assumption of responsibility, backed by Piggy's commonsense, acts as a brake on Jack and his crew who are distracted by the excitement of hunting. Difficulties occur when the world of' hunting and excitement and the more practical chores come into conflicts as they do on the first exploration of the island, undertaken soon after the meeting.

Between this point of the novel, that is, the end of Chapter 3, and the first substantial reference to the island's topography, other significant developments occur. The episode by the beach involving Roger, Maurice and the little 'uns Henry, Percival and Johnny - these last two the smallest boys on the island - is instructive. Its context, its function as an ‘inset' gives it the force of a fulcrum. Roger destroys the castles built by the little 'uns; Maurice joins him. We see Henry fascinated, imposing his will on little creatures of the sea. Roger throws stones at Henry, calculating to miss. The older boys have had social and moral precepts and hesitations built into them; Henry gives way to a need for mastery. While there are restraints hedging aggressive behaviour they are beginning to break down. The one balances, checks the other, a state of equilibrium without which there will be chaos, not order. Not surprising as the opening of this chapter contains dear indications of the changed atmosphere of the island:

At midday the illusions merged into the sky and there the sun gazed down like an angry eye. Then, at the end of the afternoon, the mirage subsided and the horizon became level and blue and clipped as the sun declined. That was another time of comparative coolness but menaced by the coming of the dark. When the sun sank, darkness dropped on the island like an extinguisher and soon the shelters were full of restlessness, under the remote stars. (p. 74)

In the novel itself the first deliberate relinquishing of bridle and bit occurs when Jack ‘planned a new face' (p. 79). The effect of this mask was liberation ‘from shame and self consciousness', immediate and powerful, affecting the others as ‘the mask compelled them'. Golding's point is clear: ‘He began to dance and his laughter became a bloodthirsty snarling . . . and the mask was a thing on its own, behind which Jack hid, liberated from shame and self-consciousness' (p. 8o). They go off to hunt, leaving the fire unattended.

The next two chapters, ‘Beast from the Water' and ‘Beast from the Air', show further changes from ‘fun' to circumstances more serious. Ralph discovers the loneliness of leadership and realises that ‘if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise' (p. 97). He perceives his inability to think like Piggy, but the very act of defining his problem is a useful beginning, a symptom of that sensitiveness which will lead him to recognise, inter alia, the sense of threat posed by the harsh side of the island. In the meantime the assembly he tails to ‘put things straight' (p. 99) lacks the coherence he wishes and is soon on to the beastie which by now has turned from just the summary of imagined fears, of little 'un's nightmares into something formed and forming out of the evil being let loose. Because he is not altogether an attractive character, we tend to forget that it is Piggy who first suggests that the boys are in fear perhaps because they are ‘frightened of people' (p. 105). But Simon is the one who says that ‘maybe it's only us' (p. 111). The whole meeting is loaded with irony: the behaviour of Jack and his crew obviously demonstrates the ‘beastie' impulse. In the midst of glowing disorder Ralph asks for a sign from the adult world. And it comes in the shape of a dead pilot snared on a tree close by the fire. Samneric sees it and dashes down the mountain in absolute panic. Ralph and the big 'uns decide to hunt down the beast. Jack leads as they head for the craggy part of the island. The deepening conflict between Ralph and Jack, Piggy and Jack, escalates; the latter is especially vicious to Piggy.

The division of the island, both as physical and verbal structure, helps define the growing division among the boys. The image of impersonal and irresistible power crystallises and anticipates what will emerge when Jack and his crew finally break off to form their tribe in the fastness of cliff and rock.

The group continues the journey back to the shelters and what they are exposed to when they get closer to the sea is a magnified picture of this nasty side of the island:

They came to a gully that split the narrow foreshore like a defence. This seemed to have no ho and they peered awe-stricken into the gloomy crack where water gurgled. Then the wave came back, the gully boiled before them and spray dashed up to the very creeper so that the boys were wet and shrieking. (p. 544)

It would be hard to resist the impression that the two sides of the island are respective metaphorical extensions of the quiet, more orderly life of Ralph, Piggy and the aggressive, destructive impulses of Jack, Roger and the others, thereby establishing a nexus between the topography and character.

