Chapter 18 Chapter Seventeen

"Art, science—you seem to have paid a rather high price for your happiness," said the Savage, when they were alone. "Anything else?" "And religion, of course," the President replied. "There used to be a thing called God, before the Nine Years War, but I forgot. You know about God, I suppose." "Ah..." The savage hesitated, he wanted to talk about solitude, night, and pale stones in the moonlight, cliffs, about jumping into the darkness in the shadows, and about death.He wanted to talk, but couldn't find the words to express it, not even to quote Shakespeare.

By this time the President had moved to the other side of the room and started opening a safe built into the wall between the bookshelves.The heavy door swung open, and the President reached out and groped in the darkness. "This is a subject," said the President, "that has always interested me." He pulled out a thick black book. "You have never read it, have you?" The Savage took it. "The Bible, Old and New Testaments." He read the title of the book. "Haven't you read this book?" It was a small book without the cover. "." "You don't have this book either?" He handed him another one.

"Varieties of Religious Experience," author. "I have plenty more," Mustapha Mond went on, "a whole collection of obscene volumes. God in the safe, Ford on the shelf," pointing to what he called his library—the Racks of books, racks of reading machine coils and tapes—lol. "But if you know God, why don't you tell them?" asked the Savage, indignantly. "Why don't you read to them these books about God?" "The reason is as old as not letting them read Othello. It's about the God of hundreds of years ago, not about the God of today."

"God doesn't change." "But people change." "What difference does that make?" "There's a huge difference," said Mustapha Mond, standing up again, and going to the safe. "There's a man called Bishop Newman," he said, "a cardinal," he explained, " That is, the first-class figure of the chief singer of the community." "'I, Pandulph of fair Milan, Cardinal.' I read it in Shakespeare." "Of course you have. Now, as I said, there is a man named Cardinal Newman. Ah, this is the book." He pulled it out. "I want to talk about Newman's book, and I want to talk about this book." This book was written by a man named Maine de Biran. He was a philosopher—if you know what a philosopher is."

"He who dreams of something less than there is in the world," answered the Savage immediately. "That's right, I'll read you a passage of what he really dreamed of right away. Now listen to the chief singer of old." He flipped open where a note had been clipped, and read rise up, "'We have no more dominion over ourselves than we do over what we have. We have not created ourselves, nor can we be better than ourselves. We are not masters of ourselves, but God's treasure. Seen in this light, is it not our Is it a kind of happiness? Is it happiness to think that you can control yourself? Is it comfort? A high achiever may think this way, thinking that they can make everything do their own way and do not have to depend on anyone , is remarkable. Not to think about what is outside the field of vision, not to be bothered by the constant need to thank others, ask for advice, and always need to pray. Unfortunately, as time goes by, these wunderkinds will inevitably follow others I also found that people are not born independent—independence is not a natural state. Independence may be possible for a certain period of time, but it will not bring us safely to our destination...'" Mustapha Mond paused, put down The first book, picked up the second book and flipped through it. "Take this passage, for example," he said, and began to read in his deep voice, "'A man grows old; he feels inwardly weak, dark, troubled, and this feeling follows He grows with age. When he first felt this way, he thought it was an illness, thinking that this painful situation was caused by some special cause, and used this idea to reduce his fear. He hoped that the illness was like other illnesses, It can be cured. It is a fantasy! The disease is called aging, and it is a horrible disease. Some people say that the fear of death and after death makes people turn to religion in old age, but my own experience convinces me that : Religious emotions develop with age and have nothing to do with fears or imaginations of this kind. Religious emotions develop because then the passions are calmed, and fantasies and sensibility are weakened and difficult to arouse, so The intellect is less disturbed, and the intellect is less affected by things that arouse the imagination, the desire, and the delusions, and God appears, as the sun rises from the clouds. Our soul feels, sees, and speaks to all The source of such brilliance has turned away--naturally, inevitably. For what now gives life and charm to the world of senses has been lost and left us, and the amazing existence is now no longer affected by the inner world. and external impressions, we feel the need to rest on something eternal, something that will never deceive us—a reality, an absolute and eternal truth. Yes, we are inescapably turned to God, for this religious sentiment is so pure in its nature, and gives such joy to the souls who experience it, that it redeems all our losses in other respects.'" Mustapha Mond closed the book and leaned back in his chair. Come on, "There is an existence between heaven and earth that philosophers have never even dreamed of, and that is us." He waved a hand, "It is our modern world." You can only be in the prime of youth Independence from God. Independence does not carry you safely to the end.' But we have youth and prosperity all the way through, and what comes next? Clearly we can be independent of God.' Religious sentiment will make up All our losses.' But we have no losses to make up for; religious sentiments are superfluous. Why seek a substitute for the desires of youth, when they can all be gratified? Why seek a substitute for that kind of entertainment when we can enjoy it to the fullest? Why rest when our bodies and minds are constantly getting pleasure from activity? Why do we need comfort when we have soma? ?Since we have achieved social order, why do we need to pursue eternity?"

