RD-Brave_New_World_1-2_16-18
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RD-Brave_New_World_1-2_16-18

Course: ACC 319, Spring 2012

School: Columbia College

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BRAVE NEW WORLD By Aldous Huxley(1894-1963) http://www.huxley.net/bnw/one.html Chapter One A SQUAT grey building of only thirty-four stories. Over the main entrance the words, CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World State's motto, COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY. The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the...

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NEW BRAVE WORLD By Aldous Huxley(1894-1963) http://www.huxley.net/bnw/one.html Chapter One A SQUAT grey building of only thirty-four stories. Over the main entrance the words, CENTRAL LONDON HATCHERY AND CONDITIONING CENTRE, and, in a shield, the World State's motto, COMMUNITY, IDENTITY, STABILITY. The enormous room on the ground floor faced towards the north. Cold for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the room itself, a harsh thin light glared through the windows, hungrily seeking some draped lay figure, some pallid shape of academic goose-flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and bleakly shining porcelain of a laboratory. Wintriness responded to wintriness. The overalls of the workers were white, their hands gloved with a pale corpse-coloured rubber. The light was frozen, dead, a ghost. Only from the yellow barrels of the microscopes did it borrow a certain rich and living substance, lying along the polished tubes like butter, streak after luscious streak in long recession down the work tables. "And this," said the Director opening the door, "is the Fertilizing Room." Bent over their instruments, three hundred Fertilizers were plunged, as the Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning entered the room, in the scarcely breathing silence, the absent-minded, soliloquizing hum or whistle, of absorbed concentration. A troop of newly arrived students, very young, pink and callow, followed nervously, rather abjectly, at the Director's heels. Each of them carried a notebook, in which, whenever the great man spoke, he desperately scribbled. Straight from the horse's mouth. It was a rare privilege. The D. H. C. for Central London always made a point of personally conducting his new students round the various departments. "Just to give you a general idea," he would explain to them. For of course some sort of general idea they must have, if they were to do their work intelligentlythough as little of one, if they were to be good and happy members of society, as possible. For particulars, as every one knows, make for virtue and happiness; generalities are intellectually necessary evils. Not philosophers but fret-sawyers and stamp collectors compose the backbone of society. "To-morrow," he would add, smiling at them with a slightly menacing geniality, "you'll be settling down to serious work. You won't have time for generalities. Meanwhile " Meanwhile, it was a privilege. Straight from the horse's mouth into the notebook. The boys scribbled like mad. Tall and rather thin but upright, the Director advanced into the room. He had a long chin and big rather prominent teeth, just covered, when he was not talking, by his full, floridly curved lips. Old, young? Thirty? Fifty? Fifty-five? It was hard to say. And anyhow the question didn't arise; in this year of stability, A. F. 632, it didn't occur to you to ask it. "I shall begin at the beginning," said the D.H.C. and the more zealous students recorded his intention in their notebooks: Begin at the beginning. "These," he waved his hand, "are the incubators." And opening an insulated door he showed them racks upon racks of numbered test-tubes. "The week's supply of ova. Kept," he explained, "at blood heat; whereas the male gametes," and here he opened another door, "they have to be kept at thirty-five instead of thirty-seven. Full blood heat sterilizes." Rams wrapped in theremogene beget no lambs. Still leaning against the incubators he gave them, while the pencils scurried illegibly across the pages, a brief description of the modern fertilizing process; spoke first, of course, of its surgical introduction"the operation undergone voluntarily for the good of Society, not to mention the fact that it carries a bonus amounting to six months' salary"; continued with some account of the technique for preserving the excised ovary alive and actively developing; passed on to a consideration of optimum temperature, salinity, viscosity; referred to the liquor in which the detached and ripened eggs were kept; and, leading his charges to the work tables, actually showed them how this liquor was drawn off from the test-tubes; how it was let out drop by drop onto the specially warmed slides of the microscopes; how the eggs which it contained were inspected for abnormalities, counted and transferred to a porous receptacle; how (and he now took them to watch the operation) this receptacle was immersed in a warm bouillon containing free-swimming spermatozoaat a minimum concentration of one hundred thousand per cubic centimetre, he insisted; and how, after ten minutes, the container was lifted out of the liquor and its contents re-examined; how, if any of the eggs remained unfertilized, it was again immersed, and, if necessary, yet again; how the fertilized ova went back to the incubators; where the Alphas and Betas remained until definitely bottled; while the Gammas, Deltas and Epsilons were brought out again, after only thirty-six hours, to undergo Bokanovsky's Process. "Bokanovsky's Process," repeated the Director, and the students underlined the words in their little notebooks. One egg, one embryo, one adult-normality. But a bokanovskified egg will bud, will proliferate, will divide. From eight to ninety-six buds, and every bud will grow into a perfectly formed embryo, and every embryo into a full-sized adult. Making ninety-six human beings grow where only one grew before. Progress. "Essentially," the D.H.C. concluded, "bokanovskification consists of a series of arrests of development. We check the normal growth and, paradoxically enough, the egg responds by budding." Responds by budding. The pencils were busy. He pointed. On a very slowly moving band a rack-full of test-tubes was entering a large metal box, another, rack-full was emerging. Machinery faintly purred. It took eight minutes for the tubes to go through, he told them. Eight minutes of hard X-rays being about as much as an egg can stand. A few died; of the rest, the least susceptible divided into two; most put out four buds; some eight; all were returned to the incubators, where the buds began to develop; then, after two days, were suddenly chilled, chilled and checked. Two, four, eight, the buds in their turn budded; and having budded were dosed almost to death with alcohol; consequently burgeoned again and having buddedbud out of bud out of budwere thereafterfurther arrest being generally fatalleft to develop in peace. By which time the original egg was in a fair way to becoming anything from eight to ninety-six embryos a prodigious improvement, you will agree, on nature. Identical twinsbut not in piddling twos and threes as in the old viviparous days, when an egg would sometimes accidentally divide; actually by dozens, by scores at a time. "Scores," the Director repeated and flung out his arms, as though he were distributing largesse. "Scores." But one of the students was fool enough to ask where the advantage lay. "My good boy!" The Director wheeled sharply round on him. "Can't you see? Can't you see?" He raised a hand; his expression was solemn. "Bokanovsky's Process is one of the major instruments of social stability!" Major instruments of social stability . Standard men and women; in uniform batches. The whole of a small factory staffed with the products of a single bokanovskified egg. "Ninety-six identical twins working ninety-six identical machines!" The voice was almost tremulous with enthusiasm. "You really know where you are. For the first time in history." He quoted the planetary motto. "Community, Identity, Stability." Grand words. "If we could bokanovskify indefinitely the whole problem would be solved." Solved by standard Gammas, unvarying Deltas, uniform Epsilons. Millions of identical twins. The principle of mass production at last applied to biology. "But, alas," the Director shook his head, "we can't bokanovskify indefinitely." Ninety-six seemed to be the limit; seventy-two a good average. From the same ovary and with gametes of the same male to manufacture as many batches of identical twins as possiblethat was the best (sadly a second best) that they could do. And even that was difficult. "For in nature it takes thirty years for two hundred eggs to reach maturity. But our business is to stabilize the population at this moment, here and now. Dribbling out twins over a quarter of a centurywhat would be the use of that?" Obviously, no use at all. But Podsnap's Technique had immensely accelerated the process of ripening. They could make sure of at least a hundred and fifty mature eggs within two years. Fertilize and bokanovskifyin other words, multiply by seventy-twoand you get an average of nearly eleven thousand brothers and sisters in a hundred and fifty batches of identical twins, all within two years of the same age. "And in exceptional cases we can make one ovary yield us over fifteen thousand adult individuals." Beckoning to a fair-haired, ruddy young man who happened to be passing at the moment. "Mr. Foster," he called. The ruddy young man approached. "Can you tell us the record for a single ovary, Mr. Foster?" "Sixteen thousand and twelve in this Centre," Mr. Foster replied without hesitation. He spoke very quickly, had a vivacious blue eye, and took an evident pleasure in quoting figures. "Sixteen thousand and twelve; in one hundred and eighty-nine batches of identicals. But of course they've done much better," he rattled on, "in some of the tropical Centres. Singapore has often produced over sixteen thousand five hundred; and Mombasa has actually touched the seventeen thousand mark. But then they have unfair advantages. You should see the way a negro ovary responds to pituitary! It's quite astonishing, when you're used to working with European material. Still," he added, with a laugh (but the light of combat was in his eyes and the lift of his chin was challenging), "still, we mean to beat them if we can. I'm working on a wonderful Delta-Minus ovary at this moment. Only just eighteen months old. Over twelve thousand seven hundred children already, either decanted or in embryo. And still going strong. We'll beat them yet." "That's the spirit I like!" cried the Director, and clapped Mr. Foster on the shoulder. "Come along with us, and give these boys the benefit of your expert knowledge." Mr. Foster smiled modestly. "With pleasure." They went. In the Bottling Room all was harmonious bustle and ordered activity. Flaps of fresh sow's peritoneum ready cut to the proper size came shooting up in little lifts from the Organ Store in the sub-basement. Whizz and then, click! the lift-hatches hew open; the bottle-liner had only to reach out a hand, take the flap, insert, smooth-down, and before the lined bottle had had time to travel out of reach along the endless band, whizz, click! another flap of peritoneum had shot up from the depths, ready to be slipped into yet another bottle, the next of that slow interminable procession on the band. Next to the Liners stood the Matriculators. The procession advanced; one by one the eggs were transferred from their test-tubes to the larger containers; deftly the peritoneal lining was slit, the morula dropped into place, the saline solution poured in and already the bottle had passed, and it was the turn of the labellers. Heredity, date of fertilization, membership of Bokanovsky Groupdetails were transferred from test-tube to bottle. No longer anonymous, but named, identified, the procession marched slowly on; on through an opening in the wall, slowly on into the Social Predestination Room. "Eighty-eight cubic metres of card-index," said Mr. Foster with relish, as they entered. "Containing all the relevant information," added the Director. "Brought up to date every morning." "And co-ordinated every afternoon." "On the basis of which they make their calculations." "So many individuals, of such and such quality," said Mr. Foster. "Distributed in such and such quantities." "The optimum Decanting Rate at any given moment." "Unforeseen wastages promptly made good." "Promptly," repeated Mr. Foster. "If you knew the amount of overtime I had to put in after the last Japanese earthquake!" He laughed goodhumouredly and shook his head. "The Predestinators send in their figures to the Fertilizers." "Who give them the embryos they ask for." "And the bottles come in here to be predestined in detail." "After which they are sent down to the Embryo Store." "Where we now proceed ourselves." And opening a door Mr. Foster led the way down a staircase into the basement. The temperature was still tropical. They descended into a thickening twilight. Two doors and a passage with a double turn insured the cellar against any possible infiltration of the day. "Embryos are like photograph film," said Mr. Foster waggishly, as he pushed open the second door. "They can only stand red light." And in effect the sultry darkness into which the students now followed him was visible and crimson, like the darkness of closed eyes on a summer's afternoon. The bulging flanks of row on receding row and tier above tier of bottles glinted with innumerable rubies, and among the rubies moved the dim red spectres of men and women with purple eyes and all the symptoms of lupus. The hum and rattle of machinery faintly stirred the air. "Give them a few figures, Mr. Foster," said the Director, who was tired of talking. Mr. Foster was only too happy to give them a few figures. Two hundred and twenty metres long, two hundred wide, ten high. He pointed upwards. Like chickens drinking, the students lifted their eyes towards the distant ceiling. Three tiers of racks: ground floor level, first gallery, second gallery. The spidery steel-work of gallery above gallery faded away in all directions into the dark. Near them three red ghosts were busily unloading demijohns from a moving staircase. The escalator from the Social Predestination Room. Each bottle could be placed on one of fifteen racks, each rack, though you couldn't see it, was a conveyor traveling at the rate of thirty-three and a third centimetres an hour. Two hundred and sixty-seven days at eight metres a day. Two thousand one hundred and thirty-six metres in all. One circuit of the cellar at ground level, one on the first gallery, half on the second, and on the two hundred and sixty-seventh morning, daylight in the Decanting Room. Independent existenceso called. "But in the interval," Mr. Foster concluded, "we've managed to do a lot to them. Oh, a very great deal." His laugh was