Brave New World - Aldous Huxley [104]
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 around 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 egg-shell. 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 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 tomorrow; 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 XVIII
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 tomorrow morning.'