“My dear young friend，” said Mustapha Mond， “civilization has absolutely no need of nobility or heroism. These things are symptoms of political inefficiency. In a properly organized society like ours， nobody has any opportunities for being noble or heroic. Conditions have got to be thoroughly unstable before the occasion can arise. Where there are wars， where there are divided allegiances， where there are temptations to be resisted， objects of love to be fought for or defended–there， obviously， nobility and heroism have some sense. But there aren’t any wars nowadays. The greatest care is taken to prevent you from loving any one too much. There’s no such thing as a divided allegiance； you’re so conditioned that you can’t help doing what you ought to do. And what you ought to do is on the whole so pleasant， so many of the natural impulses are allowed free play， that there really aren’t any temptations to resist. And if ever， by some unlucky chance， anything unpleasant should somehow happen， why， there’s always soma to give you a holiday from the facts. And there’s always soma to calm your anger， to reconcile you to your enemies， to make you patient and long-suffering. In the past you could only accomplish these things by making a great effort and after years of hard moral training. Now， you swallow two or three half-gramme tablets， and there you are. Anybody can be virtuous now. You can carry at least half your mortality about in a bottle. Christianity without tears–that’s what soma is.”
“But the tears are necessary. Don’t you remember what Othello said？ ‘If after every tempest came such calms， may the winds blow till they have wakened death.’ There’s a story one of the old Indians used to tell us， about the Girl of Mátaski. The young men who wanted to marry her had to do a morning’s hoeing in her garden. It seemed easy； but there were flies and mosquitoes， magic ones. Most of the young men simply couldn’t stand the biting and stinging. But the one that could–he got the girl.”
“Charming！ But in civilized countries，” said the Controller， “you can have girls without hoeing for them， and there aren’t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.”
The Savage nodded， frowning. “You got rid of them. Yes， that’s just like you. Getting rid of everytfung unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune， or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them…But you don’t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It’s too easy.”
He was suddenly silent， thinking of his mother. In her room on the thirty-seventh floor， Linda had floated in a sea of singing lights and perfumed caresses–floated away， out of space， out of time， out of the prison of her memories， her habits， her aged and bloated body. And Tomakin， ex-Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning， Tomakin was still on holiday–on holiday from humiliation and pain， in a world where he could not hear those words， that derisive laughter， could not see that hideous face， feel those moist and flabby arms round his neck， in a beautiful world…
“What you need，” the Savage went on， “is something with tears for a change. Nothing costs enough here.”
（“Twelve and a half million dollars，” Henry Foster had protested when the Savage told him that. “Twelve and a half million–that’s what the new Conditioning Centre cost. Not a cent less.”）
“Exposing what is mortal and unsure to all that fortune， death and danger dare， even for an eggshell. Isn’t there something in that？” he asked， looking up at Mustapha Mond. “Quite apart from God–though of course God would be a reason for it. Isn’t there something in living dangerously？”
“There’s a great deal in it，” the Controller replied. “Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.”
“What？” questioned the Savage， uncomprehending.
“It’s one of the conditions of perfect health. That’s why we’ve made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.”
“V.P.S.？”
“Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It’s the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello， without any of the inconveniences.”
“But I like the inconveniences.”
“We don’t，” said the Controller. “We prefer to do things comfortably.”
“But I don’t want comfort. I want God， I want poetry， I want real danger， I want freedom， I want goodness. I want sin.”
“In fact，” said Mustapha Mond， “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”
“All right then，” said the Savage defiantly， “I’m claiming the nght to be unhappy.”
“Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent； the right to have syphilis and cancer； the right to have too little to eat； the right to be lousy； the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow； the right to catch typhoid； the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.” There was a long silence.
“I claim them all，” said the Savage at last.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. “You’re welcome，” he said.
