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Summary of “Brave New World”

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    Chapter 11

    Finally—and this was by far the strongest reason for people’s not wanting to see poor Linda—there was her appearance. Fat; having lost her youth; with bad teeth, and a blotched complexion, and that figure (Ford!)—you simply couldn’t look at her without feeling sick, yes, positively sick.

    Fat; having lost her youth; with bad teeth, and a blotched complexion, and that figure (Ford!)—you simply couldn’t look at her without feeling sick, yes, positively sick. The return to civilization was for her the return to soma, was the possibility of lying in bed and taking holiday after holiday, without ever having to come back to a headache or a fit of vomiting, without ever being made to feel as you always felt after peyotl, as though you’d done something so shamefully anti-social that you could never hold up your head again. The drug that made you feel sick

    Shaw at first demurred; then let her have what she wanted. She took as much as twenty grams a day. John began to understand. “Eternity was in our lips and eyes,” he murmured. “Eh?”

    “Of course,” Dr. Shaw went on, “you can’t allow people to go popping off into eternity if they’ve got any serious work to do. But as she hasn’t got any serious work …” “All the same,” John persisted, “I don’t believe it’s right.”

    “And I had six girls last week,” he confided to Helmholtz Watson. This is partly due, no doubt, to the fact that he has heard them talked about by the woman Linda, his m—.” (Mustapha Mond frowned. “Does the fool think I’m too squeamish to see the word written out at full length?”)

    Mustapha Mond’s anger gave place almost at once to mirth. The idea of this creature solemnly lecturing him—him—about the social order was really too grotesque. The man must have gone mad. At Eton, they alighted on the roof of Upper School.

    On the opposite side of School Yard, the fifty-two stories of Lupton’s Tower gleamed white in the sunshine. College on their left and, on their right, the School Community Singery reared their venerable piles of ferro-concrete and vita-glass. In the centre of the quadrangle stood the quaint old chrome-steel statue of Our Ford./Bernard, meanwhile, had taken a strong fancy to Miss Keate.

    Miss Keate smiled (and her smile was really charming, he thought); said Thank you; would be delighted to come to one of his parties..“Most of our girls are freemartins, of course. Not fertile ;unable to have kids. A click; the room was darkened; and suddenly, on the screen above the Master’s head, there were the Penitentes of Acoma prostrating themselves before Our Lady, and wailing as John had heard them wail, confessing their sins before Jesus on the Cross, before the eagle image of Pookong.

    Still wailing, the Penitentes rose to their feet, stripped off their upper garments and, with knotted whips, began to beat themselves, blow after blow. All the best toys are kept there, and they get chocolate cream on death days. They learn to take dying as a matter of course.” “Like any other physiological process,” put in the Head Mistress professionally. “Like any other physiological process,” put in the Head Mistress professionally.

    Crowds of lower-caste workers were queued up in front of the monorail station—seven or eight hundred Gamma, Delta and Epsilon men and women, with not more than a dozen faces and statures between them. He took John’s arm affectionately and they walked back towards the helicopter.

    Had not the Secretary of the Young Women’s Fordian Association asked her to give a lecture about her experiences?

    Leninas experience of New Mexico

    “Take hold of those metal knobs on the arms of your chair,” whispered Lenina. The plot of the film was extremely simple. About a negro taking a beta blonde and 3 alphas save her. The taxicopter landed on the roof of Lenina’s apartment house. “At last,” she thought exultantly as she stepped out of the cab. She thought she was getting laid. The taxicopter landed on the roof of Lenina’s apartment house.

    From its hiding-place he took out his mouse-nibbled volume, turned with religious care its stained and crumbled pages, and began to read Othello. Othello, he remembered, was like the hero of Three Weeks in a Helicopter—a black man.

    But if she took two grammes, she ran the risk of not waking up in time to-morrow morning. She compromised and, into her cupped left palm, shook out three half-gramme tablets.

