William Golding’s use of language is eloquent yet precise. This, as Ralph and the others are on a hunt to find a “beast” that two of the older boys claim to have seen, confirming the nightmares and fears of the younger boys, is a superb example of anthropomorphism as he describes Ralph’s view of the ocean.
Down here, almost on a level with the sea, you could follow with your eyes the ceaseless, bulging passage of the deep sea waves. They were miles wide, apparently not breakers or the banked ridges of shallow water. They traveled the length of the island with an air of disregarding it and being set on other business; they were less a progress than a momentous rise and fall of the whole ocean. Now the sea would suck down, making cascades and waterfalls of retreating water, would sink past the rocks and plaster down the seaweed like shining hair; then, pausing, gather and rise with a roar, irresistibly swelling over point and outcrop, climbing the little cliff, sending at last and arm of surf up a gully to end a yard or so from him in fingers of spray. (pg. 110)
Now that’s nice.