My brother Barney used to share an attic room in Etna drive with our brother Michael. It was a very sparten room, neither boy interested in cluttering it with brac-a-brac.But Barney had a box of possessions which used to intrigue me and I used to ask to see inside it, which he would let me do but only when he was there to supervise. It had his stuff in it, bits and pieces like a penknife, some marbles ("Marlies"), a spud gun, some throwing jacks and one battered paperback. A copy of The Lord Of The Flies by William Golding. It was the only book I remember him showing any interest in as a boy. When he was an adult he asked me if I would keep my open for a copy only he mistakenly asked for Lord Of The Rings, which I got him a copy off. A week or so later he gave me it back saying it was the wrong book "The one I want is about all these wee mad bastards on an island. This ones all about wee men with big feet chasing a bogeyman, or somethin'" he said rolling his eyes.
Tolkien would blush.
I just reread the book on his behalf and it really is about a load of feral kids running amok on an island. It is probably saying so much more than that. Dealing with complex issues such as nature versus nurture and just how close we reamain all our lives to our original primal state.
But I do much prefer my brother's description.