knowing and triumphant. That's the spirit I like," said the Director once more. "Let's walk around. You tell them everything, Mr. Foster." Mr. Foster duly told them. Told them of the growing embryo on its bed of peritoneum. Made them taste the rich blood surrogate on which it fed. Explained why it had to be stimulated with placentin and thyroxin. Told them of the corpus luteum extract. Showed them the jets through which at every twelfth metre from zero to 2040 it was automatically injected. Spoke of those gradually increasing doses of pituitary administered during the final ninety-six metres of their course. Described the artificial maternal circulation installed in every bottle at Metre 112; showed them the reservoir of bloodsurrogate, the centrifugal pump that kept the liquid moving over the placenta and drove it through the synthetic lung and waste product filter. Referred to the embryo's troublesome tendency to anmia, to the massive doses of hog's stomach extract and foetal foal's liver with which, in consequence, it had to be supplied. Showed them the simple mechanism by means of which, during the last two metres out of every eight, all the embryos were simultaneously shaken into familiarity with movement. Hinted at the gravity of the so-called "trauma of decanting," and enumerated the precautions taken to minimize, by a suitable training of the bottled embryo, that dangerous shock. Told them of the test for sex carried out in the neighborhood of Metre 200. Explained the system of labellinga T for the males, a circle for the females and for those who were destined to become freemartins a question mark, black on a white ground. "For of course," said Mr. Foster, "in the vast majority of cases, fertility is merely a nuisance. One fertile ovary in twelve hundredthat would really be quite sufficient for our purposes. But we want to have a good choice. And of course one must always have an enormous margin of safety. So we allow as many as thirty per cent of the female embryos to develop normally. The others get a dose of male sex-hormone every twenty-four metres for the rest of the course. Result: they're decanted as freemartinsstructurally quite normal (except," he had to admit, "that they do have the slightest tendency to grow beards), but sterile. Guaranteed sterile. Which brings us at last," continued Mr. Foster, "out of the realm of mere slavish imitation of nature into the much more interesting world of human invention." He rubbed his hands. For of course, they didn't content themselves with merely hatching out embryos: any cow could do that. "We also predestine and condition. We decant our babies as socialized human beings, as Alphas or Epsilons, as future sewage workers or future " He was going to say "future World controllers," but correcting himself, said "future Directors of Hatcheries," instead. The D.H.C. acknowledged the compliment with a smile. They were passing Metre 320 on Rack 11. A young Beta-Minus mechanic was busy with screw-driver and spanner on the blood-surrogate pump of a passing bottle. The hum of the electric motor deepened by fractions of a tone as he turned the nuts. Down, down A final twist, a glance at the revolution counter, and he was done. He moved two paces down the line and began the same process on the next pump. "Reducing the number of revolutions per minute," Mr. Foster explained. "The surrogate goes round slower; therefore passes through the lung at longer intervals; therefore gives the embryo less oxygen. Nothing like oxygen-shortage for keeping an embryo below par." Again he rubbed his hands. "But why do you want to keep the embryo below par?" asked an ingenuous student. "Ass!" said the Director, breaking a long silence. "Hasn't it occurred to you that an Epsilon embryo must have an Epsilon environment as well as an Epsilon heredity?" It evidently hadn't occurred to him. He was covered with confusion. "The lower the caste," said Mr. Foster, "the shorter the oxygen." The first organ affected was the brain. After that the skeleton. At seventy per cent of normal oxygen you got dwarfs. At less than seventy eyeless monsters. "Who are no use at all," concluded Mr. Foster. Whereas (his voice became confidential and eager), if they could discover a technique for shortening the period of maturation what a triumph, what a benefaction to Society! "Consider the horse." They considered it. Mature at six; the elephant at ten. While at thirteen a man is not yet sexually mature; and is only full-grown at twenty. Hence, of course, that fruit of delayed development, the human intelligence. "But in Epsilons," said Mr. Foster very justly, "we don't need human intelligence." Didn't need and didn't get it. But though the Epsilon mind was mature at ten, the Epsilon body was not fit to work till eighteen. Long years of superfluous and wasted immaturity. If the physical development could be speeded up till it was as quick, say, as a cow's, what an enormous saving to the Community! "Enormous!" murmured the students. Mr. Foster's enthusiasm was infectious. He became rather technical; spoke of the abnormal endocrine co-ordination which made men grow so slowly; postulated a germinal mutation to account for it. Could the effects of this germinal mutation be undone? Could the individual Epsilon embryo be made a revert, by a suitable technique, to the normality of dogs and cows? That was the problem. And it was all but solved. Pilkington, at Mombasa, had produced individuals who were sexually mature at four and full-grown at six and a half. A scientific triumph. But socially useless. Six-year-old men and women were too stupid to do even Epsilon work. And the process was an all-or-nothing one; either you failed to modify at all, or else you modified the whole way. They were still trying to find the ideal compromise between adults of twenty and adults of six. So far without success. Mr. Foster sighed and shook his head. Their wanderings through the crimson twilight had brought them to the neighborhood of Metre 170 on Rack 9. From this point onwards Rack 9 was enclosed and the bottle performed the remainder of their journey in a kind of tunnel, interrupted here and there by openings two or three metres wide. "Heat conditioning," said Mr. Foster. Hot tunnels alternated with cool tunnels. Coolness was wedded to discomfort in the form of hard X-rays. By the time they were decanted the embryos had a horror of cold. They were predestined to emigrate to the tropics, to be miner and acetate silk spinners and steel workers. Later on their minds would be made to endorse the judgment of their bodies. "We condition them to thrive on heat," concluded Mr. Foster. "Our colleagues upstairs will teach them to love it." "And that," put in the Director sententiously, "that is the secret of happiness and virtueliking what you've got to do. All conditioning aims at that: making people like their unescapable social destiny." In a gap between two tunnels, a nurse was delicately probing with a long fine syringe into the gelatinous contents of a passing bottle. The students and their guides stood watching her for a few moments in silence. "Well, Lenina," said Mr. Foster, when at last she withdrew the syringe and straightened herself up. The girl turned with a start. One could see that, for all the lupus and the purple eyes, she was uncommonly pretty. "Henry!" Her smile flashed redly at hima row of coral teeth. "Charming, charming," murmured the Director and, giving her two or three little pats, received in exchange a rather deferential smile for himself. "What are you giving them?" asked Mr. Foster, making his tone very professional. "Oh, the usual typhoid and sleeping sickness." "Tropical workers start being inoculated at Metre 150," Mr. Foster explained to the students. "The embryos still have gills. We immunize the fish against the future man's diseases." Then, turning back to Lenina, "Ten to five on the roof this afternoon," he said, "as usual." "Charming," said the Director once more, and, with a final pat, moved away after the others. On Rack 10 rows of next generation's chemical workers were being trained in the toleration of lead, caustic soda, tar, chlorine. The first of a batch of two hundred and fifty embryonic rocketplane engineers was just passing the eleven hundred metre mark on Rack 3. A special mechanism kept their containers in constant rotation. "To improve their sense of balance," Mr. Foster explained. "Doing repairs on the outside of a rocket in mid-air is a ticklish job. We slacken off the circulation when they're right way up, so that they're half starved, and double the flow of surrogate when they're upside down. They learn to associate topsy-turvydom with well-being; in fact, they're only truly happy when they're standing on their heads. "And now," Mr. Foster went on, "I'd like to show you some very interesting conditioning for Alpha Plus Intellectuals. We have a big batch of them on Rack 5. First Gallery level," he called to two boys who had started to go down to the ground floor. "They're round about Metre 900," he explained. "You can't really do any useful intellectual conditioning till the foetuses have lost their tails. Follow me." But the Director had looked at his watch. "Ten to three," he said. "No time for the intellectual embryos, I'm afraid. We must go up to the Nurseries before the children have finished their afternoon sleep." Mr. Foster was disappointed. "At least one glance at the Decanting Room," he pleaded. "Very well then." The Director smiled indulgently. "Just one glance." Chapter Two MR. FOSTER was left in the Decanting Room. The D.H.C. and his students stepped into the nearest lift and were carried up to the fifth floor. INFANT NURSERIES. NEO-PAVLOVIAN CONDITIONING ROOMS, announced the notice board. The Director opened a door. They were in a large bare room, very bright and sunny; for the whole of the southern wall was a single window. Half a dozen nurses, trousered and jacketed in the regulation white viscose-linen uniform, their hair aseptically hidden under white caps, were engaged in setting out bowls of roses in a long row across the floor. Big bowls, packed tight with blossom. Thousands of petals, ripe-blown and silkily smooth, like the cheeks of innumerable little cherubs, but of cherubs, in that bright light, not exclusively pink and Aryan, but also luminously Chinese, also Mexican, also apoplectic with too much blowing of celestial trumpets, also pale as death, pale with the posthumous whiteness of marble. The nurses stiffened to attention as the D.H.C. came in. "Set out the books," he said curtly. In silence the nurses obeyed his command. Between the rose bowls the books were duly set outa row of nursery quartos opened invitingly each at some gaily coloured image of beast or fish or bird. "Now bring in the children." They hurried out of the room and returned in a minute or two, each pushing a kind of tall dumb-waiter laden, on all its four wire-netted shelves, with eight-month-old babies, all exactly alike (a Bokanovsky Group, it was evident) and all (since their caste was Delta) dressed in khaki. "Put them down on the floor." The infants were unloaded. "Now turn them so that they can see the flowers and books." Turned, the babies at once fell silent, then began to crawl towards those clusters of sleek colours, those shapes so gay and brilliant on the white pages. As they approached, the sun came out of a momentary eclipse behind a cloud. The roses flamed up as though with a sudden passion from within; a new and profound significance seemed to suffuse the shining pages of the books. From the ranks of the crawling babies came little squeals of excitement, gurgles and twitterings of pleasure. The Director rubbed his hands. "Excellent!" he said. "It might almost have been done on purpose." The swiftest crawlers were already at their goal. Small hands reached out uncertainly, touched, grasped, unpetaling the transfigured roses, crumpling the illuminated pages of the books. The Director waited until all were happily busy. Then, "Watch carefully," he said. And, lifting his hand, he gave the signal. The Head Nurse, who was standing by a switchboard at the other end of the room, pressed down a little lever. There was a violent explosion. Shriller and ever shriller, a siren shrieked. Alarm bells maddeningly sounded. The children started, screamed; their faces were distorted with terror. "And now," the Director shouted (for the noise was deafening), "now we proceed to rub in the lesson with a mild electric shock." He waved his hand again, and the Head Nurse pressed a second lever. The screaming of the babies suddenly changed its tone. There was something desperate, almost insane, about the sharp spasmodic yelps to which they now gave utterance. Their little bodies twitched and stiffened; their limbs moved jerkily as if to the tug of unseen wires. "We can electrify that whole strip of floor," bawled the Director in explanation. "But that's enough," he signalled to the nurse. The explosions ceased, the bells stopped ringing, the shriek of the siren died down from tone to tone into silence. The stiffly twitching bodies relaxed, and what had become the sob and yelp of infant maniacs broadened out once more into a normal howl of ordinary terror. "Offer them the flowers and the books again." The nurses obeyed; but at the approach of the roses, at the mere sight of those gaily-coloured images of pussy and cock-a-doodle-doo and baa-baa black sheep, the infants shrank away in horror, the volume of their howling suddenly increased. "Observe," said the Director triumphantly, "observe." Books and loud noises, flowers and electric shocksalready in the infant mind these couples were compromisingly linked; and after two hundred repetitions of the same or a similar lesson would be wedded indissolubly. What man has joined, nature is powerless to put asunder. "They'll grow up with what the psychologists used to call an 'instinctive' hatred of books and flowers. Reflexes unalterably conditioned. They'll be safe from books and botany all their lives." The Director turned to his nurses. "Take them away again." Still yelling, the khaki babies were loaded on to their dumb-waiters and wheeled out, leaving behind them the smell of sour milk and a most welcome silence. One of the students held up his hand; and though he could see quite well why you couldn't have lower-cast people wasting the Community's time over books, and that there was always the risk of their reading something which might undesirably decondition one of their reflexes, yet well, he couldn't understand about the flowers. Why go to the trouble of making it psychologically impossible for Deltas to like flowers? Patiently the D.H.C. explained. If the children were made to scream at the sight of a rose, that was on grounds of high economic policy. Not so very long ago (a century or thereabouts), Gammas, Deltas, even Epsilons, had been conditioned to like flowersflowers in particular and wild nature in general. The idea was to make them want to be going out into the country at every available opportunity, and so compel them to consume