About Aldous Huxley: Aldous Leonard Huxley was an English writer, philosopher and a prominent member of the Huxley family.
He woke once more to external reality, looked round him, knew what he saw- knew it, with a sinking sense of horror and disgust, for the recurrent delirium of his days and nights, the nightmare of swarming indistinguishable sameness.
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. ...
Generalities are intellectually necessary evils.
You pays your money and you takes your choice.
Feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consummation.
They had not yet learned to draw the significant but often very fine distinction between smut and pure science.
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.
No social stability without individual stability.
I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then," he added in a lower tone, "I ate my own wickedness.
Great is truth, but still greater, from a practical point of view, is silence about truth.
I believe one would write better if the climate were bad. If there were a lot of wind and storms for example...
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.
For at least two thirds of our miseries spring from human stupidity, human malice and those great motivators and justifiers of malice and stupidity, idealism, dogmatism and proselytizing zeal on behalf of religious or political idols
The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which mean never losing your enthusiasm.
The charm of history and its enigmatic lesson consist in the fact that, from age to age, nothing changes and yet everything is completely different.
We are all geniuses up to the age of ten.
The finest works of art are precious, among other reasons, because they make it possible for us to know, if only imperfectly and for a little while, what it actually feels like to think subtly and feel nobly.
Europe is so well gardened that it resembles a work of art, a scientific theory, a neat metaphysical system. Man has re-created Europe in his own image.
It is a scene of Satyrs and Nymphs, of pursuits and captures, provocative resistances followed by the enthusiastic surrender of lips to bearded lips, of panting bosoms to the impatience of rough hands, the whole accompanied by a babel of shouting, sq...
Perhaps it's good for one to suffer. Can an artist do anything if he's happy? Would he ever want to do anything? What is art, after all, but a protest against the horrible inclemency of life?
Shearwater sighed, like a whale in the night.
