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Chapter no 17

Brave New World

โ€œArt, scienceโ€”you seem to have paid a fairly high price forย your happiness,โ€ said the Savage, when they were alone. โ€œAnything else?โ€

โ€œWell, religion, of course,โ€ replied the Controller. โ€œThere used to be something called Godโ€”before the Nine Yearsโ€™ War. But I was forgetting; you know all about God, I suppose.โ€

โ€œWell . . .โ€ The Savage hesitated. He would have liked to say something about solitude, about night, about the mesa lying pale under the moon, about the precipice, the plunge into shadowy darkness, about death. He would have liked to speak; but there were no words. Not even in Shakespeare.

The Controller, meanwhile, had crossed to the other side of the room and was unlocking a large safe set into the wall between the bookshelves. The heavy door swung open. Rummaging in the darkness within, โ€œItโ€™s a subject,โ€ he said, โ€œthat has always had a great interest for me.โ€ He pulled out a thick black volume. โ€œYouโ€™ve never read this, for example.โ€

The Savage took it.ย โ€œThe Holy Bible, containing the Old and New Testaments,โ€ย he read aloud from the title-page.

โ€œNor this.โ€ It was a small book and had lost its cover.

โ€œThe Imitation of Christ.โ€

โ€œNor this.โ€ He handed out another volume.

โ€œThe Varieties of Religious Experience.ย By William James.โ€

โ€œAnd Iโ€™ve got plenty more,โ€ Mustapha Mond continued, resuming his seat. โ€œA whole collection of pornographic old books. God in the safe and Ford on the shelves.โ€ He pointed with a laugh to his avowed libraryโ€”to the shelves of books, the rack full of reading-machine bobbins and sound-track rolls.

โ€œBut if you know about God, why donโ€™t you tell them?โ€ asked the Savage indignantly. โ€œWhy donโ€™t you give them these books about God?โ€

โ€œFor the same reason as we donโ€™t give themย Othello:ย theyโ€™re old; theyโ€™re about God hundreds of years ago. Not about God now.โ€

โ€œBut God doesnโ€™t change.โ€ โ€œMen do, though.โ€

โ€œWhat difference does that make?โ€

โ€œAll the difference in the world,โ€ said Mustapha Mond. He got up again and walked to the safe. โ€œThere was a man called Cardinal Newman,โ€ he said. โ€œA cardinal,โ€ he exclaimed parenthetically, โ€œwas a kind of Arch-Community- Songster.โ€

โ€œ โ€˜I Pandulph, of fair Milan, cardinal.โ€™ Iโ€™ve read about them in Shakespeare.โ€

โ€œOf course you have. Well, as I was saying, there was a man called Cardinal Newman. Ah, hereโ€™s the book.โ€ He pulled it out. โ€œAnd while Iโ€™m about it Iโ€™ll take this one too. Itโ€™s by a man called Maine de Biran. He was a philosopher, if you know what that was.โ€

โ€œA man who dreams of fewer things than there are in heaven and earth,โ€ said the Savage promptly.

โ€œQuite so. Iโ€™ll read you one of the things heย didย dream of in a moment. Meanwhile, listen to what this old Arch-Community-Songster said.โ€ He opened the book at the place marked by a slip of paper and began to read. โ€œ โ€˜We are not our own any more than what we possess is our own. We did not make ourselves, we cannot be supreme over ourselves. We are not our own masters. We are Godโ€™s property. Is it not our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any comfort, to consider that weย areย our own? It may be thought so by the young and prosperous. These may think it a great thing to have everything, as they suppose, their own wayโ€”to depend on no oneโ€”to have to think of nothing out of sight, to be without the irksomeness of continual acknowledgment, continual prayer, continual reference of what they do to the will of another. But as time goes on, they, as all men, will find that independence was not made for manโ€”that it is an unnatural stateโ€”will do for a while, but will not carry us on safely to the end . . .โ€™ โ€ Mustapha Mond paused, put down the first book and, picking up the other, turned over the pages. โ€œTake this, for example,โ€ he said, and in his deep voice once more began to read: โ€œ โ€˜A man grows old; he feels in himself that radical sense of weakness, of listlessness, of discomfort, which accompanies the advance of age; and, feeling thus, imagines himself merely sick, lulling his fears with the notion that this distressing condition is due to some particular cause, from which, as from an illness, he hopes to recover. Vain imaginings! That sickness is old age; and a horrible disease it is. They say that it is the fear of death and

of what comes after death that makes men turn to religion as they advance in years. But my own experience has given me the conviction that, quite apart from any such terrors or imaginings, the religious sentiment tends to develop as we grow older; to develop because, as the passions grow calm, as the fancy and sensibilities are less excited and less excitable, our reason becomes less troubled in its working, less obscured by the images, desires and distractions, in which it used to be absorbed; whereupon God emerges as from behind a cloud; our soul feels, sees, turns towards the source of all light; turns naturally and inevitably; for now that all that gave to the world of sensations its life and charms has begun to leak away from us, now that phenomenal existence is no more bolstered up by impressions from within or from without, we feel the need to lean on something that abides, something that will never play us false