"Then you think there is no God?" "No, I think nine times out of ten there is a God." "why……" Mustapha Mond interrupted him. "But God behaves differently to different people. Before that, God behaved as described in this book, but now..." "But how does God present himself now?" asked the Savage. "Well, he manifests as an absence; as if not there at all." "That's your fault." "Call it civilization's fault. God is incompatible with machines, scientific medicine, and universal happiness. You have to choose. Our civilization chose machines, medicine, and happiness, so I locked these books in Safes. They're filthy and scary..."

The Savage interrupted him. "But isn't it natural to feel the presence of God?" "You might as well ask: Isn't it natural to zip up your trousers?" said the President sharply. "You remind me of another old man like that, Bradley. He defined philosophy as: Poor explanations for what one instinctively believes! As if people believed instinctively! What one believes is determined by one's conditioning. Justification of what one believes for reasons—that’s philosophy. People believe in God because they’re conditioned to believe.” "Still the same," persisted the Savage, "you believe in God when you are alone—when you are alone, at night, thinking of death."

"But now people are never lonely," said Mustapha Mond. "We have made them hate loneliness; we have arranged their lives so that it is almost impossible for them to be lonely." The Savage nodded grimly.He suffered in Malpais because he was isolated from the activities of the village; and in civilized London he suffered because of the inability to escape society, the inaccessibility of peaceful solitude. "Do you remember that passage in King Lear?" said the Savage at last, "'The gods are just, and they make our pleasures the instruments of our punishment; and he lost his eyes,' and Edmund replied--wounded and dying, you remember.' You are right, the wheels of heaven have turned round, So there's me.' How's that? Isn't it a lot like having an all-over God who rewards good and punishes evil?"

"Really?" asked the President this time. "You can have as much fun as you want with a barren woman and never risk having your eyes gouged out by your son's mistress." The wheels have turned, So with me.' What would happen to Edmund now? Sitting in an air chair with his arm around the girl's waist, chewing sex hormone gum and watching sensual movies. The gods are just, no doubt, but their laws In the final analysis, it is dictated by the organizers of society; God's will is directed by men." "Are you sure?" asked the Savage, "that you have good reason to think that Edmond, sitting in the air-cushion, was not punished as severely as that Edmund—the one who was wounded and bleeding to death? The gods are just...haven't they berated him for his pleasure-seeking weakness?"

"How to disparage him? As a happy, hard-working, commodity-consuming citizen, this Edmund is impeccable. Of course, if you were to apply a different standard than ours, you might say he was disparaged, but we should stick to the rules , Consistently, you can’t play electromagnetic golf according to the rules of playing bark cub centrifugal ball.” "But value cannot be determined by selfish love or hate," said the Savage. "On the one hand, the thing must be valuable in itself, and on the other hand, it must be valued by the appraiser. Its value must be determined in this way." .”

