by Luca Fumagalli

Before he could devote himself full-time to literature, William Golding (1911-1993) had to wait until he was fifty. In the meantime, he was forced to write in his spare time, filling a thick notebook he carried with him at all times. He disliked teaching, and often, while his students were busy completing another assignment, he would furtively take notes from his bag, ready to pick up the story he was working on at the point where he prematurely left off. Then his hand would begin to tremble, struck by a blinding light, and the words would flow from his pen.

In those moments when the world around him was forgotten, he found himself alone, forced to reckon with the blank page and with himself, with no possibility of cheating. Thus, he recalled the painful moments he had experienced during the Second World War, the difficulties of his relationship with his father, and the perennial dissatisfaction with a job he had never loved. The result is a moving prose, harsh and earthly like life itself, yet still lacking a hint of mystery, an esoteric fascination with what goes beyond the sensory realm, fuelled by the climate of widespread dissatisfaction so typical of the 20th century.

Shaped by his experience during the war that had transformed Europe into a living hell, Golding understood that evil was a prerogative not only of the Nazis but of humanity as a whole. Distant from any ideology or rationalistic simplification of existence – ideas, after all, against which he vehemently railed on several occasions – he eventually realized that the only element that made man equal in all times and places is the soul torn apart by original sin. Very few before him had managed to describe with such clarity the guilt that lurks in the deepest recesses of the spirit.

Faced with such a dark portrait, Golding, however, did not fall into the easy nihilistic temptation of believing God was dead: men, no one else, caused the holocausts of such a terrible century and he himself felt the weight of shared responsibility. Each of his novels thus becomes a passionate autobiography, the intimate and courageous confession of an existential void too often hidden by everyday consumerism and blind faith in progress.

Amidst such a jumble of feelings arose Lord of the Flies (1954), his undisputed masterpiece, which contributed, more than his later novels, to his winning the Nobel Prize in 1983. In fact, the story of the boys on a remote island who soon discover they are anything but innocent was such a resounding success that it overshadowed the rest of his production, which, despite its ups and downs, includes such gems as The Inheritors (1955), The Spire (1964), Darkness Visible (1979) and the trilogy To the Ends of the Earth (1980-1989). Among the many who cried scandal was Anthony Burgess, who stated that many people claim to be Golding’s admirers, but have only read his debut novel. Unfortunately, it’s painful to note how this situation persists even today, despite the fact that several interesting essays and studies on Golding’s work have been published in recent years. In this sense, the ironic observation of critic Frank Kermode that Golding’s other novels seem to have been written deliberately to remain unpopular is prophetic.

A partial reception has led to the mistake of hastily labelling him as the bard of despair, the visionary narrator of a reality irremediably governed by death and pain. But the recognition of the real and concrete dimension of evil is only the initial step in a painful search for a possible antidote, a means of redemption. Hoping that evil would not be the last word on life, Golding moved, book after book, along the path of a search for a meaning capable of offering hope for redemption, a reason that transcends the inherent limitations of man. In other words, it is the ultimate problem that continues to preoccupy the modern artist: the desire to penetrate the divine secret of existence. After all, as he himself said in an interview, his prose stemmed from a gaze capable of wonder, one that hopes for the unexpected, confidently open to reality.

William Golding: The Faber Letters, edited by Tim Kendall, was published at the end of last year. It is an interesting book that represents the most valuable contribution to a greater understanding of the English writer’s life and work since John Carey’s biography. It essentially comprises the letters Golding exchanged with Charles Monteith, editor at Faber, the man who first recognized his talent and launched his career (Golding himself admitted that without him, he would never have achieved anything). Monteith, in fact, was not only the one who, with extraordinary foresight, grasped the potential of Lord of the Flies, the manuscript of which had already been rejected by several publishers, but also his suggestions helped the author improve the story in several ways, giving readers around the world an immortal masterpiece.

From that moment, the bond between Golding and Faber became unbreakable, as did that between the writer and the editor, which gradually transformed into a lifelong friendship. Precisely for this reason, it would be limiting to consider The Faber Letters merely an opportunity to better understand how the internal mechanisms of the publishing world worked, and to some extent still work. They also bear witness to the profound humanity of two men who confided their respective expectations and disappointments, who discussed books and travel, and who pondered the meaning and value of literature.

While correspondence can become tedious and difficult to read over time, partly due to those omissions that the letters do not immediately allow us to understand, this is not the case here. Kendall’s work, which chooses to present the letters in chronological order, is first-rate, with notes that provide the right context for each text, clarifying the smallest details. The introductory notes to each year, which summarize the most salient events, also prove very useful.

The result is an enjoyable read that will certainly fascinate Golding’s admirers and, hopefully, will help draw renewed attention to one of the most misunderstood authors of the last century.

The book: William Golding: The Faber Letters, edited by Tim Kendall, Faber 2025, 592 pages, £60.00

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