Whisk—the place where Italy had been was empty.
Bernard and Helmholtz are banished to
Whisk, the cathedrals; whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk, Passion; whisk, Requiem; whisk, Symphony; whisk …. Every hair of the bear reproduced. The most amazing tactual effects. Bibles, poetry—Ford knew what.
"No Country for Old Men": Huxley's Brave New World and the Value of Old Age.
Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his red lips twitched ironically. Those who feel themselves despised do well to look despising. Every hair on the bear indeed! Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. Torrents of hot water were splashing into or gurgling out of a hundred baths. Rumbling and hissing, eighty vibro-vacuum massage machines were simultaneously kneading and sucking the firm and sunburnt flesh of eighty superb female specimens.
Every one was talking at the top of her voice. A Synthetic Music machine was warbling out a super-cornet solo. Fanny worked in the Bottling Room, and her surname was also Crowne. But as the two thousand million inhabitants of the plant had only ten thousand names between them, the coincidence was not particularly surprising. Lenina pulled at her zippers—downwards on the jacket, downwards with a double-handed gesture at the two that held trousers, downwards again to loosen her undergarment. Still wearing her shoes and stockings, she walked off towards the bathrooms. Home, home—a few small rooms, stiflingly over-inhabited by a man, by a periodically teeming woman, by a rabble of boys and girls of all ages.
No air, no space; an understerilized prison; darkness, disease, and smells. Lenina got out of the bath, toweled herself dry, took hold of a long flexible tube plugged into the wall, presented the nozzle to her breast, as though she meant to commit suicide, pressed down the trigger. A blast of warmed air dusted her with the finest talcum powder. Eight different scents and eau-de-Cologne were laid on in little taps over the wash-basin. She turned on the third from the left, dabbed herself with chypre and, carrying her shoes and stockings in her hand, went out to see if one of the vibro-vacuum machines were free.
And home was as squalid psychically as physically.
Slouching Toward a “Brave New World” | Evolution News
Psychically, it was a rabbit hole, a midden, hot with the frictions of tightly packed life, reeking with emotion. What suffocating intimacies, what dangerous, insane, obscene relationships between the members of the family group! Till at last my baby sleeps, my baby sleeps with a bubble of white milk at the corner of his mouth. Wells  advised me to have a Pregnancy Substitute. But some people are better if they begin earlier. Wells told me that brunettes with wide pelvises, like me, ought to have their first Pregnancy Substitute at seventeen. Our Ford—or Our Freud, as, for some inscrutable reason, he chose to call himself whenever he spoke of psychological matters—Our Freud had been the first to reveal the appalling dangers of family life.
The world was full of fathers—was therefore full of misery; full of mothers—therefore of every kind of perversion from sadism to chastity; full of brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts—full of madness and suicide. The tropical sunshine lay like warm honey on the naked bodies of children tumbling promiscuously among the hibiscus blossoms. Home was in any one of twenty palm-thatched houses. In the Trobriands conception was the work of ancestral ghosts; nobody had ever heard of a father.
For the good reason that they were made to meet. I shall spend the evening at the Club playing Musical Bridge. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. But there were also husbands, wives, lovers. There were also monogamy and romance. The students nodded, emphatically agreeing with a statement which upwards of sixty-two thousand repetitions in the dark had made them accept, not merely as true, but as axiomatic, self-evident, utterly indisputable.
I like that. Has there? Lenina blushed scarlet; but her eyes, the tone of her voice remained defiant. But at your age, Lenina! And you know how strongly the D. Mother, monogamy, romance.
High spurts the fountain; fierce and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. No wonder these poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miserable. What with mothers and lovers, what with the prohibitions they were not conditioned to obey, what with the temptations and the lonely remorses, what with all the diseases and the endless isolating pain, what with the uncertainties and the poverty—they were forced to feel strongly.
And feeling strongly and strongly, what was more, in solitude, in hopelessly individual isolation , how could they be stable? Trust Henry Foster to be the perfect gentleman—always correct. The strictest conventionality. No civilization without social stability. No social stability without individual stability.
