«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 reasons-that’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 alone-quite 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 answers-you 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 things-Ford forbid that he should get the idea into his head. It would upset the whole social order if men started doing things on their own.»
«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 defended-there, 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 half-gramme tablets, and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your mortality about in a bottle. Christianity without tears-that’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 Mátaski. 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 could-he 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 everytfung 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 caresses-floated away, out of space, out of time, out of the prison of her memories, her habits, her aged and bloated body. And Tomakin, ex-Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning, Tomakin was still on holiday-on holiday from humiliation and pain, in a world where he could not hear those words, that derisive laughter, could not see that hideous face, feel those moist and flabby arms round his neck, in a beautiful world…
«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 million-that’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 God-though 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 nght 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
