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Uploaded by : Chris Vroom | 02/02/09

A SQUAT grey building of only
thirty-four stories. Over the main
entrance the words, CENTRAL
and, in a shield, the World State’s
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 intelligently–though 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.

  • Title:
    "Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley
  • Artist:
    Aldous Huxley
  • Year:
  • Description:
    An Excerpt. 1939
  • Disciplines and Movements:
  • Themes and Tags:

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