I find myself thinking frequently of Piggy from "Lord of the Flies" — Piggy, who was never allowed a name like the other boys; Piggy, who is told that his nickname is better than being called “fatty;" Piggy, whose name is evoked when Jack’s savages cry, “Kill the pig! Cut her throat! Bash her in!” He craves order and, when calling for it, is killed. One could draw a relation between Piggy and police officers — not just because of the slang for cops (Golding probably didn’t have that in mind), but as enforcers of law and the legal system. When Piggy dies, Ralph is alone in the chaos of the island with nobody (save the late-arriving naval officer) to help him.
I don’t think people are really upset when Piggy dies, because they necessarily see the design behind it—our visceral response is one to the loss of life, not the loss of law. I imagine a tubby 12-year-old (not so different from some of my students, maybe) with chipmunk cheeks and broken glasses and asthma, and I see him killed by people he still thought capable of rational thought. Golding pointedly does not explicitly describe the “stuff” coming from Piggy’s skull when the narrative is otherwise specific in its imagery. We know what it is—the same rational thing that, when perverted and made irrational, creates the beast. Just as the sow’s head animates itself to speak as the Lord of the Flies, Piggy speaks to the rational and is dreadfully, terribly robbed of our rational organ.
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So what does "Lord of the Flies" have anything to do with today? Why should it matter that Ralph cries over the loss of his dear friend Piggy? We read literature so we can learn something about ourselves. My mind has been caught on "Lord of the Flies" (and Piggy, specifically) because I was making lesson plans for a unit focused around this book, and because recently, a student at a school I visited (and adored) was arrested for making a bomb threat, and because my country has an issue with children killing other children, mostly by accident, but sometimes, as in the case of Piggy, on purpose.
We learn about ourselves by reading. History still falls under the umbrella of the humanities, even if there is a push in the subject towards facts and figures. With a push in education overall towards STEM fields, some wonder why we even still bother with the humanities at all. I could give a laundry list of skills students gain in the humanities that will help them if they pursue science or math or any combination of the two: writing ability, the ability to back up arguments and statements with facts, the ability to think logically about information provided before them, analytical skills, the ability to think creatively, the ability to synthesize information into a new thing. Despite what a movie such as "Dead Poets Society" might have you believe, the act of explicating a poem is one that is analytical and logical and relies on a person’s existing schemata as well as creating new ones. English, particularly, might be useful for career seekers, because it gives them the ability to clearly express thoughts and findings.
But that’s only a defense of practical application, and sometimes, really, literature isn’t a very practical thing at all. It’s art, and art is rarely practical, nor should it be. You end up, sometimes, with dead kids who deserved so much better. And in my country, in my world? I’d rather we be encountering dead fictional kids than real ones. I am tired of hearing about real tragedy, not because I think it shouldn’t be reported, but because I am tired of it happening in the first place. Literature might provide a chance to escape, but the good stuff makes us take a hard look at ourselves and see that sometimes, we have to make a change. I’d rather kids read about Piggy than have to become Piggy themselves.