These passages, located midway in the novel, serve a number of functions. They modify the earlier images of lush tropicality, abundant food etc., characterising the life by the protected waters of the lagoon. But their more vital place within the narrative structure derives from the way they pre-figure violence, including Piggy's death. Golding is completing our view of the island and concurrently furnishing a set of descriptions which are correlated with the theme of developing violence. Ralph discovers the link between the bad side of the island and the dilemmas facing the group, a step that shows his continual need to understand, to analyse and make connections. Furthermore, the image of violence prepares us for that final eruption in which Jack fails to wrest leadership from Ralph, a failure which makes him shift with his hunters to this part of the island.

From this exploration of the dark side of the island - which by now has its equivalent in the behaviour of Jack and his hunters - to the time when Jack breaks off to form his own group come further disruptions. In Chapter 8, ‘Gift for the Darkness', it is clear that the group is disintegrating:

‘I'm not going to be part of Ralph's lot -'

He looked along the right-hand logs, numbering the hunters that had been a choir.

‘I'm going off by myself. He can catch his own pigs. Any one who wants to hunt when I do can come too.'…

He leapt down from the platform and ran along the beach, paying no heed to the steady fall of his tears; and until he dived into the forest Ralph watched him. (p. 158)

Ralph's leadership, based on commonsense and restraint, must now compete with the life of free instinct, of hunting represented by Jack. A choice between the alternatives is forced upon the group: ‘there was the brilliant world of hunting, tactics, forced acceleration, skill; and there was the world of longing and baffled commonsense.' Jack, of course, is ‘brilliantly happy' (p. 164). He is going to be chief, weld his hunters into force, create a new society occupying the ‘fort' end of the island and hold it against all comers.

The killing of the old sow proclaims the loss of restraint to a degree that allows impulses of a most reprehensible kind to surface. Ironically, it takes place where Simon contemplates in the quietude of his arbour. The sow is disembowelled and its head placed on a stake becomes a symbol of evil, not as an abstraction but a focus of forces powerfully present in the boys. While Simon suffers, we see a new and dangerous cohesion among Jack and his hunters, a new order, a further liberation into destructive instinct. The hunters had

followed, wedded to her in lust, excited by the long chase and the dropped blood… the sow fell and the hunters hurled themselves at her … she squealed and bucked and the air was full of sweat and noise and blood and terror. Roger went round the heap, prodding with his spear when ever pig flesh appeared. Jack was on top of the sow, stabbing downward with his knife. (p. 167)

Much to the amusement of the boys, Robert and Maurice mime Roger's cruel and obscene part in the killing. Jack, now completely in his element, has full control: he issues orders, is treated as ‘Chief'. He is building a circle of power, a strict ritual of authority exerting itself through force and pain, a society of which he stands at the centre.

‘. . . Jack, painted and garlanded, set there like an idol. There were piles of meat on green leaves near him, and fruit, and coconut shells full of drink.' (p. 83)'

The import of Simon's confrontation with the Lord of the Flies, while vital to the novel's theme, lies outside the scope of the present occasion. What adds decisively to my argument is the setting of his burial. He returns to the group with the knowledge of the evil loose on ‘the' island hut is killed upon being mistaken for the beast. The point to note is his death projected as both violent and gentle, gentle in the way he is reabsorbed into nature, in sharp contrast with Piggy who will he sucked down by the ocean. Simon, saintlike, possessing an understanding more inward and greater than that of any other, had always been gentle, helpful, generous. His broken body moving out to sea inspires a luminous description, a requiem close to celebration:

The water rose further and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble. The strange attend' ant creatures, with their fiery eyes and trailing vapours, busied themselves round his head. The body lifted a fraction of an inch from the sand and a bubble of air escaped from the mouth with a wet plop. Then it turned gently in the water. (p. 190)

Death as a sea change, perhaps into something rich on this side of the island, the protected side, the side of Ralph: We are given a final forceful reminder of Simon's character and the enormous loss his death implies.