    Chapter 12

    “But the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury is there to-night.” “Ai yaa tákwa!” It was only in Zuni that the Savage could adequately express what he felt about the Arch-Community-Songster. And he spat on the ground, as Popé might have done.

    As for the women, they indignantly felt that they had been had on false pretences—had by a wretched little man who had had alcohol poured into his bottle by mistake—by a creature with a Gamma-Minus physique. Lenina suddenly felt all the sensations normally experienced at the beginning of a Violent Passion Surrogate treatment—a sense of dreadful emptiness, a breathless apprehension, a nausea. Her heart seemed to stop beating. John wouldn’t be showing that night.

    And at once this possibility became an established certainty: John had refused to come because he didn’t like her. He didn’t like her.… Lenina thinks John didn’t show because of her. Pierced by every word that was spoken, the tight balloon of Bernard’s happy self-confidence was leaking from a thousand wounds. Pale, distraught, abject and agitated, he moved among his guests stammering incoherent apologies, assuring them that next time the Savage would certainly be there, begging them to sit down and take a carotene sandwich, a slice of vitamin A pâté, a glass of champagne-surrogate.

    They duly ate, but ignored him; drank and were either rude to his face or talked to one another about him, loudly and offensively, as though he had not been there. Beautiful ringing voice with which he led the proceedings at Ford’s Day Celebrations, “Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury”

    And she had shown Bernard the little golden zipper-fastening in the form of a T which the Arch-Songster had given her as a memento of the week-end she had spent at Lambeth. To meet the Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury and Mr. Savage. Bernard had proclaimed his triumph on every invitation card.

    And even (it was lucky that Bernard didn’t understand Zuñi) “Sons éso tse-ná!” What should have been the crowning moment of Bernard’s whole career had turned out to be the moment of his greatest humiliation. “Mend your ways, my young friend, mend your ways.” He made the sign of the T over him and turned away.

    “Arch-Community-Songster of Canterbury”

    A few minutes later, however, he thought better’ of it and took four tablets of soma. Upstairs in his room the Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet. “A New Theory of Biology,” was the title of the paper which Mustapha Mond had just finished reading.

    He sat for some time, meditatively frowning, then picked up his pen and wrote across the title-page: “The author’s mathematical treatment of the conception of purpose is novel and highly ingenious, but heretical and, so far as the present social order is concerned, dangerous and potentially subversive. Not to be published.” He underlined the words.

    “The author will be kept under supervision. His transference to the Marine Biological Station of St. Helena may become necessary.”.But in spite of this knowledge and these admissions, in spite of the fact that his friend’s support and sympathy were now his only comfort, Bernard continued perversely to nourish, along with his quite genuine affection, a secret grievance against the Savage, to meditate a campaign of small revenges to be wreaked upon him.

    Touched, Bernard felt himself at the same time humiliated by this magnanimity—a magnanimity the more extraordinary and therefore the more humiliating in that it owed nothing to soma and everything to Helmholtz’s character. It was the Helmholtz of daily life who forgot and forgave, not the Helmholtz of a half-gramme holiday. (Bernard was taking revenge on hemholtz because he was such a good freind and Bernard was ashamed)

    “It was over some rhymes,” he explained.
    (Hemholtz got in trouble with authority for making a meaning full rhym. He almost got fired and now he’s a marked man). So cordially indeed that Bernard felt a sharp pang of jealousy. In all these weeks he had never come to so close an intimacy with the Savage as Helmholtz immediately achieved. “That old fellow,” he said, “he makes our best propaganda technicians look absolutely silly.”

    Shakespeare

    The Savage was reading Romeo and Juliet aloud—reading (for all the time he was seeing himself as Romeo and Lenina as Juliet) with an intense and quivering passion. He had managed, with a heroic effort, to hold down the mounting pressure of his hilarity; but “sweet mother” (in the Savage’s tremulous tone of anguish) and the reference to Tybalt lying dead, but evidently uncremated and wasting his phosphorus on a dim monument, were too much for him. Hemholtz laughed at this

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