The Herr Doctor does not know about peoples.

The man who tells the tale if he has a tale worth telling will know exactly what he is about and this business of the artist as a sort of starry-eyed inspired creature, dancing along, with his feet two or three feet above the surface of the earth, not really knowing what sort of prints he's leaving behind him, is nothing like the truth.

Basically I'm an optimist. Intellectually I can see man's balance is about fifty-fifty, and his chances of blowing himself up are about one to one. I can't see this any way but intellectually. I'm just emotionally unable to believe that he will do this. This means that I am by nature an optimist and by intellectual conviction a pessimist, I suppose.

The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.

"Aren't there any grownups at all?""I don't think so."The fair boy said this solemnly; but then the delight of a realized ambition overcame him. In the middle of the scar he stood on his head and grinned at the reversed fat boy."No grownups!"

"I was the only boy in our school what had asthma," said the fat boy with a touch of pride. "And I've been wearing specs since I was three."

"Aren't you going to swim?"Piggy shook his head."I can't swim. I wasn't allowed. My asthma—""Sucks to your ass-mar!"

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