"Well, well," protested Mustapha Mond, "doesn't that go too far?" "If you let yourself think of God, you won't let yourself be corrupted by pleasure. You have a reason to bear everything patiently, and to do things with courage. I've seen that with Indians." "I'm sure you've seen it," said Mustapha Mond, "but we are not Indians, and we have no need to subject civilized people to any serious torment. As for courage to do things—Forde forbids the idea." The minds of the people. If everyone had his own way, the whole social order would be disrupted." "So what do you think of self-denial? Since there is a God, you also have reasons for self-denial." "But self-denial must be abolished for industrial civilization. Self-indulgence must go as far as sanitation and economy can tolerate, or the wheels will stop turning." "You have a reason for chastity!" said the Savage, blushing a little. "But chastity means passion, means neurasthenia, and passion and neurasthenia mean restlessness, and thus the ruin of civilization. No lasting civilization is possible without a great deal of romantic crime." "But God is the source of all nobility and goodness and valor. If you had a God..." "My dear young friend," said Mustapha Mond, "civilization has absolutely no need for nobility and heroism, which are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a reasonably organized society like ours, there is no Man has the opportunity to be noble or heroic. Such an opportunity can arise only in times of total chaos: in times of war, when factions divide, when temptations need to be resisted, when the object of love is contested or defended—obviously Well, that's when nobility and heroism would have meant something. But now there's no war. We've made great efforts to prevent people from loving one object too deeply. We don't have such a thing as factionalism here. Your conditioning makes you tempted to do what you are supposed to do; and what you are supposed to do is, on the whole, very pleasant, allowing you to give free rein to your natural impulses, and there is virtually no need for you to do it. The temptation to resist. Even if, by some unfortunate accident, something unpleasant does happen, well, there is soma to take you away from reality for a soma vacation. There is always soma to appease your anger and reconcile you with your enemies , so that you can bear it, so that you can bear it for a long time. In the past, you had to make great efforts and endure years of hard moral training. Now you only need to swallow two or three half grams of soma. Now anyone can moral Nobility, at least half your morality can be contained in a bottle, and you can take it with you. Christianity without tears—soma is such a thing.” "But tears are needed. Do you remember Othello's words? 'If there were such gentle sunshine after every storm, let the wind blow as much as it wants, and wake death up.' An old Indian used to tell We have a story about a girl from Matasji, and a boy who wants to marry her has to go to her garden and hoe all morning. It seems easy to hoe, but there are many, many magical mosquitoes and flies. Big Some boys couldn’t stand the bite, and those who could stand the bite got the girl.” "That's a good story! But in a civilized country," said the President, "you can get a girl without hoeing her, and there are no flies or mosquitos to bite. We got rid of the flies centuries ago." The Savage frowned and nodded. "You annihilate the flies and the mosquitoes, you annihilate everything that is unpleasant, instead of learning to bear them. 'Suffer silently the poisonous arrows of fate's tyranny, or face the sea of ​​bitterness, take up a knife and make it all right.' But neither of you Neither. Neither 'sit in silence' nor 'fix it all', just cancel the poison arrow, that would be too easy." He fell silent suddenly, thinking of his mother.Linda, in her room on the thirty-seventh floor, had floated on a sea of ​​singing, of light and sweet-scented caresses—she floated away, out of space, out of time, into her memories out of the prison of her habits, her old, fat body.And Tomakin, the former Head of Incubation and Conditioning, Tomakin, is still on soma leave--the soma leave from humiliation and pain, in a world where he can't hear the mocking words and ironic laughs, can't see the Zhang Qichou's face, in a world where he couldn't feel those two wet and fat arms wrapped around his neck—a wonderful world... "What you need," continued the Savage, "is something with tears in it. Nothing here is worth much." ("Twelve and a half million dollars," Henry Foster had protested when the Savage mentioned it to him, "twelve and a half million dollars—that's the new Conditioning Center worth a penny.") "Great ambition lifted his spirit, made him despise the unknowable result, and risked his flesh and blood to challenge fate, death, and danger for a small area. Isn't there something else in this?" He looked up Mustapha Mond asked, "It has nothing to do with God—of course, God may be one of the reasons. Isn't there something in a dangerous life?" "There are many things," the President replied, "that the adrenal glands of men and women need a little stimulation every once in a while." "What?" asked the Savage inexplicably. "That's one of the conditions of complete physical fitness. That's why we made VPS treatment compulsory." "VPS?" "Instead of violent passion. Take it regularly once a month. We let adrenaline pervade the entire physiological system. Physically, it is completely equivalent to terror and rage. It can produce a tonic effect comparable to killing Desdemona. Same as being killed by Othello, without the inconvenient consequences." "But I like the inconvenience." "But we don't like it," the president said. "We like to do things in our comfort zone." "I don't need comfort. I need God, I need poetry, I need real danger, I need freedom, I need good, I need evil." "What you're actually asking for is the right to suffer." "Well," said the Savage defiantly, "I will now claim the right to suffer." "You haven't said the right to be old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to be starved of food; the right to be annoying; the right to be always on the verge of not knowing what tomorrow will bring; The right to suffer from typhoid fever; the right to be tortured by indescribable suffering." There was a long silence. "All this I demand," said the Savage at last. Mustapha Mond shrugged. "Then do as you please," he said.

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