โ€”a reality, an absolute and everlasting truth. Yes, we inevitably turn to God; for this religious sentiment is of its nature so pure, so delightful to the soul that experiences it, that it makes up to us for all our other losses.โ€™ โ€ Mustapha Mond shut the book and leaned back in his chair. โ€œOne of the numerous things in heaven and earth that these philosophers didnโ€™t dream about was thisโ€ (he waved his hand), โ€œus, the modern world. โ€˜You can only be independent of God while youโ€™ve got youth and prosperity; independence wonโ€™t take you safely to the end.โ€™ Well, weโ€™ve now got youth and prosperity right up to the end. What follows? Evidently, that we can be independent of God. โ€˜The religious sentiment will compensate us for all our losses.โ€™ But there arenโ€™t any losses for us to compensate; religious sentiment is superfluous. And why should we go hunting for a substitute for youthful desires, when youthful desires never fail? A substitute for distractions, when we go on enjoying all the old fooleries to the very last? What need have we of repose when our minds and bodies continue to delight in activity? of consolation, when we haveย soma?ย of something immovable, when there is the social order?โ€

โ€œThen you think there is no God?โ€

โ€œNo, I think there quite probably is one.โ€ โ€œThen why? . . .โ€

Mustapha Mond checked him. โ€œBut he manifests himself in different ways to different men. In premodern times he manifested himself as the being thatโ€™s described in these books. Now . . .โ€

โ€œHow does he manifest himself now?โ€ asked the Savage.

โ€œWell, he manifests himself as an absence; as though he werenโ€™t there at

all.โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s your fault.โ€

โ€œCall it the fault of civilization. God isnโ€™t compatible with machinery and scientific medicine and universal happiness. You must make your choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happiness. Thatโ€™s why I have to keep these books locked up in the safe. Theyโ€™re smut. People would be shocked if . . .โ€

The Savage interrupted him. โ€œBut isnโ€™t itย naturalย to feel thereโ€™s a God?โ€ โ€œYou might as well ask if itโ€™s natural to do up oneโ€™s trousers with zippers,โ€

said the Controller sarcastically. โ€œYou remind me of another of those old fellows called Bradley. He defined philosophy as the finding of bad reason for what one believes by instinct. As if one believed anything by instinct! One believes things because one has been conditioned to believe them. Finding bad reasons for what one believes for other bad reasonsโ€”thatโ€™s philosophy. People believe in God because theyโ€™ve been conditioned to believe in God.โ€

โ€œBut all the same,โ€ insisted the Savage, โ€œit is natural to believe in God when youโ€™re aloneโ€”quite alone, in the night, thinking about death . . .โ€

โ€œBut people never are alone now,โ€ said Mustapha Mond. โ€œWe make them hate solitude; and we arrange their lives so that itโ€™s almost impossible for them ever to have it.โ€

The Savage nodded gloomily. At Malpais he had suffered because they had shut him out from the communal activities of the pueblo, in civilized London he was suffering because he could never escape from those communal activities, never be quietly alone.

โ€œDo you remember that bit inย King Lear?โ€ said the Savage at last. โ€œ โ€˜The gods are just and of our pleasant vices make instruments to plague us; the dark and vicious place where thee he got cost him his eyes,โ€™ and Edmund answersโ€”you remember, heโ€™s wounded, heโ€™s dyingโ€”โ€˜Thou hast spoken right; โ€™tis true. The wheel has come full circle; I am here.โ€™ What about that now? Doesnโ€™t there seem to be a God managing things, punishing, rewarding?โ€

โ€œWell, does there?โ€ questioned the Controller in his turn. โ€œYou can indulge in any number of pleasant vices with a freemartin and run no risks of having your eyes put out by your sonโ€™s mistress. โ€˜The wheel has come full circle; I am here.โ€™ But where would Edmund be nowadays? Sitting in a pneumatic chair, with his arm round a girlโ€™s waist, sucking away at his s*x-hormone chewing-gum and looking at the feelies. The gods are just. No doubt. But

their code of law is dictated, in the last resort, by the people who organize society; Providence takes its cue from men.โ€

โ€œAre you sure?โ€ asked the Savage. โ€œAre you quite sure that the Edmund in that pneumatic chair hasnโ€™t been just as heavily punished as the Edmund whoโ€™s wounded and bleeding to death? The gods are just. Havenโ€™t they used his pleasant vices as an instrument to degrade him?โ€

โ€œDegrade him from what position? As a happy, hardworking, goods- consuming citizen heโ€™s perfect. Of course, if you choose some other standard than ours, then perhaps you might say he was degraded. But youโ€™ve got to stick to one set of postulates. You canโ€™t play Electro-magnetic Golf according to the rules of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy.โ€

โ€œBut value dwells not in particular will,โ€ said the Savage. โ€œIt holds his estimate and dignity as well wherein โ€™tis precious of itself as in the prizer.โ€

