Олдос Хаксли - Eyeless in Gaza

‘And so does going to bed.’

‘D–does it?’ Brian forced himself to ask. He disliked this sort of conversation, disliked it more than ever now that he was in love with Joan—in love, and yet (he hated himself for it) desiring her basely, wrongly….

‘If it’s the right woman,’ the other answered with an airy knowingness, as though he had experimented with every kind of female. In fact, though he would have been ashamed to admit it, he was a virgin.

‘S–so you needn’t b–bother about the f–fasting,’ said Brian, suddenly ironical.

Anthony grinned. ‘I’m quite content with only knowing about the way of perfection,’ he said.

‘I think I should w–want to exp–experience it too,’ said Brian, after a pause.

Anthony shook his head. ‘Not worth the price,’ he said. ‘That’s the trouble of all single–minded activity; it costs you your liberty. You find yourself driven into a corner. You’re a prisoner.’

‘But if you w–want to be f–free, you’ve g–got to be a p–prisoner. It’s the c–condition of freedom—t–true freedom.’

‘True freedom!’ Anthony repeated in the parody of a clerical voice. ‘I always love that kind of argument. The contrary of a thing isn’t the contrary; oh, dear me, no! It’s the thing itself, but as it truly is. Ask a diehard what conservatism is; he’ll tell you it’s true socialism. And the brewers’ trade papers; they’re full of articles about the beauty of True Temperance. Ordinary temperance is just a gross refusal to drink; but true temperance, true temperance is something much more refined. True temperance is a bottle of claret with each meal and three double whiskies after dinner. Personally, I’m all for true temperance, because I hate temperance. But I like being free. So I won’t have anything to do with true freedom.’

‘Which doesn’t p–prevent it from being t–true freedom,’ the other obstinately insisted.

‘What’s in a name?’ Anthony went on. ‘The answer is, Practically everything, if the name’s a good one. Freedom’s a marvellous name. That’s why you’re so anxious to make use of it. You think that, if you call imprisonment true freedom, people will be attracted to the prison. And the worst of it is you’re quite right. The name counts more with most people than the thing. They’ll follow the man who repeats it most often and in the loudest voice. And of course “True Freedom” is actually a better name than freedom tout court . Truth—it’s one of the magical words. Combine it with the magic of “freedom” and the effect’s terrific.’ After a moment’s silence, ‘Curious,’ he went on, digressively and in another tone, ‘that people don’t talk about true truth. I suppose it sounds too queer. True truth; true truth,’ he repeated experimentally. ‘No, it obviously won’t do. It’s like beri–beri, or Wagga–Wagga. Nigger talk. You couldn’t take it seriously. If you want to make the contrary of truth acceptable, you’ve got to call it spiritual truth, or inner truth, or higher truth, or even … ’

‘But a m–moment ago you were s–saying that there w–was a k–kind of higher truth. S–something you could only g–get at m–mystically. You’re c–contradicting yourself.’

Anthony laughed. ‘That’s one of the privileges of freedom. Besides,’ he added, more seriously, ‘there’s that distinction between knowing and experiencing. Known truth isn’t the same as experienced truth. There ought to be two distinct words.’

‘You m–manage to wr–wriggle out of e–everything.’

‘Not out of everything ,’ Anthony insisted. ‘There’ll always be those.’ He pointed again to the books. ‘Always knowledge. The prison of knowledge—because of course knowledge is also a prison. But I shall always be ready to stay in that prison.’

‘A–always?’ Brian questioned.

‘Why not?’

‘Too m–much of a l–luxury.’

‘On the contrary. It’s a case of scorning delights and living laborious days.’

‘Which are thems–selves del–lightful.’

‘Of course. But mayn’t one take pleasure in one’s work?’

Brian nodded. ‘It’s not exactly th–that,’ he said. ‘One doesn’t w–want to exp–ploit one’s privileges.’

‘Mine’s only a little one,’ said Anthony. ‘About six pounds a week,’ he added, specifying the income that had come to him from his mother.

‘P–plus all the r–rest.’

‘Which rest?’

‘The l–luck that you happen to l–like this sort of thing.’ He reached out and touched the folio Bayle. ‘And all your g–gifts.’

‘But I can’t artificially make myself stupid,’ Anthony objected. ‘Nor can you.’

‘N–no, but we can use what we’ve g–got for s–something else.’

‘Something we’re not suited for,’ the other suggested sarcastically.

Ignoring the mockery, ‘As a k–kind of th–thank–offering,’ Brian went on with a still intenser passion of earnestness.

‘For what?’

‘For all that we’ve been g–given. M–money, to start with. And then kn–knowledge, t–taste, the power to c–c … ’ He wanted to say ‘create’, but had to be content with ‘to do things’. ‘B–being a scholar or an artist—it’s l–like purs–suing your p–personal salvation. But there’s also the k–kingdom of G–god. W–waiting to be realized.’

‘By the Fabians?’ asked Anthony in a tone of pretended ingenuousness.

‘Am–mong others.’ There was a long half–minute of silence. ‘Shall I say it?’ Brian was wondering. ‘Shall I tell him?’ And suddenly, as though a dam had burst, his irresolution was swept away. ‘I’ve decided,’ he said aloud, and the feeling with which he spoke the words was so strong that it lifted him, almost without his knowledge, to his feet and sent him striding restlessly about the room, ‘I’ve decided that I shall g–go on with ph–philosophy and l–literature and h–history till I’m thirty. Then it’ll be t–time to do something else. S–something more dir–rect.’

‘Direct?’ Anthony repeated. ‘In what way?’

‘In getting at p–people. In r–realizing the k–kingdom of G–god … ’ The very intensity of his desire to communicate what he was feeling reduced him to dumbness.

Listening to Brian’s words, looking up into the serious and ardent face, Anthony felt himself touched, profoundly, to the quick of his being …felt himself touched, and, for that very reason, came at once under a kind of compulsion, as though in self–defence, to react to his own emotion, and his friend’s, with a piece of derision. ‘Washing the feet of the poor, for example,’ he suggested. ‘And drying them on your hair. It’ll be awkward if you go prematurely bald.’

Afterwards, when Brian had gone, he felt ashamed of his ignoble ribaldry—humiliated, at the same time, by the unreflecting automatism with which he had brought it out. Like those pithed frogs that twitch when you apply a drop of acid to their skin. A brainless response.

‘Damn!’ he said aloud, then picked up his book.

He was deep once more in The Way of Perfection when there was a thump at the door and a voice, deliberately harshened so as to be like the voice of a drill–sergeant on parade, shouted his name.

‘These bloody stairs of yours!’ said Gerry Watchett as he came in. ‘Why the devil do you live in such a filthy hole?’

Gerry Watchett was fair–skinned, with small, unemphatic features and wavy golden–brown hair. A good–looking young man, but good–looking, in spite of his height and powerful build, almost to girlish prettiness. For the casual observer, there was an air about him of Arcadian freshness and innocence, strangely belied, however, upon a closer examination, by the hard insolence in his blue eyes, by the faint smile of derision and contempt that kept returning to his face, by the startling coarseness of those thick–fingered, short–nailed hands.