transport. "And didn't they consume transport?" asked the student. "Quite a lot," the D.H.C. replied. "But nothing else." Primroses and landscapes, he pointed out, have one grave defect: they are gratuitous. A love of nature keeps no factories busy. It was decided to abolish the love of nature, at any rate among the lower classes; to abolish the love of nature, but not the tendency to consume transport. For of course it was essential that they should keep on going to the country, even though they hated it. The problem was to find an economically sounder reason for consuming transport than a mere affection for primroses and landscapes. It was duly found. "We condition the masses to hate the country," concluded the Director. "But simultaneously we condition them to love all country sports. At the same time, we see to it that all country sports shall entail the use of elaborate apparatus. So that they consume manufactured articles as well as transport. Hence those electric shocks." "I see," said the student, and was silent, lost in admiration. There was a silence; then, clearing his throat, "Once upon a time," the Director began, "while our Ford was still on earth, there was a little boy called Reuben Rabinovitch. Reuben was the child of Polish-speaking parents." The Director interrupted himself. "You know what Polish is, I suppose?" "A dead language." "Like French and German," added another student, officiously showing off his learning. "And 'parent'?" questioned the D.H.C. There was an uneasy silence. Several of the boys blushed. They had not yet learned to draw the significant but often very fine distinction between smut and pure science. One, at last, had the courage to raise a hand. "Human beings used to be " he hesitated; the blood rushed to his cheeks. "Well, they used to be viviparous." "Quite right." The Director nodded approvingly. "And when the babies were decanted " "'Born,'" came the correction. "Well, then they were the parentsI mean, not the babies, of course; the other ones." The poor boy was overwhelmed with confusion. "In brief," the Director summed up, "the parents were the father and the mother." The smut that was really science fell with a crash into the boys' eye-avoiding silence. "Mother," he repeated loudly rubbing in the science; and, leaning back in his chair, "These," he said gravely, "are unpleasant facts; I know it. But then most historical facts are unpleasant." He returned to Little Reubento Little Reuben, in whose room, one evening, by an oversight, his father and mother (crash, crash!) happened to leave the radio turned on. ("For you must remember that in those days of gross viviparous reproduction, children were always brought up by their parents and not in State Conditioning Centres.") While the child was asleep, a broadcast programme from London suddenly started to come through; and the next morning, to the astonishment of his crash and crash (the more daring of the boys ventured to grin at one another), Little Reuben woke up repeating word for word a long lecture by that curious old writer ("one of the very few whose works have been permitted to come down to us"), George Bernard Shaw, who was speaking, according to a well-authenticated tradition, about his own genius. To Little Reuben's wink and snigger, this lecture was, of course, perfectly incomprehensible and, imagining that their child had suddenly gone mad, they sent for a doctor. He, fortunately, understood English, recognized the discourse as that which Shaw had broadcasted the previous evening, realized the significance of what had happened, and sent a letter to the medical press about it. "The principle of sleep-teaching, or hypnopdia, had been discovered." The D.H.C. made an impressive pause. The principle had been discovered; but many, many years were to elapse before that principle was usefully applied. "The case of Little Reuben occurred only twenty-three years after Our Ford's first T-Model was put on the market." (Here the Director made a sign of the T on his stomach and all the students reverently followed suit.) "And yet " Furiously the students scribbled. "Hypnopdia, first used officially in A.F. 214. Why not before? Two reasons. (a) " "These early experimenters," the D.H.C. was saying, "were on the wrong track. They thought that hypnopdia could be made an instrument of intellectual education " (A small boy asleep on his right side, the right arm stuck out, the right hand hanging limp over the edge of the bed. Through a round grating in the side of a box a voice speaks softly. "The Nile is the longest river in Africa and the second in length of all the rivers of the globe. Although falling short of the length of the Mississippi-Missouri, the Nile is at the head of all rivers as regards the length of its basin, which extends through 35 degrees of latitude " At breakfast the next morning, "Tommy," some one says, "do you know which is the longest river in Africa?" A shaking of the head. "But don't you remember something that begins: The Nile is the " "The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - the - second - in - length - of - all - the - rivers - of - the - globe " The words come rushing out. "Although - falling - short - of " "Well now, which is the longest river in Africa?" The eyes are blank. "I don't know." "But the Nile, Tommy." "The - Nile - is - the - longest - river - in - Africa - and - second " "Then which river is the longest, Tommy?" Tommy burst into tears. "I don't know," he howls.) That howl, the Director made it plain, discouraged the earliest investigators. The experiments were abandoned. No further attempt was made to teach children the length of the Nile in their sleep. Quite rightly. You can't learn a science unless you know what it's all about. "Whereas, if they'd only started on moral education," said the Director, leading the way towards the door. The students followed him, desperately scribbling as they walked and all the way up in the lift. "Moral education, which ought never, in any circumstances, to be rational." "Silence, silence," whispered a loud speaker as they stepped out at the fourteenth floor, and "Silence, silence," the trumpet mouths indefatigably repeated at intervals down every corridor. The students and even the Director himself rose automatically to the tips of their toes. They were Alphas, of course, but even Alphas have been well conditioned. "Silence, silence." All the air of the fourteenth floor was sibilant with the categorical imperative. Fifty yards of tiptoeing brought them to a door which the Director cautiously opened. They stepped over the threshold into the twilight of a shuttered dormitory. Eighty cots stood in a row against the wall. There was a sound of light regular breathing and a continuous murmur, as of very faint voices remotely whispering. A nurse rose as they entered and came to attention before the Director. "What's the lesson this afternoon?" he asked. "We had Elementary Sex for the first forty minutes," she answered. "But now it's switched over to Elementary Class Consciousness." The Director walked slowly down the long line of cots. Rosy and relaxed with sleep, eighty little boys and girls lay softly breathing. There was a whisper under every pillow. The D.H.C. halted and, bending over one of the little beds, listened attentively. "Elementary Class Consciousness, did you say? Let's have it repeated a little louder by the trumpet." At the end of the room a loud speaker projected from the wall. The Director walked up to it and pressed a switch. " all wear green," said a soft but very distinct voice, beginning in the middle of a sentence, "and Delta Children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able to read or write. Besides they wear black, which is such a beastly colour. I'm so glad I'm a Beta." There was a pause; then the voice began again. "Alpha children wear grey They work much harder than we do, because they're so frightfully clever. I'm really awfuly glad I'm a Beta, because I don't work so hard. And then we are much better than the Gammas and Deltas. Gammas are stupid. They all wear green, and Delta children wear khaki. Oh no, I don't want to play with Delta children. And Epsilons are still worse. They're too stupid to be able " The Director pushed back the switch. The voice was silent. Only its thin ghost continued to mutter from beneath the eighty pillows. "They'll have that repeated forty or fifty times more before they wake; then again on Thursday, and again on Saturday. A hundred and twenty times three times a week for thirty months. After which they go on to a more advanced lesson." Roses and electric shocks, the khaki of Deltas and a whiff of asaftidawedded indissolubly before the child can speak. But wordless conditioning is crude and wholesale; cannot bring home the finer distinctions, cannot inculcate the more complex courses of behaviour. For that there must be words, but words without reason. In brief, hypnopdia. "The greatest moralizing and socializing force of all time." The students took it down in their little books. Straight from the horse's mouth. Once more the Director touched the switch. " so frightfully clever," the soft, insinuating, indefatigable voice was saying, "I'm really awfully glad I'm a Beta, because " Not so much like drops of water, though water, it is true, can wear holes in the hardest granite; rather, drops of liquid sealing-wax, drops that adhere, incrust, incorporate themselves with what they fall on, till finally the rock is all one scarlet blob. "Till at last the child's mind is these suggestions, and the sum of the suggestions is the child's mind. And not the child's mind only. The adult's mind tooall his life long. The mind that judges and desires and decidesmade up of these suggestions. But all these suggestions are our suggestions!" The Director almost shouted in his triumph. "Suggestions from the State." He banged the nearest table. "It therefore follows " A noise made him turn round. "Oh, Ford!" he said in another tone, "I've gone and woken the children." Chapter Sixteen THE ROOM into which the three were ushered was the Controller's study. His fordship will be down in a moment." The Gamma butler left them to themselves. Helmholtz laughed aloud. "It's more like a caffeine-solution party than a trial," he said, and let himself fall into the most luxurious of the pneumatic arm-chairs. "Cheer up, Bernard," he added, catching sight of his friend's green unhappy face. But Bernard would not be cheered; without answering, without even looking at Helmholtz, he went and sat down on the most uncomfortable chair in the room, carefully chosen in the obscure hope of somehow deprecating the wrath of the higher powers. The Savage meanwhile wandered restlessly round the room, peering with a vague superficial inquisitiveness at the books in the shelves, at the sound-track rolls and reading machine bobbins in their numbered pigeon-holes. On the table under the window lay a massive volume bound in limp black leather-surrogate, and stamped with large golden T's. He picked it up and opened it. MY LIFE AND WORK, BY OUR FORD. The book had been published at Detroit by the Society for the Propagation of Fordian Knowledge. Idly he turned the pages, read a sentence here, a paragraph there, and had just come to the conclusion that the book didn't interest him, when the door opened, and the Resident World Controller for Western Europe walked briskly into the room. Mustapha Mond shook hands with all three of them; but it was to the Savage that he addressed himself. "So you don't much like civilization, Mr. Savage," he said. The Savage looked at him. He had been prepared to lie, to bluster, to remain sullenly unresponsive; but, reassured by the good-humoured intelligence of the Controller's face, he decided to tell the truth, straightforwardly. "No." He shook his head. Bernard started and looked horrified. What would the Controller think? To be labelled as the friend of a man who said that he didn't like civilizationsaid it openly and, of all people, to the Controllerit was terrible. "But, John," he began. A look from Mustapha Mond reduced him to an abject silence. "Of course," the Savage went on to admit, "there are some very nice things. All that music in the air, for instance " "Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about my ears and sometimes voices." The Savage's face lit up with a sudden pleasure. "Have you read it too?" he asked. "I thought nobody knew about that book here, in England." "Almost nobody. I'm one of the very few. It's prohibited, you see. But as I make the laws here, I can also break them. With impunity, Mr. Marx," he added, turning to Bernard. "Which I'm afraid you can't do." Bernard sank into a yet more hopeless misery. "But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage. In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else. The Controller shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's old; that's the chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here." "Even when they're beautiful?" "Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones." "But the new ones are so stupid and horrible. Those plays, where there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people kissing." He made a grimace. "Goats and monkeys!" Only in Othello's word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred. "Nice tame animals, anyhow," the Controller murmured parenthetically. "Why don't you let them see Othello instead?" "I've told you; it's old. Besides, they couldn't understand it." Yes, that was true. He remembered how Helmholtz had laughed at Romeo and Juliet. "Well then," he said, after a pause, "something new that's like Othello, and that they could understand." "That's what we've all been wanting to write," said Helmholtz, breaking a long silence. "And it's what you never will write," said the Controller. "Because, if it were really like Othello nobody could understand it, however new it might be. And if were new, it couldn't possibly be like Othello." "Why not?" "Yes, why not?" Helmholtz repeated. He too was forgetting the unpleasant realities of the situation. Green with anxiety and apprehension, only Bernard remembered them; the others ignored him. "Why not?" "Because our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make flivvers without steeland you can't make tragedies without social instability. The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave. And if anything should go wrong, there's soma. Which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of liberty, Mr. Savage. Liberty!" He laughed. "Expecting Deltas to know what liberty is! And now expecting them to understand Othello! My good boy!" The Savage was silent for a little. "All the same," he insisted obstinately, " Othello's good, Othello's better than those feelies." "Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that's the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed the high art. We have the feelies and the scent organ instead." "But they don't mean anything." "They mean themselves; they mean a lot of agreeable sensations