Perhaps as a mother I could read this as a story of children abandoned on an island and left to survive in any way they can.
I could read it as a story illustrating that children, unsupervised by adults, revert to a state of nature, which, because of the inherent violence of humanity, ignores all logic and reason for the allure of superstition, tribalism, and destruction.
I could read it as a story of how a crowd of children can be influenced to follow a despotic ruler, who offers chants and fun, and who jeers at those over whom the crowd would like to feel powerful rather than following the boring logic of democracy and the drudge of working toward a common, rational goal, while the majority, unnamed, unnumbered, and unconsidered, sit by without using their voices outside of mindlessly echoing the words of those in power, without action besides the basics of human existence.
I could read this story and think how tragic it is that children left to their own devices might act in a way contrary to their own self preservation.
I could wish that someone from a rational civilization that’s above the squabbles of a handful of boys on an island would come and save them.
I could wish that there were anything left to be saved.
I could wish that I believed in salvation.
Read as part of my Cavalcade of Classics, Round Two.
Imperfect Happiness 