How Does Golding Use Symbols In Lord Of The Flies

Sir William Golding, in his best-known work The Lord Of The Flies makes frequent and consistent usage of symbolism throughout his book, with nuanced characters and developments playing an unusually important role. Indeed, where some historic authors such as Conrad and Tolkein go on at length in the backstories of unimportant characters, meaning to strengthen and round said characters, though with ultimate triviality, Golding presents perceptibly flat characters and assigns great allegorical significance to the few seemingly-minor actions they execute. Although they fail to serve, in all, to the macroscopic plot development of the story, and in that sense are surely secondary characters, making the neglect of their presence in the book a not overtly-unreasonable deed, there is considerable importance to these characters; notably Percival, Henry, and Wilfred; inasmuch as they serve to, in a detached manner, grant depth to the themes and metaphors persistent throughout the novel.

The three characters of interest herein are those listed just latter- where Percival is that coy and cowardly boy so proud of his lengthy title; Henry is the “littlun”, as they are so called, who is seen in chapter four playing with Percival and Johnny in the sand; and Wilfred is the beaten boy of chapter ten, tied and at Jack's mercy.

Percival very distinctly reflects the trauma and disintegration of order in the light of disturbing war-torn acts, though Henry's presence shows the inherency of the lust for dominance, with the pleasure he derives from minor control enhancing the disparity with which man grasps for power and prospect. Wilfred, on the other hand, derives his significance as a result of his

unambiguity.

“Percival Wemys Madison. The Vicarage, Harcourt St Anthony, Hants...” (122) this particularly memorable recitation by Percival is referred to throughout the book, but the effect to which it is is a concept less blatant. Analysis of the importance of this phrase comes in the contexts in which it is presented and reminded of, and with its first presentation, Percival is exposing his theory concerning the origin of the beast at assembly, with his perturbing declaration conjecturing that it comes from the sea. References to it surface at the end of the chapter it occupies, with Percival still being addressed in full form throughout the chapter, and at the end of the book when the naval captain arrives to relieve the boys. The initial statement, though, is of the most importance, and in the context shows Percival's reliance on his lengthy title as a comforting factor in his horrifying state of events. Extrapolating from this, the fact bespeaks the way a man's ego finds satisfaction in the orderly authority of a proper title, background, and of factual declaration, while Percival's admission of the monster's aquatic origin in tandem with this verbal event hints that these vain measures are of ultimate futility with a land so chaotically mysterious, of so much violence surrounding. The resultant fear a man may find in this fact even drives Percival so far as to retire in slumber to escape the thought of such an uncontrollable terror, one which spoken authority can do nothing to repress, though his ultimately crippled, mute state at the book's conclusion shows that Percival's childish measures, his shrieks as the boys of chapter four bombard his eyes with sand, and his subduing cowardice cannot budge his inevitable desensitization from the precepts of society in the space of barbaric and emotional influences. Indeed, the entirety of this dynamic is interesting to the microcosm the book creates, with the idea that such feelings and events went on in the lives of the many servicemen who emerged from battle stricken by psychological trauma and distrust of human social structure.

Henry is indicated in some contexts to be a somewhat comical petty-king, whose presence in the novel shows the way people categorize themselves into a distinct fallacious hierarchy. As a littleun, Henry is of ultimately minor consequence and of very small power on the island, and yet even within the inconsequential group of littleuns, he finds a way to invent control and authority. Several examples of his behaviours of pride, stemming from meager influence, come to fruition throughout the book, but it is most eloquently shown in chapter four, when Henry wanders from the other playing boys to inspect the novelties of the beach. It is therein stated that “He poked about with a bit of stick ... He made little runnels that the tide filled and tried to crowd them with creatures. He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things.” (85), but of most interest in this dynamic is the fact that he had wandered from the constructions of the other children, where he was already proclaimed a “leader” (“Henry was a bit of a leader this afternoon, because the other two were Percival and Johnny, the smallest boys on the island.” (84)) to exercise a more savage power. This interval shows the absoluteness of authority that many seek, and ties in the theme throughout the book concerning the absurd minuteness, relative to the greater whole, of the concept of power, and yet the intense pleasure man takes in wielding it. It's reminded, though subtly, throughout the novel that there are greater events taking place, this enforced not just through the war-era context, but implied with Golding's lengthy descriptions of the sea's ferocity in relation to the ignorant sheltering of the boys' mindset, and this event of Henry's obsession with the transparencies only serves to underline this theme. Furthermore, and fittingly, Henry's blithe obliviousness of Roger's hurdled stones serves to strengthen the nuanced manner of his actions, and his interest in the splashing water induced by the stones amplifies his obsession with the minor power and novelty even in light of more pertinent and disconcerting events, further diminishing the importance of the island's events, in a manner most ironic.

One character has been left thus far with very little mention. Wilfred, whose name appears only thrice in the entirety of the novel (much contrasted to the 795 times, an average of ~3 times per page, Ralph's name is explicitly written) is the identity-less, faceless, innocent character, who never speaks, and is only referred to, beaten for an unknown and unstated crime, at the hands of a savage dictator, and the fanciful sadism of the other boys. He hasn't spoken in assembly, and has clearly done nothing to distinguish him, and yet he's the victim of the tribalism of Jack's tribe. This fact is a powerful one, as it shows the meaninglessness of the cruelty Jack exudes, and enhances the perception of hypnotic barbarity in his tribe. It shows that the horror of man's actions isn't targeted, isn't logical, in all cases, but in some arises viscerally, with Jack's respective wont being an artifact of stagnation- non-responsive.