to the audience." "But they're they're told by an idiot." The Controller laughed. "You're not being very polite to your friend, Mr. Watson. One of our most distinguished Emotional Engineers " "But he's right," said Helmholtz gloomily. "Because it is idiotic. Writing when there's nothing to say " "Precisely. But that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You're making flivvers out of the absolute minimum of steelworks of art out of practically nothing but pure sensation." The Savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible." "Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand." "I suppose not," said the Savage after a silence. "But need it be quite so bad as those twins?" He passed his hand over his eyes as though he were trying to wipe away the remembered image of those long rows of identical midgets at the assembling tables, those queued-up twin-herds at the entrance to the Brentford monorail station, those human maggots swarming round Linda's bed of death, the endlessly repeated face of his assailants. He looked at his bandaged left hand and shuddered. "Horrible!" "But how useful! I see you don't like our Bokanovsky Groups; but, I assure you, they're the foundation on which everything else is built. They're the gyroscope that stabilizes the rocket plane of state on its unswerving course." The deep voice thrillingly vibrated; the gesticulating hand implied all space and the onrush of the irresistible machine. Mustapha Mond's oratory was almost up to synthetic standards. "I was wondering," said the Savage, "why you had them at allseeing that you can get whatever you want out of those bottles. Why don't you make everybody an Alpha Double Plus while you're about it?" Mustapha Mond laughed. "Because we have no wish to have our throats cut," he answered. "We believe in happiness and stability. A society of Alphas couldn't fail to be unstable and miserable. Imagine a factory staffed by Alphasthat is to say by separate and unrelated individuals of good heredity and conditioned so as to be capable (within limits) of making a free choice and assuming responsibilities. Imagine it!" he repeated. The Savage tried to imagine it, not very successfully. "It's an absurdity. An Alpha-decanted, Alpha-conditioned man would go mad if he had to do Epsilon Semi-Moron workgo mad, or start smashing things up. Alphas can be completely socializedbut only on condition that you make them do Alpha work. Only an Epsilon can be expected to make Epsilon sacrifices, for the good reason that for him they aren't sacrifices; they're the line of least resistance. His conditioning has laid down rails along which he's got to run. He can't help himself; he's foredoomed. Even after decanting, he's still inside a bottlean invisible bottle of infantile and embryonic fixations. Each one of us, of course," the Controller meditatively continued, "goes through life inside a bottle. But if we happen to be Alphas, our bottles are, relatively speaking, enormous. We should suffer acutely if we were confined in a narrower space. You cannot pour upper-caste champagne-surrogate into lower-caste bottles. It's obvious theoretically. But it has also been proved in actual practice. The result of the Cyprus experiment was convincing." "What was that?" asked the Savage. Mustapha Mond smiled. "Well, you can call it an experiment in rebottling if you like. It began in A.F. 473. The Controllers had the island of Cyprus cleared of all its existing inhabitants and recolonized with a specially prepared batch of twenty-two thousand Alphas. All agricultural and industrial equipment was handed over to them and they were left to manage their own affairs. The result exactly fulfilled all the theoretical predictions. The land wasn't properly worked; there were strikes in all the factories; the laws were set at naught, orders disobeyed; all the people detailed for a spell of low-grade work were perpetually intriguing for high-grade jobs, and all the people with high-grade jobs were counter-intriguing at all costs to stay where they were. Within six years they were having a first-class civil war. When nineteen out of the twenty-two thousand had been killed, the survivors unanimously petitioned the World Controllers to resume the government of the island. Which they did. And that was the end of the only society of Alphas that the world has ever seen." The Savage sighed, profoundly. "The optimum population," said Mustapha Mond, "is modelled on the icebergeight-ninths below the water line, one-ninth above." "And they're happy below the water line?" "Happier than above it. Happier than your friend here, for example." He pointed. "In spite of that awful work?" "Awful? They don't find it so. On the contrary, they like it. It's light, it's childishly simple. No strain on the mind or the muscles. Seven and a half hours of mild, unexhausting labour, and then the soma ration and games and unrestricted copulation and the feelies. What more can they ask for? True," he added, "they might ask for shorter hours. And of course we could give them shorter hours. Technically, it would be perfectly simple to reduce all lower-caste working hours to three or four a day. But would they be any the happier for that? No, they wouldn't. The experiment was tried, more than a century and a half ago. The whole of Ireland was put on to the four-hour day. What was the result? Unrest and a large increase in the consumption of soma; that was all. Those three and a half hours of extra leisure were so far from being a source of happiness, that people felt constrained to take a holiday from them. The Inventions Office is stuffed with plans for labour-saving processes. Thousands of them." Mustapha Mond made a lavish gesture. "And why don't we put them into execution? For the sake of the labourers; it would be sheer cruelty to afflict them with excessive leisure. It's the same with agriculture. We could synthesize every morsel of food, if we wanted to. But we don't. We prefer to keep a third of the population on the land. For their own sakesbecause it takes longer to get food out of the land than out of a factory. Besides, we have our stability to think of. We don't want to change. Every change is a menace to stability. That's another reason why we're so chary of applying new inventions. Every discovery in pure science is potentially subversive; even science must sometimes be treated as a possible enemy. Yes, even science." Science? The Savage frowned. He knew the word. But what it exactly signified he could not say. Shakespeare and the old men of the pueblo had never mentioned science, and from Linda he had only gathered the vaguest hints: science was something you made helicopters with, some thing that caused you to laugh at the Corn Dances, something that you prevented from being wrinkled and losing your teeth. He made a desperate effort to take the Controller's meaning. "Yes," Mustapha Mond was saying, "that's another item in the cost of stability. It isn't only art that's incompatible with happiness; it's also science. Science is dangerous; we have to keep it most carefully chained and muzzled." "What?" said Helmholtz, in astonishment. "But we're always saying that science is everything. It's a hypnopdic platitude." "Three times a week between thirteen and seventeen," put in Bernard. "And all the science propaganda we do at the College " "Yes; but what sort of science?" asked Mustapha Mond sarcastically. "You've had no scientific training, so you can't judge. I was a pretty good physicist in my time. Too goodgood enough to realize that all our science is just a cookery book, with an orthodox theory of cooking that nobody's allowed to question, and a list of recipes that mustn't be added to except by special permission from the head cook. I'm the head cook now. But I was an inquisitive young scullion once. I started doing a bit of cooking on my own. Unorthodox cooking, illicit cooking. A bit of real science, in fact." He was silent. "What happened?" asked Helmholtz Watson. The Controller sighed. "Very nearly what's going to happen to you young men. I was on the point of being sent to an island." The words galvanized Bernard into violent and unseemly activity. "Send me to an island?" He jumped up, ran across the room, and stood gesticulating in front of the Controller. "You can't send me. I haven't done anything. lt was the others. I swear it was the others." He pointed accusingly to Helmholtz and the Savage. "Oh, please don't send me to Iceland. I promise I'll do what I ought to do. Give me another chance. Please give me another chance." The tears began to flow. "I tell you, it's their fault," he sobbed. "And not to Iceland. Oh please, your fordship, please " And in a paroxysm of abjection he threw himself on his knees before the Controller. Mustapha Mond tried to make him get up; but Bernard persisted in his grovelling; the stream of words poured out inexhaustibly. In the end the Controller had to ring for his fourth secretary. "Bring three men," he ordered, "and take Mr. Marx into a bedroom. Give him a good soma vaporization and then put him to bed and leave him." The fourth secretary went out and returned with three green-uniformed twin footmen. Still shouting and sobbing. Bernard was carried out. "One would think he was going to have his throat cut," said the Controller, as the door closed. "Whereas, if he had the smallest sense, he'd understand that his punishment is really a reward. He's being sent to an island. That's to say, he's being sent to a place where he'll meet the most interesting set of men and women to be found anywhere in the world. All the people who, for one reason or another, have got too self-consciously individual to fit into community-life. All the people who aren't satisfied with orthodoxy, who've got independent ideas of their own. Every one, in a word, who's any one. I almost envy you, Mr. Watson." Helmholtz laughed. "Then why aren't you on an island yourself?" "Because, finally, I preferred this," the Controller answered. "I was given the choice: to be sent to an island, where I could have got on with my pure science, or to be taken on to the Controllers' Council with the prospect of succeeding in due course to an actual Controllership. I chose this and let the science go." After a little silence, "Sometimes," he added, "I rather regret the science. Happiness is a hard masterparticularly other people's happiness. A much harder master, if one isn't conditioned to accept it unquestioningly, than truth." He sighed, fell silent again, then continued in a brisker tone, "Well, duty's duty. One can't consult one's own preference. I'm interested in truth, I like science. But truth's a menace, science is a public danger. As dangerous as it's been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in history. China's was hopelessly insecure by comparison; even the primitive matriarchies weren't steadier than we are. Thanks, l repeat, to science. But we can't allow science to undo its own good work. That's why we so carefully limit the scope of its researchesthat's why I almost got sent to an island. We don't allow it to deal with any but the most immediate problems of the moment. All other enquiries are most sedulously discouraged. It's curious," he went on after a little pause, "to read what people in the time of Our Ford used to write about scientific progress. They seemed to have imagined that it could be allowed to go on indefinitely, regardless of everything else. Knowledge was the highest good, truth the supreme value; all the rest was secondary and subordinate. True, ideas were beginning to change even then. Our Ford himself did a great deal to shift the emphasis from truth and beauty to comfort and happiness. Mass production demanded the shift. Universal happiness keeps the wheels steadily turning; truth and beauty can't. And, of course, whenever the masses seized political power, then it was happiness rather than truth and beauty that mattered. Still, in spite of everytung, unrestricted scientific research was still permitted. People still went on talking about truth and beauty as though they were the sovereign goods. Right up to the time of the Nine Years' War. That made them change their tune all right. What's the point of truth or beauty or knowledge when the anthrax bombs are popping all around you? That was when science first began to be controlledafter the Nine Years' War. People were ready to have even their appetites controlled then. Anything for a quiet life. We've gone on controlling ever since. It hasn't been very good for truth, of course. But it's been very good for happiness. One can't have something for nothing. Happiness has got to be paid for. You're paying for it, Mr. Watsonpaying because you happen to be too much interested in beauty. I was too much interested in truth; I paid too." "But you didn't go to an island," said the Savage, breaking a long silence. The Controller smiled. "That's how I paid. By choosing to serve happiness. Other people'snot mine. It's lucky," he added, after a pause, "that there are such a lot of islands in the world. I don't know what we should do without them. Put you all in the lethal chamber, I suppose. By the way, Mr. Watson, would you like a tropical climate? The Marquesas, for example; or Samoa? Or something rather more bracing?" Helmholtz rose from his pneumatic chair. "I should like a thoroughly bad climate," he answered. "I believe one would write better if the climate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms, for example " The Controller nodded his approbation. "I like your spirit, Mr. Watson. I like it very much indeed. As much as I officially disapprove of it." He smiled. "What about the Falkland Islands?" "Yes, I think that will do," Helmholtz answered. