Maybe There Is A Beast… Maybe It's

We Have A Disharmony In Our Natures. We Cannot Live Together Without Injuring Each Other.

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.

One's Intelligence May March About And About A Problem, But The Solution Does Not Come Gradually Into View. One Moment It Is Not. The Next It Is There.

Kill The Pig! Cut His Throat! Kill The Pig! Bash Him In!

However You Disguise Novels, They Are Always Biographies.