Listening they felt larger, warmer. The machine turns, turns and must keep on turning—for ever. It is death if it stands still. A thousand millions scrabbled the crust of the earth. The wheels began to turn. In a hundred and fifty years there were two thousand millions. Stop all the wheels. In a hundred and fifty weeks there are once more only a thousand millions; a thousand thousand thousand men and women have starved to death. Wheels must turn steadily, but cannot turn untended. There must be men to tend them, men as steady as the wheels upon their axles, sane men, obedient men, stable in contentment.
Crying: My baby, my mother, my only, only love groaning: My sin, my terrible God; screaming with pain, muttering with fever, bemoaning old age and poverty—how can they tend the wheels? And if they cannot tend the wheels … The corpses of a thousand thousand thousand men and women would be hard to bury or burn. The primal and the ultimate need.
Hence all this. With a wave of his hand he indicated the gardens, the huge building of the Conditioning Centre, the naked children furtive in the undergrowth or running across the lawns. Lenina shook her head. Fanny nodded her sympathy and understanding. After all, every one belongs to every one else. As usual. Impulse arrested spills over, and the flood is feeling, the flood is passion, the flood is even madness: it depends on the force of the current, the height and strength of the barrier.
The unchecked stream flows smoothly down its appointed channels into a calm well-being. The embryo is hungry; day in, day out, the blood-surrogate pump unceasingly turns its eight hundred revolutions a minute. The decanted infant howls; at once a nurse appears with a bottle of external secretion. Feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consummation. Shorten that interval, break down all those old unnecessary barriers. Wonderfully pneumatic. At the first opportunity. From his place on the opposite side of the changing-room aisle, Bernard Marx overheard what they were saying and turned pale.
Besides, he asked me to go to one of the Savage Reservations with him. And anyhow, why are people so beastly to him? Frightened almost—as though she were a World Controller and he a Gamma-Minus machine minder. Degrading her to so much mutton. Oh, Ford, Ford, Ford. But would the Governments look at it? There was something called Christianity. Women were forced to go on being viviparous. You know. Like a cat. Fanny was shocked. There was something called liberalism. Parliament, if you know what that was, passed a law against it. The records survive. Speeches about liberty of the subject. Liberty to be inefficient and miserable.
Freedom to be a round peg in a square hole. Famously, a year-old paraplegic man, fully paralyzed from the waist down, kicked a soccer ball to start the World Cup; he was using a mind-controlled exoskeleton suit. And in Florida mind-controlled headsets are used to race drones around a track.
These days, any major competition is rife with strict blood and urine tests, creating a strong policing atmosphere in professional sports.
'Brave New World' predicted 2018 better than any other novel
I wonder whether the sporting industry might create some new competitions where — just like technology — performance-enhancing drugs are encouraged. Innovations like the new oxygen -infused injection, which might one day allow humans to hold their breath for 15 to 30 minutes, could allow competitive free divers to reach new depths, showing just how far the human body can go. Critics will complain that the human body was not designed to compete using enhancements and that doing so violates the code given to us by the ancient Greeks and their first Olympics Games, where ar e te , or excellence and moral virtue, was cherished.
As a longtime competitive athlete, I appreciate the sportsmanship angle; but I also think that in the 21st century we can develop both the drugs and the technology to see humans compete in new sporting events that are even more exciting than their predecessors. Drugs and performance-enhancing technology would not have to challenge any existing sporting competitions and their cultures.
It would simply be a new category of sports with different athletes.
And like the Cybathlon, these types of competition would do more than just entertain — they would lead the way forward for the medical and transhumanist industries seeking to improve the human being. Competitions would be pilgrimages for medical professionals and entrepreneurs looking to buy and possibly mass produce the latest unique technologies.
Humans already use performance-enhancing drugs and technology in many everyday activities, including Viagra for sex, plastic surgery for appearing younger, and eye contacts for improving vision. We can extend that same open-mindedness to select sporting events and reveal what the human being can do athletically. If we encourage ourselves to improve our natural form — and use our collective imagination — we may find our species in an athletic renaissance.
The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. Here are some tips. An earlier version of this article referred incorrectly to the classification of ostriches. They are birds, not mammals. Opinion Zoltan Istvan.