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll go and see how poor Bernard's getting on." Chapter Seventeen ART, SCIENCEyou seem to have paid a fairly high price for your happiness," said the Savage, when they were alone. "Anything else?" Well, religion, of course," replied the Controller. "There used to be something called Godbefore the Nine Years' War. But I was forgetting; you know all about God, I suppose." "Well " 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, "It's a subject," he said, "that has always had a great interest for me." He pulled out a thick black volume. "You've never read this, for example." The Savage took it. "The Holy Bible, containing the Old and New Testaments," he read aloud from the title-page. "Nor this." It was a small book and had lost its cover. "The Imitation of Christ." "Nor this." He handed out another volume. "The Varieties of Religious Experience. By William James." "And I've got plenty more," Mustapha Mond continued, resuming his seat. "A whole collection of pornographic old books. God in the safe and Ford on the shelves." He pointed with a laugh to his avowed libraryto the shelves of books, the rack full of reading-machine bobbins and sound-track rolls. "But if you know about God, why don't you tell them?" asked the Savage indignantly. "Why don't you give them these books about God?" "For the same reason as we don't give them Othello: they're old; they're about God hundreds of years ago. Not about God now." "But God doesn't change." "Men do, though." "What difference does that make?" "All the difference in the world," said Mustapha Mond. He got up again and walked to the safe. "There was a man called Cardinal Newman," he said. "A cardinal," he exclaimed parenthetically, "was a kind of Arch-Community-Songster." "'I Pandulph, of fair Milan, cardinal.' I've read about them in Shakespeare." "Of course you have. Well, as I was saying, there was a man called Cardinal Newman. Ah, here's the book." He pulled it out. "And while I'm about it I'll take this one too. It's by a man called Maine de Biran. He was a philosopher, if you know what that was." "A man who dreams of fewer things than there are in heaven and earth," said the Savage promptly. "Quite so. I'll read you one of the things he did dream of in a moment. Meanwhile, listen to what this old Arch-Community-Songster said." He opened the book at the place marked by a slip of paper and began to read. "'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 God's property. Is it not our happiness thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any comfort, to consider that we are 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 wayto depend on no oneto 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 manthat it is an unnatural statewill do for a while, but will not carry us on safely to the end '" Mustapha Mond paused, put down the first book and, picking up the other, turned over the pages. "Take this, for example," he said, and in his deep voice once more began to read: "'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 falsea 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.'" Mustapha Mond shut the book and leaned back in his chair. "One of the numerous things in heaven and earth that these philosophers didn't dream about was this" (he waved his hand), "us, the modern world. 'You can only be independent of God while you've got youth and prosperity; independence won't take you safely to the end.' Well, we've now got youth and prosperity right up to the end. What follows? Evidently, that we can be independent of God. 'The religious sentiment will compensate us for all our losses.' But there aren'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 have soma? of something immovable, when there is the social order?" "Then you think there is no God?" "No, I think there quite probably is one." "Then why? " Mustapha Mond checked him. "But he manifests himself in different ways to different men. In premodern times he manifested himself as the being that's described in these books. Now " "How does he manifest himself now?" asked the Savage. "Well, he manifests himself as an absence; as though he weren't there at all." "That's your fault." "Call it the fault of civilization. God isn't compatible with machinery and scientific medicine and universal happiness. You must make your choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happiness. That's why I have to keep these books locked up in the safe. They're smut. People would be shocked it " The Savage interrupted him. "But isn't it natural to feel there's a God?" "You might as well ask if it's natural to do up one's trousers with zippers," said the Controller sarcastically. "You 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 reasonsthat's philosophy. People believe in God because they've been conditioned to. "But all the same," insisted the Savage, "it is natural to believe in God when you're alonequite alone, in the night, thinking about death " "But people never are alone now," said Mustapha Mond. "We make them hate solitude; and we arrange their lives so that it's almost impossible for them ever to have it." 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. "Do you remember that bit in King Lear?" said the Savage at last. "'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,' and Edmund answersyou remember, he's wounded, he's dying'Thou hast spoken right; 'tis true. The wheel has come full circle; I am here.' What about that now? Doesn't there seem to be a God managing things, punishing, rewarding?" "Well, does there?" questioned the Controller in his turn. "You can indulge in any number of pleasant vices with a freemartin and run no risks of having your eyes put out by your son's mistress. 'The wheel has come full circle; I am here.' But where would Edmund be nowadays? Sitting in a pneumatic chair, with his arm round a girl's waist, sucking away at his sex-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." "Are you sure?" asked the Savage. "Are you quite sure that the Edmund in that pneumatic chair hasn't been just as heavily punished as the Edmund who's wounded and bleeding to death? The gods are just. Haven't they used his pleasant vices as an instrument to degrade him?" "Degrade him from what position? As a happy, hard-working, goods-consuming citizen he's perfect. Of course, if you choose some other standard than ours, then perhaps you might say he was degraded. But you've got to stick to one set of postulates. You can't play Electro-magnetic Golf according to the rules of Centrifugal Bumble-puppy." "But value dwells not in particular will," said the Savage. "It holds his estimate and dignity as well wherein 'tis precious of itself as in the prizer." "Come, come," protested Mustapha Mond, "that's going rather far, isn't it?" "If you allowed yourselves to think of God, you wouldn't allow yourselves to be degraded by pleasant vices. You'd have a reason for bearing things patiently, for doing things with courage. I've seen it with the Indians." "l'm sure you have," said Mustapha Mond. "But then we aren't Indians. There isn't any need for a civilized man to bear anything that's seriously unpleasant. And as for doing thingsFord 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." "What about self-denial, then? If you had a God, you'd have a reason for self-denial." "But industrial civilization is only possible when there's no self-denial. Self-indulgence up to the very limits imposed by hygiene and economics. Otherwise the wheels stop turning." "You'd have a reason for chastity!" said the Savage, blushing a little as he spoke the words. "But chastity means passion, chastity means neurasthenia. And passion and neurasthenia mean instability. And instability means the end of civilization. You can't have a lasting civilization without plenty of pleasant vices." "But God's the reason for everything noble and fine and heroic. If you had a God " "My dear young friend," said Mustapha Mond, "civilization 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 defendedthere, obviously, nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren't any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. There's no such thing as a divided allegiance; you're so conditioned that you can'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 aren't any temptations to resist. And if ever, by some unlucky chance, anything unpleasant should somehow happen, why, there's always soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there's always soma 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 halfgramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your morality about in a bottle. Christianity without tearsthat's what soma is." "But the tears are necessary. Don't you remember what Othello said? 'If after every tempest came such calms, may the winds blow till they have wakened death.' There's a story one of the old Indians used to tell us, about the Girl of Mtaski. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning's hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy; but there were flies and mosquitoes, magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn't stand the biting and stinging. But the one that couldhe got the girl." "Charming! But in civilized countries," said the Controller, "you can have girls without hoeing for them, and there aren't any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago." The Savage nodded, frowning. "You got rid of them. Yes, that's just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether '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 don't do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It's too easy." 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 caressesfloated 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 holidayon 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 "What you need," the Savage went on, "is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here." ("Twelve and a half million dollars," Henry Foster had protested when the Savage told him that. "Twelve and a half millionthat's what the new Conditioning Centre cost. Not a cent less.") "Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune, death and danger dare, even for an eggshell. Isn't there something in that?" he asked, looking up at Mustapha Mond. "Quite apart from Godthough of course God would be a reason for it. Isn't there something in living dangerously?" "There's a great deal in it," the Controller replied. "Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time." "What?" questioned the Savage, uncomprehending. "It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory." "V.P.S.?" "Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It'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." "But I like the inconveniences." "We don't," said the Controller. "We prefer to do things comfortably." "But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin." "In fact," said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy." "All right then," said the Savage defiantly, "I'm claiming the right to be unhappy." "Not 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 to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last. Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome," he said. Chapter Eighteen THE DOOR was ajar; they entered. John!" From the bathroom came an unpleasant and characteristic sound. "Is there anything the matter?" Helmholtz called. There was no answer. The unpleasant sound was repeated, twice; there was silence. Then, with a click the bathroom door opened and, very pale, the Savage emerged. "I say," Helmholtz exclaimed solicitously, "you do look ill, John!" "Did you eat something that didn't agree with you?" asked Bernard. The Savage nodded. "I ate civilization." "What?" "It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then," he added, in a lower tone, "I ate my own wickedness." "Yes, but what exactly? I mean, just now you were " "Now I am purified," said the Savage. "I drank some mustard and warm water." The others stared at him in astonishment. "Do you mean to say that you were doing it on purpose?" asked Bernard. "That's how the Indians always purify themselves." He sat down and, sighing, passed his hand across his forehead. "I shall rest for a few minutes," he said. "I'm rather tired." "Well, I'm not surprised," said Helmholtz. After a silence, "We've come to say good-bye," he went on in another tone. "We're off to-morrow morning." "Yes, we're off to-morrow," said Bernard on whose face the Savage remarked a new expression of determined resignation. "And by the way, John," he continued, leaning forward in his chair and laying a hand on the Savage's knee, "I want to say how sorry I am about everything that happened yesterday." He blushed. "How ashamed," he went on, in spite of the unsteadiness of his voice, "how really " The Savage cut him short and, taking his hand, affectionately pressed it. "Helmholtz was wonderful to me," Bernard resumed, after a little pause. "If it hadn't been for him, I should " "Now, now," Helmholtz protested. There was a silence. In spite of their sadnessbecause of it, even; for their sadness was the symptom of their love for one anotherthe three young men were happy. "I went to see the Controller this morning," said the Savage at last. "What for?" "To ask if I mightn't go to the islands with you." "And what did he say?" asked Helmholtz eagerly. The Savage shook his head. "He wouldn't let me." "Why not?" "He said he wanted to go on with the experiment. But I'm damned," the Savage added, with sudden fury, "I'm damned if I'll go on being experimented with. Not for all the Controllers in the world. l shall go away to-morrow too." "But where?" the others asked in unison. The Savage shrugged his shoulders. "Anywhere. I don't care. So long as I can be alone." From Guildford the down-line followed the Wey valley to Godalming, then, over Milford and Witley, proceeded to Haslemere and on through Petersfield towards Portsmouth. Roughly parallel to it, the upline passed over Worplesden, Tongham, Puttenham, Elstead and Grayshott. Between the Hog's Back and Hindhead there were points where the two lines were not more than six or seven kilometres apart. The distance was too small for careless flyersparticularly at night and when they had taken half a gramme too much. There had been accidents. Serious ones. It had been decided to deflect the upline a few kilometres to the west. Between Grayshott and Tongham four abandoned air-lighthouses marked the course of the old Portsmouth-to-London road. The skies above them were silent and deserted. It was over Selborne, Bordon and Farnham that the helicopters now ceaselessly hummed and roared. The Savage had chosen as his hermitage the old light-house which stood on the crest of the hill between Puttenham and Elstead. The building was of ferro-concrete and in excellent condition almost too comfortable the Savage had thought when he first explored the place, almost too civilizedly luxurious. He pacified his conscience by promising himself a compensatingly harder self-discipline, purifications the more complete and thorough. His first night in the hermitage was, deliberately, a sleepless one. He spent the hours on his knees praying, now to that Heaven from which the guilty Claudius had begged forgiveness, now in Zui to Awonawilona, now to Jesus and Pookong, now to his own guardian animal, the eagle. From time to time he stretched out his arms as though he were on the Cross, and held them thus through long minutes of an ache that gradually increased till it became a tremulous and excruciating agony; held them, in voluntary crucifixion, while he repeated, through clenched teeth (the sweat, meanwhile, pouring down his face), "Oh, forgive me! Oh, make me pure! Oh, help me to be good!" again and again, till he was on the point of fainting from the pain. When morning came, he felt he had earned the right to inhabit the lighthouse; yet, even though there still was glass in most of the windows, even though the view from the platform was so fine. For the very reason why he had chosen the lighthouse had become almost instantly a reason for going somewhere else. He had decided to live there because the view was so beautiful, because, from his vantage point, he seemed to be looking out on to the incarnation of a divine being. But who was he to be pampered with the daily and hourly sight