'Try to imagine what 'living with one's family' meant.' They tried but obviously without the smallest success.įrom her dim crimson cellar Lenina Crowne shot up But none of them dreamed, this time, of smiling. 'Try to realize what it was like to have a viviparous mother.' That smutty word again. 'Just try to realize it,' he said, and his voice sent a strange thrill quivering along their diaphragms. Mustapha Mond leaned forward, shook a finger at them. 'I shall make a point of going,' said Henry Foster. The smile on Bernard Marx's face was contemptuous. Those who feel themselves despised do well to lookĭespising. 'It's all right, Director,' he said in a tone of faint derision, 'I won't corrupt them.' Mustapha Mond intercepted his anxious glance and the corners of his red lips twitched ironically. There were those strange rumours of old forbidden books hidden in a safe in the Controller's study. 'That's why you're taught no history,' the Controller was saying. There's a love scene on a bearskin rug they say it's marvellous. 'I hear the new one at the Alhambra is first-rate. 'Going to the Feelies this evening, Henry?' enquired the Assistant Predestinator.

Whisk, Passion whisk, Requiem whisk, Symphony whisk.

Whisk, the cathedrals whisk, whisk, King Lear and the Thoughts of Pascal. Whisk–the place where Italy had been was empty. Whisk–and where was Odysseus, where was Job, where were Jupiter and Gotama and Jesus? Whisk–and those specks of antique dirt called Athens and Rome, Jerusalem and the Middle Kingdom–all were gone. History,' he repeated slowly, 'is bunk.' He waved his hand and it was as though, with an invisible feather wisk, he had brushed away a little dust, and the dust was Harappa, was Ur of the Chaldees some spider-webs, and they were Thebes and Babylon and Cnossos and Mycenae. 'You all remember,' said the Controller, in his strong deep voice, 'you all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our Ford's: History is bunk. Two shrimp-brown children emerged from a neighbouring shrubbery, stared at them for a moment with large, astonished eyes, then returned to their amusements among the leaves.

and he sat down on the bench with the D.H.C., he was going to stay, to stay, yes, and actually talk to them. Mustapha Mond! The Resident Controller for Western Europe! One of the Ten World Controllers. His fordship Mustapha Mond! The eyes of the saluting students almost popped out of their heads. Lenina Crowne walked briskly towards the door. Majestically and for ever the conveyors crept forward with their load of future men and women.

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