The evil side of the island claims its victims, and by this be comes a casual link of the chain of destructive elements which originate in the savagery of Jack and his tribe. The implications seem clear, enough. But the evil is by no means spent as Ralph is attacked by Jack and has to flee. He survives the determined hunt organised for his destruction, hut only just. The ironies raised by the fact that his rescuer is a naval officer push us back to Golding's primary theme. What engages our attention is Ralph's state of mind. His reflection on the tragedy occurs only at the moment of rescue, when the hunt for him is over and he is able to reflect:

…His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of, the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair, amid unwiped nose, 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. (p. 248)

We have here the final correlation between topography and theme: the burning wreckage of the island is a vivid image of what the boys have done to themselves. Golding cannot resist this final touch, the reference to Piggy's death and through it a reminder that the topography in Lord of the Flies has a modest but distinct function.

Topography aligned to support meaning is clearly an element in the, novel's verbal strategy. The authority of Golding's prose derives both from its powerful intrinsic appeal and the degree to which it functions within the overall structure of Lord of the Flies. Howard S. Babb who believes ‘The visual richness of this writing and the precise diction are self-evident', that 'Golding roots the symbolic values in physical details', demonstrates his claim by close examination of the episode where Simon confronts the sow's head.3 The multiplying energies of the prose, the way they centre on the business on hand while assembling a more capacious meaning are the result of craftsmanship combining with a shrewd creative analysis of his material. Golding attends to small details as well as overall organisation with equal ease and care: phrase and metaphor serve the evolving of plot, themes and characters to provide a most vivid, controlled, exploration of theme. The dense and large burden of meaning in a novel apparently straightforward is further explained by Golding's narrative stance: ‘The method of the novel is revelatory . . . the uncovering an unsuspected depth to something we have already accepted', according to a ‘cumulative process' whereby, after the laying down of the initial setting, each episode expands and deepens the significance of its predecessors.4

Within this structural and thematic frame the topography asserts itself as a means of identifying and extending the direction of thematic developments and the shape of the characters. The two are intimately linked in that the harsh and ‘gentle side of the island each attract boys according to their propensities. The contrasts thus set up alert the reader to how the conflict between the boys is likely to develop; when it has, how it has developed.

There are in fact three sides to the perspective on topography, each representing an attitude: Jack and his crew take to it in terms of the ‘game' they enact, Ralph recognises with a feeling of helplessness its dark destructive potential while the reader's view is inclusive. The reader's response is closer to Ralph's but because it is overview, the suggestions posited by topography are kept active as events move to their conclusion. In addition, the fund of sympathy for Ralph is strengthened by this shared response, which helps to identify his pivotal role. Moreover, we are on his side in his confrontations with Jack and share his misgivings regarding the harsh side of the island. The topography reinforces the vinculum between the reader, the character in the novel and the unfolding themes. A less obvious benefit concerns the growth of Ralph from the schoolboy who betrayed Piggy by disclosing his nickname to the pathetic figure who, at the, moment of rescue by the naval officer, thinks of a ‘wise friend called Piggy' (p. 248). The stages through which he comes to a knowledge of things includes the recognition of the destructive power posed by the harsh side of the island. Ralph's initial impressions of this ‘stupendous creature', this ‘beast' are finally confirmed, for this part of the island, which deceptively provides a ‘wizard fort', is both the scene of the boys - Jack and Roger in particular - reaching the limits of savagery and Piggy's death. The reader, with a larger view, can anticipate these events from the way the group had split up and from how Ralph and Jack radically differ in their reaction. By acquiring a crucial role as an extension of destructive impulses, this side of the island is gradually exploited to support the connections between theme and character in the last third of the novel. The topography develops into a decisive element linking character and theme. Golding's achievement here is a modest part of his general strategy hut to recognise it would add to our appreciation of his methods and overall achievement.

Footnotes

1	John S. Whitley, Golding: Lord of the Flies, Edward Arnold, London, 1970, P. 17; see also Bernard S. Oldsey and Stanley Weintraub, The Art of William Golding, Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc., New York, 1965, pp. 17-19.
2	References to the text are from the Education edition published b y Faber, London, 1962.
3	The Novels of William Golding, Ohio State University Press, 1970, pp. 26-28.
4	Mark Kinkead-Weekes and Ian Gregor, William Golding: A Critical Study, Faber and Faber, London, 1967, p. 48.