of loveliness? Who was he to be living in the visible presence of God? All he deserved to live in was some filthy sty, some blind hole in the ground. Stiff and still aching after his long night of pain, but for that very reason inwardly reassured, he climbed up to the platform of his tower, he looked out over the bright sunrise world which he had regained the right to inhabit. On the north the view was bounded by the long chalk ridge of the Hog's Back, from behind whose eastern extremity rose the towers of the seven skyscrapers which constituted Guildford. Seeing them, the Savage made a grimace; but he was to become reconciled to them in course of time; for at night they twinkled gaily with geometrical constellations, or else, flood-lighted, pointed their luminous fingers (with a gesture whose significance nobody in England but the Savage now understood) solemnly towards the plumbless mysteries of heaven. In the valley which separated the Hog's Back from the sandy hill on which the lighthouse stood, Puttenham was a modest little village nine stories high, with silos, a poultry farm, and a small vitamin-D factory. On the other side of the lighthouse, towards the South, the ground fell away in long slopes of heather to a chain of ponds. Beyond them, above the intervening woods, rose the fourteen-story tower of Elstead. Dim in the hazy English air, Hindhead and Selborne invited the eye into a blue romantic distance. But it was not alone the distance that had attracted the Savage to his lighthouse; the near was as seductive as the far. The woods, the open stretches of heather and yellow gorse, the clumps of Scotch firs, the shining ponds with their overhanging birch trees, their water lilies, their beds of rushesthese were beautiful and, to an eye accustomed to the aridities of the American desert, astonishing. And then the solitude! Whole days passed during which he never saw a human being. The lighthouse was only a quarter of an hour's flight from the Charing-T Tower; but the hills of Malpais were hardly more deserted than this Surrey heath. The crowds that daily left London, left it only to play Electro-magnetic Golf or Tennis. Puttenham possessed no links; the nearest Riemann-surfaces were at Guildford. Flowers and a landscape were the only attractions here. And so, as there was no good reason for coming, nobody came. During the first days the Savage lived alone and undisturbed. Of the money which, on his first arrival, John had received for his personal expenses, most had been spent on his equipment. Before leaving London he had bought four viscose-woollen blankets, rope and string, nails, glue, a few tools, matches (though he intended in due course to make a fire drill), some pots and pans, two dozen packets of seeds, and ten kilogrammes of wheat flour. "No, not synthetic starch and cotton-waste flour-substitute," he had insisted. "Even though it is more nourishing." But when it came to pan-glandular biscuits and vitaminized beefsurrogate, he had not been able to resist the shopman's persuasion. Looking at the tins now, he bitterly reproached himself for his weakness. Loathesome civilized stuff! He had made up his mind that he would never eat it, even if he were starving. "That'll teach them," he thought vindictively. It would also teach him. He counted his money. The little that remained would be enough, he hoped, to tide him over the winter. By next spring, his garden would be producing enough to make him independent of the outside world. Meanwhile, there would always be game. He had seen plenty of rabbits, and there were waterfowl on the ponds. He set to work at once to make a bow and arrows. There were ash trees near the lighthouse and, for arrow shafts, a whole copse full of beautifully straight hazel saplings. He began by felling a young ash, cut out six feet of unbranched stem, stripped off the bark and, paring by paring, shaved away the white wood, as old Mitsima had taught him, until he had a stave of his own height, stiff at the thickened centre, lively and quick at the slender tips. The work gave him an intense pleasure. After those weeks of idleness in London, with nothing to do, whenever he wanted anything, but to press a switch or turn a handle, it was pure delight to be doing something that demanded skill and patience. He had almost finished whittling the stave into shape, when he realized with a start that he was singing- singing! It was as though, stumbling upon himself from the outside, he had suddenly caught himself out, taken himself flagrantly at fault. Guiltily he blushed. After all, it was not to sing and enjoy himself that he had come here. It was to escape further contamination by the filth of civilized life; it was to be purified and made good; it was actively to make amends. He realized to his dismay that, absorbed in the whittling of his bow, he had forgotten what he had sworn to himself he would constantly rememberpoor Linda, and his own murderous unkindness to her, and those loathsome twins, swarming like lice across the mystery of her death, insulting, with their presence, not merely his own grief and repentance, but the very gods themselves. He had sworn to remember, he had sworn unceasingly to make amends. And there was he, sitting happily over his bow-stave, singing, actually singing. He went indoors, opened the box of mustard, and put some water to boil on the fire. Half an hour later, three Delta-Minus landworkers from one of the Puttenham Bokanovsky Groups happened to be driving to Elstead and, at the top of the hill, were astonished to see a young man standing 0utside the abandoned lighthouse stripped to the waist and hitting himself with a whip of knotted cords. His back was horizontally streaked with crimson, and from weal to weal ran thin trickles of blood. The driver of the lorry pulled up at the side of the road and, with his two companions, stared open-mouthed at the extraordinary spectacle. One, two threethey counted the strokes. After the eighth, the young man interrupted his self-punishment to run to the wood's edge and there be violently sick. When he had finished, he picked up the whip and began hitting himself again. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve "Ford!" whispered the driver. And his twins were of the same opinion. "Fordey!" they said. Three days later, like turkey buzzards settling on a corpse, the reporters came. Dried and hardened over a slow fire of green wood, the bow was ready. The Savage was busy on his arrows. Thirty hazel sticks had been whittled and dried, tipped with sharp nails, carefully nocked. He had made a raid one night on the Puttenham poultry farm, and now had feathers enough to equip a whole armoury. It was at work upon the feathering of his shafts that the first of the reporters found him. Noiseless on his pneumatic shoes, the man came up behind him. "Good-morning, Mr. Savage," he said. "I am the representative of The Hourly Radio." Startled as though by the bite of a snake, the Savage sprang to his feet, scattering arrows, feathers, glue-pot and brush in all directions. "I beg your pardon," said the reporter, with genuine compunction. "I had no intention " He touched his hatthe aluminum stove-pipe hat in which he carried his wireless receiver and transmitter. "Excuse my not taking it off," he said. "It's a bit heavy. Well, as I was saying, I am the representative of The Hourly " "What do you want?" asked the Savage, scowling. The reporter returned his most ingratiating smile. "Well, of course, our readers would be profoundly interested " He put his head on one side, his smile became almost coquettish. "Just a few words from you, Mr. Savage." And rapidly, with a series of ritual gestures, he uncoiled two wires connected to the portable battery buckled round his waist; plugged them simultaneously into the sides of his aluminum hat; touched a spring on the crownand antenn shot up into the air; touched another spring on the peak of the brimand, like a jack-in-the-box, out jumped a microphone and hung there, quivering, six inches in front of his nose; pulled down a pair of receivers over his ears; pressed a switch on the left side of the hat-and from within came a faint waspy buzzing; turned a knob on the rightand the buzzing was interrupted by a stethoscopic wheeze and cackle, by hiccoughs and sudden squeaks. "Hullo," he said to the microphone, "hullo, hullo " A bell suddenly rang inside his hat. "Is that you, Edzel? Primo Mellon speaking. Yes, I've got hold of him. Mr. Savage will now take the microphone and say a few words. Won't you, Mr. Savage?" He looked up at the Savage with another of those winning smiles of his. "Just tell our readers why you came here. What made you leave London (hold on, Edzel!) so very suddenly. And, of course, that whip." (The Savage started. How did they know about the whip?) "We're all crazy to know about the whip. And then something about Civilization. You know the sort of stuff. 'What I think of the Civilized Girl.' Just a few words, a very few " The Savage obeyed with a disconcerting literalness. Five words he uttered and no more-five words, the same as those he had said to Bernard about the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury. "Hni! Sons so tse-n!" And seizing the reporter by the shoulder, he spun him round (the young man revealed himself invitingly well-covered), aimed and, with all the force and accuracy of a champion foot-and-mouth-baller, delivered a most prodigious kick. Eight minutes later, a new edition of The Hourly Radio was on sale in the streets of London. "HOURLY RADIO REPORTER HAS COCCYX KICKED BY MYSTERY SAVAGE," ran the headlines on the front page. "SENSATION IN SURREY." "Sensation even in London," thought the reporter when, on his return, he read the words. And a very painful sensation, what was more. He sat down gingerly to his luncheon. Undeterred by that cautionary bruise on their colleague's coccyx, four other reporters, representing the New York Times, the Frankfurt Four-Dimensional Continuum, The Fordian Science Monitor, and The Delta Mirror, called that afternoon at the lighthouse and met with receptions of progressively increasing violence. From a safe distance and still rubbing his buttocks, "Benighted fool!" shouted the man from The Fordian Science Monitor, "why don't you take soma?" "Get away!" The Savage shook his fist. The other retreated a few steps then turned round again. "Evil's an unreality if you take a couple of grammes." "Kohakwa iyathtokyai!" The tone was menacingly derisive. "Pain's a delusion." "Oh, is it?" said the Savage and, picking up a thick hazel switch, strode forward. The man from The Fordian Science Monitor made a dash for his helicopter. After that the Savage was left for a time in peace. A few helicopters came and hovered inquisitively round the tower. He shot an arrow into the importunately nearest of them. It pierced the aluminum floor of the cabin; there was a shrill yell, and the machine went rocketing up into the air with all the acceleration that its super-charger could give it. The others, in future, kept their distance respectfully. Ignoring their tiresome humming (he likened himself in his imagination to one of the suitors of the Maiden of Mtsaki, unmoved and persistent among the winged vermin), the Savage dug at what was to be his garden. After a time the vermin evidently became bored and flew away; for hours at a stretch the sky above his head was empty and, but for the larks, silent. The weather was breathlessly hot, there was thunder in the air. He had dug all the morning and was resting, stretched out along the floor. And suddenly the thought of Lenina was a real presence, naked and tangible, saying "Sweet!" and "Put your arms round me!"in shoes and socks, perfumed. Impudent strumpet! But oh, oh, her arms round his neck, the lifting of her breasts, her mouth! Eternity was in our lips and eyes. Lenina No, no, no, no! He sprang to his feet and, half naked as he was, ran out of the house. At the edge of the heath stood a clump of hoary juniper bushes. He flung himself against them, he embraced, not the smooth body of his desires, but an armful of green spikes. Sharp, with a thousand points, they pricked him. He tried to think of poor Linda, breathless and dumb, with her clutching hands and the unutterable terror in her eyes. Poor Linda whom he had sworn to remember. But it was still the presence of Lenina that haunted him. Lenina whom he had promised to forget. Even through the stab and sting of the juniper needles, his wincing flesh was aware of her, unescapably real. "Sweet, sweet And if you wanted me too, why didn't you " The whip was hanging on a nail by the door, ready to hand against the arrival of reporters. In a frenzy the Savage ran back to the house, seized it, whirled it. The knotted cords bit into his flesh. "Strumpet! Strumpet!" he shouted at every blow as though it were Lenina (and how frantically, without knowing it, he wished it were), white, warm, scented, infamous Lenina that he was dogging thus. "Strumpet!" And then, in a voice of despair, "Oh, Linda, forgive me. Forgive me, God. I'm bad. I'm wicked. I'm No, no, you strumpet, you strumpet!" From his carefully constructed hide in the wood three hundred metres away, Darwin Bonaparte, the Feely Corporation's most expert big game photographer had watched the whole proceedings. Patience and skill had been rewarded. He had spent three days sitting inside the bole of an artificial oak tree, three nights crawling on his belly through the heather, hiding microphones in gorse bushes, burying wires in the soft grey sand. Seventy-two hours of profound discomfort. But now me great moment had comethe greatest, Darwin Bonaparte had time to reflect, as he moved among his instruments, the greatest since his taking of the famous all-howling stereoscopic feely of the gorillas' wedding. "Splendid," he said to himself, as the Savage started his astonishing performance. "Splendid!" He kept his telescopic cameras carefully aimedglued to their moving objective; clapped on a higher power to get a close-up of the frantic and distorted face (admirable!); switched over, for half a minute, to slow motion (an exquisitely comical effect, he promised himself); listened in, meanwhile, to the blows, the groans, the wild and raving words that were being recorded on the sound-track at the edge of his film, tried the effect of a little amplification (yes, that was decidedly better); was delighted to hear, in a momentary lull, the shrill singing of a lark; wished the Savage would turn round so that he could get a good close-up of the blood on his backand almost instantly (what astonishing luck!) the accommodating fellow did turn round, and he was able to take a perfect close-up. "Well, that was grand!" he said to himself when it was all over. "Really grand!" He mopped his face. When they had put in the feely effects at the studio, it would be a wonderful film. Almost as good, thought Darwin Bonaparte, as the Sperm Whale's Love-Lifeand that, by Ford, was saying a good deal! Twelve days later The Savage of Surrey had been released and could be seen, heard and felt