โ€œCome, come,โ€ protested Mustapha Mond, โ€œthatโ€™s going rather far, isnโ€™t it?โ€

โ€œIf you allowed yourselves to think of God, you wouldnโ€™t allow yourselves to be degraded by pleasant vices. Youโ€™d have a reason for bearing things patiently, for doing things with courage. Iโ€™ve seen it with the Indians.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m sure you have,โ€ said Mustapha Mond. โ€œBut then we arenโ€™t Indians. There isnโ€™t any need for a civilized man to bear anything thatโ€™s seriously unpleasant. And as for doing thingsโ€”Ford forbid that he should get the idea into his head. It would upset the whole social order if men started doing things on their own.โ€

โ€œWhat about self-denial, then? If you had a God, youโ€™d have a reason for self-denial.โ€

โ€œBut industrial civilization is only possible when thereโ€™s no self-denial. Self-indulgence up to the very limits imposed by hygiene and economics. Otherwise the wheels stop turning.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™d have a reason for chastity!โ€ said the Savage, blushing a little as he spoke the words.

โ€œBut chastity means passion, chastity means neurasthenia. And passion and neurasthenia mean instability. And instability means the end of civilization. You canโ€™t have a lasting civilization without plenty of pleasant vices.โ€

โ€œBut Godโ€™s the reason for everything noble and fine and heroic. If you had a God . . .โ€

โ€œMy dear young friend,โ€ said Mustapha Mond, โ€œcivilization has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political

inefficiency. In a properly organized society like ours, nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are wars, where there are divided allegiances, where there are temptations to be resisted, objects of love to be fought for or defendedโ€”there, obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there arenโ€™t any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. Thereโ€™s no such thing as a divided allegiance; youโ€™re so conditioned that you canโ€™t help doing what you ought to do. And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant, so many of the natural impulses are allowed free play, that there really arenโ€™t any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, thereโ€™s alwaysย somaย to give you a holiday from the facts. And thereโ€™s alwaysย somaย to calm your anger, to reconcile you to your enemies, to make you patient and long-suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now, you swallow two or three half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your mortality about in a bottle. Christianity without tearsโ€”thatโ€™s whatย somaย is.โ€

โ€œBut the tears are necessary. Donโ€™t you remember what Othello said? โ€˜If after every tempest came such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.โ€™ Thereโ€™s a story one of the old Indians used to tell us, about the Girl of Mรกtaski. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morningโ€™s hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldnโ€™t stand the biting and stinging. But the one that couldโ€”he got the girl.โ€

โ€œCharming! But in civilized countries,โ€ said the Controller, โ€œyou can have girls without hoeing for them; and there arenโ€™t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.โ€

The Savage nodded, frowning. โ€œYou got rid of them. Yes, thatโ€™s just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether โ€™tis better in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them

. . . But you donโ€™t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. Itโ€™s too easy.โ€

He was suddenly silent, thinking of his mother. In her room on the thirty- seventh floor, Linda had floated in a sea of singing lights and perfumed caressesโ€”floated away, out of space, out of time, out of the prison of her

memories, her habits, her aged and bloated body. And Tomakin, ex-Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning, Tomakin was still on holidayโ€”on holiday from humiliation and pain, in a world where he could not hear those words, that derisive laughter, could not see that hideous face, feel those moist and flabby arms round his neck, in a beautiful world . . .

โ€œWhat you need,โ€ the Savage went on, โ€œis somethingย withย tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here.โ€

(โ€œTwelve and a half million dollars,โ€ Henry Foster had protested when the Savage told him that. โ€œTwelve and a half millionโ€”thatโ€™s what the new Conditioning Centre cost. Not a cent less.โ€)

โ€œExposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isnโ€™t there something in that?โ€ he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. โ€œQuite apart from Godโ€”though of course God would be a reason for it. Isnโ€™t there something in living dangerously?โ€

โ€œThereโ€™s a great deal in it,โ€ the Controller replied. โ€œMen and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.โ€

โ€œWhat?โ€ questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.

โ€œItโ€™s one of the conditions of perfect health. Thatโ€™s why weโ€™ve made the

V.P.S. treatments compulsory.โ€ โ€œV.P.S.?โ€

โ€œViolent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. Itโ€™s the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconveniences.โ€

โ€œBut I like the inconveniences.โ€

โ€œWe donโ€™t,โ€ said the Controller. โ€œWe prefer to do things comfortably.โ€

โ€œBut I donโ€™t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.โ€

โ€œIn fact,โ€ said Mustapha Mond, โ€œyouโ€™re claiming the right to be unhappy.โ€ โ€œAll right then,โ€ said the Savage defiantly, โ€œIโ€™m claiming the right to be

unhappy.โ€

โ€œNot to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.โ€ There was a long silence.

โ€œI claim them all,โ€ said the Savage at last.

Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. โ€œYouโ€™re welcome,โ€ he said.

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