Rather than an actual plot, Huxley instead creates a mosaic on interwoven narratives. His characters are based on people he new...but since I didn't take the time to research each characters counterpart...I think I probably missed some of the humor. There seems to be a lot of upper class British angst that filters through each narrative and perhaps is the underlying theme.
"Six months from now her baby would be born. Something that had been a single cell, a cluster of cells, a little sac of tissue, a kind of worm, a potential fish with gills, stirred in her womb and would day become a man - a grown man, suffering and enjoying, loving and hating, thinking, remembering, imagining. And what had been a blob of jelly within her body would invent a god and worship; what had been a kind of fish would create and, having created, would become the battle-ground of disputing good and evil; what had blindly lived in her as a parasitic worm would look at the starts, would listen to music, would read poetry."
Nobody can paint a nude who hasn't learnt the human body by heart with his hands and his lips and his own body.
His love was one long tacit apology for itself.
The hairy endings of the auditory nerve shuddered like weeds in a rough sea; a vast number of obscure miracles were performed in the brain, and Lord Edward ecstatically whispered 'Bach!' "
"Six months from now her baby would be born. Something that had been a single cell, a cluster of cells, a little sac of tissue, a kind of worm, a potential fish with gills, stirred in her womb and would day become a man - a grown man, suffering and enjoying, loving and hating, thinking, remembering, imagining. And what had been a blob of jelly within her body would invent a god and worship; what had been a kind of fish would create and, having created, would become the battle-ground of disputing good and evil; what had blindly lived in her as a parasitic worm would look at the starts, would listen to music, would read poetry."
Nobody can paint a nude who hasn't learnt the human body by heart with his hands and his lips and his own body.
His love was one long tacit apology for itself.
The hairy endings of the auditory nerve shuddered like weeds in a rough sea; a vast number of obscure miracles were performed in the brain, and Lord Edward ecstatically whispered 'Bach!' "
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