in every first-class feely-palace in Western Europe. The effect of Darwin Bonaparte's film was immediate and enormous. On the afternoon which followed the evening of its release John's rustic solitude was suddenly broken by the arrival overhead of a great swarm of helicopters. He was digging in his gardendigging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Deathand he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves truetruer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams? A humming overhead had become a roar; and suddenly he was in shadow, there was something between the sun and him. He looked up, startled, from his digging, from his thoughts; looked up in a dazzled bewilderment, his mind still wandering in that other world of truer-than-truth, still focused on the immensities of death and deity; looked up and saw, close above him, the swarm of hovering machines. Like locusts they came, hung poised, descended all around him on the heather. And from out of the bellies of these giant grasshoppers stepped men in white viscoseflannels, women (for the weather was hot) in acetate-shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless, half-unzippered singletsone couple from each. In a few minutes there were dozens of them, standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse, staring, laughing, clicking their cameras, throwing (as to an ape) peanuts, packets of sex-hormone chewing-gum, pan-glandular petite beurres. And every momentfor across the Hog's Back the stream of traffic now flowed unceasinglytheir numbers increased. As in a nightmare, the dozens became scores, the scores hundreds. The Savage had retreated towards cover, and now, in the posture of an animal at bay, stood with his back to the wall of the lighthouse, staring from face to face in speechless horror, like a man out of his senses. From this stupor he was aroused to a more immediate sense of reality by the impact on his cheek of a well-aimed packet of chewing-gum. A shock of startling painand he was broad awake, awake and fiercely angry. "Go away!" he shouted. The ape had spoken; there was a burst of laughter and hand-clapping. "Good old Savage! Hurrah, hurrah!" And through the babel he heard cries of: "Whip, whip, the whip!" Acting on the word's suggestion, he seized the bunch of knotted cords from its nail behind the door and shook it at his tormentors. There was a yell of ironical applause. Menacingly he advanced towards them. A woman cried out in fear. The line wavered at its most immediately threatened point, then stiffened again, stood firm. The consciousness of being in overwhelming force had given these sightseers a courage which the Savage had not expected of them. Taken aback, he halted and looked round. "Why don't you leave me alone?" There was an almost plaintive note in his anger. "Have a few magnesium-salted almonds!" said the man who, if the Savage were to advance, would be the first to be attacked. He held out a packet. "They're really very good, you know," he added, with a rather nervous smile of propitiation. "And the magnesium salts will help to keep you young." The Savage ignored his offer. "What do you want with me?" he asked, turning from one grinning face to another. "What do you want with me?" "The whip," answered a hundred voices confusedly. "Do the whipping stunt. Let's see the whipping stunt." Then, in unison and on a slow, heavy rhythm, "We-want-the whip," shouted a group at the end of the line. "Wewantthe whip." Others at once took up the cry, and the phrase was repeated, parrot-fashion, again and again, with an ever-growing volume of sound, until, by the seventh or eighth reiteration, no other word was being spoken. "Wewantthe whip." They were all crying together; and, intoxicated by the noise, the unanimity, the sense of rhythmical atonement, they might, it seemed, have gone on for hours-almost indefinitely. But at about the twenty-fifth repetition the proceedings were startlingly interrupted. Yet another helicopter had arrived from across the Hog's Back, hung poised above the crowd, then dropped within a few yards of where the Savage was standing, in the open space between the line of sightseers and the lighthouse. The roar of the air screws momentarily drowned the shouting; then, as the machine touched the ground and the engines were turned off: "Wewantthe whip; wewantthe whip," broke out again in the same loud, insistent monotone. The door of the helicopter opened, and out stepped, first a fair and ruddy-faced young man, then, in green velveteen shorts, white shirt, and jockey cap, a young woman. At the sight of the young woman, the Savage started, recoiled, turned pale. The young woman stood, smiling at himan uncertain, imploring, almost abject smile. The seconds passed. Her lips moved, she was saying something; but the sound of her voice was covered by the loud reiterated refrain of the sightseers. "Wewantthe whip! Wewantthe whip!" The young woman pressed both hands to her left side, and on that peach-bright, doll-beautiful face of hers appeared a strangely incongruous expression of yearning distress. Her blue eyes seemed to grow larger, brighter; and suddenly two tears rolled down her cheeks. Inaudibly, she spoke again; then, with a quick, impassioned gesture stretched out her arms towards the Savage, stepped forward. "Wewantthe whip! Wewant " And all of a sudden they had what they wanted. "Strumpet!" The Savage had rushed at her like a madman. "Fitchew!" Like a madman, he was slashing at her with his whip of small cords. Terrified, she had turned to flee, had tripped and fallen in the heather. "Henry, Henry!" she shouted. But her ruddy-faced companion had bolted out of harm's way behind the helicopter. With a whoop of delighted excitement the line broke; there was a convergent stampede towards that magnetic centre of attraction. Pain was a fascinating horror. "Fry, lechery, fry!" Frenzied, the Savage slashed again. Hungrily they gathered round, pushing and scrambling like swine about the trough. "Oh, the flesh!" The Savage ground his teeth. This time it was on his shoulders that the whip descended. "Kill it, kill it!" Drawn by the fascination of the horror of pain and, from within, impelled by that habit of cooperation, that desire for unanimity and atonement, which their conditioning had so ineradicably implanted in them, they began to mime the frenzy of his gestures, striking at one another as the Savage struck at his own rebellious flesh, or at that plump incarnation of turpitude writhing in the heather at his feet. "Kill it, kill it, kill it " The Savage went on shouting. Then suddenly somebody started singing "Orgy-porgy" and, in a moment, they had all caught up the refrain and, singing, had begun to dance. Orgy-porgy, round and round and round, beating one another in six-eight time. Orgy-porgy It was after midnight when the last of the helicopters took its flight. Stupefied by soma, and exhausted by a long-drawn frenzy of sensuality, the Savage lay sleeping in the heather. The sun was already high when he awoke. He lay for a moment, blinking in owlish incomprehension at the light; then suddenly rememberedeverything. "Oh, my God, my God!" He covered his eyes with his hand. That evening the swarm of helicopters that came buzzing across the Hog's Back was a dark cloud ten kilometres long. The description of last night's orgy of atonement had been in all the papers. "Savage!" called the first arrivals, as they alighted from their machine. "Mr. Savage!" There was no answer. The door of the lighthouse was ajar. They pushed it open and walked into a shuttered twilight. Through an archway on the further side of the room they could see the bottom of the staircase that led up to the higher floors. Just under the crown of the arch dangled a pair of feet. "Mr. Savage!" Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east.

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Georgia State - SOCIOLOGY - 3101
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Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
Queer IdentitiesMidterm ExamAn important note:You should not use any outside texts to answer these questions. Using other books or internetsources is cheating. Consulting other people, including people in this course, is cheating.Please focus on the
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
II.(1) In the early stages of political organizing, it starts with a movements sustainability asGould describes. Emotional languages helped verbally express the concerns of lesbiansand gays, therefore, creating a normative outlook on the desires of pri
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
ACT UP,Fight back, fight aids& How we rememberThe HIV/AIDs Epidemic1978-1981:first symptoms appearIt is first dubbed the gay plague by themedia and GRID by scientists1982:The term AIDs is coined, but little is knownabout how it is contracted198
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
BisexualityBisexualitydoesnotexist.Itsusuallyjustpeoplewhodontwanttosaythattheyregay.Itslikelyjustaphase.Bisexualpeopledontexperiencethesamekindofdiscriminationasgaysandlesbians.Theyonlyexperiencehomophobiahalfthetimeoften,theyreceiveheterosexualp
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
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Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
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Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
Pride or Shame? http:/vimeo.com/285535 A yearafter the Stonewall Riots aprotest/celebration was held It was initially called The Annual Reminder In NYC it was called the Christopher StreetLiberation Day it was the first gay pride inthe U.S. & it c
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
Thediscoursewhichparticularlyoppressallofus,lesbians,women,andhomosexualmen,arethosediscourseswhichtakeforgrantedthatwhatfoundssociety,anysociety,isheterosexualityThesediscoursesofheterosexualityoppressusinthesensethattheyFightingtheGayRightGayRe
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
SameSexMarriageWhatisMarriageFor?ThepoliticsofSameSexMarriagePoliticsIsGayMarriageRacist?CurrentlyintheUnitedStates,samesexcouplesinlongterm,committedrelationshipspayhighertaxesandaredeniedbasicprotectionsandrightsgrantedtomarriedstraightcouples.Am
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
SameSexParenting(How)DoestheSexualOrientationofParentsMatter?Whywouldgayparentingbedescribedasmoronicbyalesbianmother?Gaymenandlesbianstodayhavemoreopportunitiestocreatefamiliesthaneverbeforethemoderngayandlesbianmovement(Bernstein&Reimann2001;Lewi
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
R3In the opening sentence, the reader is told that gays have two masters: liberal and conservative. Both do poor attempts on trying to make gay lifepossible in America as a whole. However, gays voted liberal and conservative, depending on which side fit
Georgia State - PSYCHOLOGY - 3356
Shameka KitchenReading Response: Stoney Butch Blues02-01-2012Summary of Jess Goldbergs LifeAs we look into the life of Jess Goldberg pre-Stonewall era, we see that her only hopedwas to be accepted for who she was; granted, its what most people desire
Georgia State - NEURO - 4340
Muscular Fitness Muscular strength and endurance are healthrelated fitness components that may improve ormaintain the following: Bone mass (related to osteoporosis) Glucose tolerance (related to Type 2 Diabetes) Musculotendinous integrity (related to
Georgia State - NEURO - 4340
Muscle Fiber ActivationObjectives:1.2.3.4.5.6.7.Understand basic -motoneuron anatomy and function.Know the ionic movements associated with an actionpotential.*Understand basic neuromuscular junction (NMJ) anatomyand the physiology of NMJ sign
Georgia State - NEURO - 4340
Muscle MircoanatomyObjectives:1.2.3.4.5.6.Understand the basic organization of a myofiber.Know the basic anatomy and function of the basementmembrane.Know the basic anatomy and function of the followingorganelles: nuclei, ER, mitochondria, and
Georgia State - NEURO - 4340
Muscle Fiber Type and Motor UnitsObjectives:1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.Know the different classification schemes for muscle fibertypes.Know the primary enzymes that consume ATPKnow the three energy systems used to produce ATPKnow the primary fuel subst
Georgia State - NEURO - 4340
Whole Skeletal Muscle StructureObjectives:1.2.3.4.5.6.Know the anatomy of whole skeletal muscle and thedifferent measurements of architectural properties ofskeletal muscle.Know the three general types of muscle architecture.Understand the conc
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Dr. KIANI CHAPTER THREE.SYSTEMS DESIGN: ACTIVITY-BASED COSTING (ABC) OJECTIVE: ASSIGNING OVERHEADCOSTS (FACTORY OVERHEAD APPLIED)TO PRODUCTS 3 ways: A. Plantwide(Single) Overheard Rate A. Departmental Overhead Rates B. Activity-Based Costing (ABC)Plantwi
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Capital Budgeting (Long Term Investment) Decisions Chap.12 Dr. Kiani A. What is capital budgeting? Capital budgeting is the series of long term planning decisions by individual economic units as to how much and where resources will obtained and expended f
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Dr.Kiani Acct. 230 1.Chapter 4: Production Cost Report-Using Weighted Average Method (WA)Physical Flow Beg. WIP Inv. +Units started in processxxx xxx -Total units to be accounted for xxx = Units completed & T/O xxx + End. WIP Inv. xxx -Total units acco
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Dr. Kiani CHAPTER 6: COST VOLUME (CVP) ANAYSISSummary of Basic terms and equations:1. TFC= 2. 3.4. FIXEDMFG OVERHEAD COST(FFOH)+FIXED SELLING & ADMIN. COSTS(F&A) TVC=VARIABLEMFGCOSTS(DM+DL+VFOH)+VARIABLESELLING& ADMIN.COSTS(S&A) TC= TFC+TVC= Y= a+ b(x)
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Profit Planning or Budgeting in GeneralI. Dr.KianiThe goals of organization:Profitability Manpower ( Human Resources) Growth Financial Self-Sufficiency (Capital Structure) Cost Minimization Product Leadership Market Diversification Global Business En
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
Dr. KianiAcct 230Chap. 3 ABC.QuizABC Manufacturing has four activities of overhead. The four activities and expected overhead costs for each activity for next year are as follows: Activities Expected Activity Driver/year $200,000 20,000 Machine hours
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
DR.KIANI RELEVANT COSTS FOR SHORT TERM (TACTICAL) DECISION MAKING OBJECTIVE: To provide relevant cost or benefit information to help decision-maker to make a right decision among the alternatives available. Example: Make or buy decision Accepting or rejec
CSU Northridge - ACCT - 230
VARIABLE COSTING AND ABSORPTION COSTINGDr.Kiani Acct.230MEANING OF VARAIBLE (DIRECT) COSTING Under absorption (full or conventional) costing, all factory overhead costs, both fixed and variable are treated as product costs. Financial accounting is prepa
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Fully IRAC written case briefs.
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Armstrong v. Rohm Company, Inc. Issue Did Rohm breach the contract with Armstrong? Rule Contract - 1)offer 2)acceptance of offer 3)consideration to support each party's promise. Between parties who have 1) capacity to contact and must be 2) legal. 1) Offe
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Bhattal v. Hyatt (attached) Issue: Can Bhattal recover for conversion from the Hyatt hotel. Rule: Conversion. 1)intentional 2)dominion or control 3)personal property 4)without consent. Tort - civil wrong. Intentional - mean to. Application: Hyatt entered
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Black v. William Insulation Co. Issue: Is William Insulation Co. liable for Proximate Cause to Black, because of their employees negligence? Rule: Proximate Cause: An act from which an injury results as a natural, direct, uninterrupted consequence and wit
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Boy v. Johnson (pc9 p391) Issue Can Johnson recover his baseball card due to lack of capacity by the boy. Rule Contract 1)Offer 2)Acceptance 3)Consideration Capacity - the ability to incur legal obligations and acquire legal rights. Disaffirmance - the ri
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Bruno and Norma Ahnert v. Getty Granite Company Issue: Is Getty liable for nuisance to the Ahnert's? Is Getty liable for trespass to land to the Ahnert's? Rule: Nuisance - 1)interference with 2) enjoyment of her land. Trespass to land - 1)Unauthorized or
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Belinda Hope Calabro(Daughter) v. Arthur Donald Calabro (Father) Issue Was there a consideration between Calabro and her father? Rule Consideration - is a 1) legal value (act or promise) 2) bargained for (agreed exchanged terms) and 3) given in exchange f
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Cantu v. San Benito Consolidated Independent School District Issue Did San Benito accept Cantu's offer via mail? RuleOfferee - the one receiving Offeror - making the offer. Contract - an exchange of promises.Mailbox rule - where properly addressed and d
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
C.B.C. Distribution & Marketing, Inc v. Major League Baseball (p193) Issue: Is CBC liable for invasion of privacy to Major League Baseball? Is CBC liable for commercial appropriation of name or likeness to Major League Baseball? Rule: Commercial appropria
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Cindy Lourcey vs. Charles Scarlett intentional infliction of emotional distress. post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and emotional harm. unable to work and lost earning. Issue: Can the plaintiff (Cindy Lourcey) recover from emotional distress infli
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Circuit City Stores, Inc. v. Paul Mantor Issue Can Circuit City enforce an unconscionable contract against Paul Mantor? Rule Offer - 1)Present intent to offer 2)definiteness of terms 3)communicated to offeror Acceptance - 1)Present intent to accept 2)same
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Currie v. Chevron U.S.A., Inc. Issue: Is Chevron liable for negligence to Currie? Rule: Negligence: 1)existence of a legal duty to the plaintiff 2)the defendant breached the duty 3)the plaintiff was injured 4) the defendants breach of duty caused the inju
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Davenport v. Cotton Hope Plantation Issue: Can Davenport recover for negligence from Cotton Hope Plantation, where Davenport has assumption of risk? Rule: assumption of risk - is the plaintiffs voluntary consent to a known danger. implied - plaintiffs kno
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
DeNardo v. Bax Daniel DeNardo and Joy Bax co-workers @ Alaska Newspapers, Inc. (ANI) Defamation lawsuit against Bax. Issue: Is the defendant abusing conditional privilege and liable to the plaintiff for defamation? Rule: Defamation - 1) a false and defama
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Family Movie Video Club v. Home Folks, Inc. Issue Did Family Movie Video Club and Home Folks, Inc have a contract after the destruction of subject matter? Rule Revocation - the right to terminate by revoking an offer. Destruction of subject matter - when
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Finnin v. Bob Lindsay, Inc. Issue Did Finnin accept the offer made by Bob Lindsay? Rule Offer - 1)Present intent to contract 2) definiteness of terms and 3)communicated to offeree Offeree - the one receiving Offeror - making the offer. Contract - an excha
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Fleming v. Benzaquin Benzaquin local radio personality. Fleming police officer. Cited Benz for no license plate, inspection sticker and expired registration. Issue: Is the Benzaquin (defendant ) liable for defamation towards Fleming (plaintiff)? If so is
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Gonzalez v. Garcia Issue Can Gonzalez recover for negligence from Garcia? Rule assumption of risk - is the plaintiffs voluntary consent to a known danger. implied - plaintiffs knowledge and voluntariness inferred from the facts. comparative negligence - c
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Gottlieb v. Tropicana Hotel and Casino Issue Did Gottlieb and Tropicana have a consideration to create a contract? Rule Consideration - is a 1) legal value (act or promise) 2) bargained for (agreed exchanged terms) and 3) given in exchange for an act or p
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Green v. Hickey (pc4 p432) Issue Can Hickey was specific performance on Green with the quasi-contract? Rule Contract - 1)Offer 2)acceptance 3)consideration Statute of Frauds - 1)Sale of Goods for $500 or more UCC Alternative means of Satisfying Sale of Go
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Green v. Star Chevrolet (PC3 p389) Issue Was Green in capacity to contract with Star Chevrolet? Can Green disaffirm his contract with Star Chevrolet? Rule Contract 1)Offer 2)Acceptance 3)Consideration Capacity - the ability to incur legal obligations and
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Grunden-Martin v. Fairmount Issue Was Fairmount liable for a contract with Grunden-Martin? Rules Contract - 1)offer 2)acceptance of offer 3)consideration to support each party's promise. Between parties who have 1) capacity to contact and must be 2) legal
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Hagan v. Coca-Cola Bottling Co. Issue: Does the impact rule preclude a claim for damages for emotional distress caused by the consumption of a foreign substance in a beverage product where the plaintiff suffers no accompanying physical injuries? Rule: Imp
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Heye v. American Golf Corporation, Inc. (P346) Issue Was there an enforceable consideration reached between Heye and AGC? Rule Offer - 1)Present intent to contract 2) definiteness of terms and 3)communicated to offeree.Acceptance - 1)present intent to ac
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Holt v. Home Depot, U.S.A, Inc. Issue Can Holt recover with promissory estoppel from Home Depot? Rule Offer - 1)Present intent to offer 2) Definiteness of terms and 3)Communicated to offeror Acceptance - 1)Present intent to accept 2)Same terms (mirror ima
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Jason Jones v. Kappa Alpha (KA) Issue Can Jason recover for negligence from Kappa Alpha? Rule Negligence is a duty owed to a plaintiff, that was beached by the defendant that caused injury to the plaintiff and the injury was from the breach of the duty. a
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Jean-Michel Basquiat v . Rosenfeld (PC10 p434) Issue Did the contract between Jean-Michel and Rosenfeld fail due to the Statue of frauds? Rule Contract - 1)Offer 2)acceptance 3)consideration Statute of Frauds - 1)Sale of Goods for $500 or more UCC Alterna
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Jeff v. Jake Issue Did Jake break the offer made to Jeff? Rule Offer - 1)Present intent to contract 2) definiteness of terms and 3)communicated to offeree Offeree - the one receiving Offeror - making the offer. Contract - an exchange of promises. Acceptan
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
John Riley v. Jonathan Harr (PC7) Jonathan - Author. John Riley - tannery owner. Issue: Can John (plaintiff) recover for defamation from Jonathan (defendant)? Rule: Defamation. 1) unprivileged 2)publication 3)false and defamatory 4)statements concerning a
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Jones v. The Baran Company (p423) Issue Did the Baran Company breach its contract with Jones? Did the contract with Jones and Baran fall under Statute of Frauds? Rule Contract - 1)Offer 2)acceptance 3)consideration Statute of Frauds - 1)Sale of Goods for
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Jordan v. Knafel Issue Is Knafel liable for Fraud in the contract with Jordan? Rule Contract-1)Offer 2)Acceptance 3)Consideration Fraud - 1)one of material fact 2) made for the purpose of inducting the other party to act 3) known to be false or no reasona
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Joseph Doescher vs. Dr. Daniel Raess assault against Daniel. (cardiovascular surgeon) verbal altercation. Issue: Is the defendant (Dr. Daniel Raess) liable for assault against plaintiff (Joseph Doescher)? Rule: Assault occurs when there is intentional att
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Lanuzzi v. Phillip Morris Issue Can Lanuzzi recover for negligence from Phillip Morris? Rule Negligence is a legal duty owed from defendant to plaintiff, that was breached, the plaintiff suffered injuries and the breach of duty was the cause of the injury
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Leonard v. Pepsico Issue Does Leonard have a contract with Pepsico, and did Pepsico breach that contract? Rule Contract - 1)offer 2)acceptance of offer 3)consideration to support each party's promise. Between parties who have 1) capacity to contact and mu
CSU Northridge - BLAW - 280
Manning v. Grimsley Issue: Is the defendant (Grimsley) liable for battery towards the plaintiff (Manning), by his action of throwing and hitting Manning with a baseball? Rule: Battery - An act intending to cause a harmful or offensive contact with the per