It’s less Brave New and more 1984

In October of 1949, shortly after the publication of George Orwell’s, Nineteen Eighty-Four, he received a letter from  Aldous Huxley. Having recently finished reading Orwell’s now iconic book, Huxley had some feedback. What starts out as a letter of praise soon lapses into a comparison of the two works, and an explanation as to why Huxley believes his own book to be a more plausible prediction of the future.


Wrightwood. Cal.

21 October, 1949

Dear Mr. Orwell,

It was very kind of you to tell your publishers to send me a copy of your book. It arrived as I was in the midst of a piece of work that required much reading and consulting of references; and since poor sight makes it necessary for me to ration my reading, I had to wait a long time before being able to embark on Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Agreeing with all that the critics have written of it, I need not tell you, yet once more, how fine and how profoundly important the book is. May I speak instead of the thing with which the book deals — the ultimate revolution? The first hints of a philosophy of the ultimate revolution — the revolution which lies beyond politics and economics, and which aims at total subversion of the individual’s psychology and physiology — are to be found in the Marquis de Sade, who regarded himself as the continuator, the consummator, of Robespierre and Babeuf. The philosophy of the ruling minority in Nineteen Eighty-Four is a sadism which has been carried to its logical conclusion by going beyond sex and denying it. Whether in actual fact the policy of the boot-on-the-face can go on indefinitely seems doubtful. My own belief is that the ruling oligarchy will find less arduous and wasteful ways of governing and of satisfying its lust for power, and these ways will resemble those which I described in Brave New World. I have had occasion recently to look into the history of animal magnetism and hypnotism, and have been greatly struck by the way in which, for a hundred and fifty years, the world has refused to take serious cognizance of the discoveries of Mesmer, Braid, Esdaile, and the rest.

Partly because of the prevailing materialism and partly because of prevailing respectability, nineteenth-century philosophers and men of science were not willing to investigate the odder facts of psychology for practical men, such as politicians, soldiers and policemen, to apply in the field of government. Thanks to the voluntary ignorance of our fathers, the advent of the ultimate revolution was delayed for five or six generations. Another lucky accident was Freud’s inability to hypnotize successfully and his consequent disparagement of hypnotism. This delayed the general application of hypnotism to psychiatry for at least forty years. But now psycho-analysis is being combined with hypnosis; and hypnosis has been made easy and indefinitely extensible through the use of barbiturates, which induce a hypnoid and suggestible state in even the most recalcitrant subjects.

Within the next generation I believe that the world’s rulers will discover that infant conditioning and narco-hypnosis are more efficient, as instruments of government, than clubs and prisons, and that the lust for power can be just as completely satisfied by suggesting people into loving their servitude as by flogging and kicking them into obedience. In other words, I feel that the nightmare of Nineteen Eighty-Four is destined to modulate into the nightmare of a world having more resemblance to that which I imagined in Brave New World. The change will be brought about as a result of a felt need for increased efficiency. Meanwhile, of course, there may be a large scale biological and atomic war — in which case we shall have nightmares of other and scarcely imaginable kinds.

Thank you once again for the book.

Yours sincerely,
Aldous Huxley


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Limited Edition

 

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Must Be Love

Heathrow’s beloved stuffed travelers are back. Doris and Edward Bair, the cuddly teddy bear couple who first charmed audiences in the airport’s 2016 holiday ad, have returned in a new campaign titled Must Be Love. The spot leans into the emotional warmth of their earlier appearances while highlighting the comfort and convenience of today’s travel experience.

The film follows the Bairs through Terminal 5, capturing the small but familiar moments many travelers will recognize. They begin their journey via Heathrow’s Pod Parking, zipping along in a driverless electric pod that gets them from the car park to the terminal in under six minutes. Edward, slightly flustered as always, struggles with the self-service baggage tags, while Doris, calm and collected, helps him navigate Heathrow’s Reserve & Collect shopping and keeps him updated through the airport’s app. The tone stays light and affectionate throughout, showing that travel isn’t just about the destination, but who you’re with along the way.

 

Set to a new version of It Must Be Love performed by British artist Maius Mollis, the spot blends realism and warmth through beautifully animated expressions and gestures. The bears’ movements were brought to life using live-action reference performances, lending their scenes a level of emotional subtlety that connects with viewers. Directed by Si&Ad of Academy Films, the ad captures the quiet routines that make traveling with someone feel meaningful.

nb: if the video fails to open in your browser, please click here to view.

 

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When is a bookshop like a Tardis

The small German town of Bruchköbel, just outside Frankfurt, now features a bookshop not much larger than Doctor Who’s Tardis. Rathaus-Buchhandlung is the passion-project of bookseller Sandra Corell. Although the cozy store has just 25 square meters of selling space, it has become a local landmark for bibliophiles due to its unique facade. The diminutive shop’s outside sports a colorful mural of giant books.

The tiny bookshop, open since June, makes for a very intimate book browsing experience. Shoppers can only browse on the ground floor. The steep staircase to the first floor leads to office and storage areas. But for visitors, the real magic begins before they ever step inside—the bookshop itself is the story.

 

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It’s Autumnal

GUILDENSTERN: It’s autumnal.

ROSENCRANTZ (examining the ground): No leaves.
GUILDENSTERN: Autumnal – nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day… Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it… Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses… deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth — reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead
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Or so the story goes

A Poem: Stories

When the light goes out, and the book is set down
by the bedside, it all comes flooding in:
the story you are reading; the story of the day;
the understanding that it is a story, the day now past,
those ahead, the clock-hand sweep of time;
that you are the hero of your own story;
that it will end in death but along the way come
triumphs, misadventures, nuptials, tears;
that the story contains several plots and connects
to countless others; that you will never read
all the books collected on your shelves
but as long as you breathe the hero lives,
pages will be turned; that stories keep us alive;
that stories end—the tale of the drunken shoemaker,
the tale of humankind—all stories,
however beautiful, ingenious or corrupt;
that fables are forgotten, myths corrode, gods
vanish with the languages that named them;
that darkness swallows the world, as in legend,
but night in turn is vanquished by dawn;
that even the sun, whose radiance authored
life’s unpaginated complexity, will someday
dwindle to extinction. Or so the story goes.

Campbell McGrath

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Who is stronger than death

Examination at the Womb-Door

by Ted Hughes

Who owns those scrawny little feet?    Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?    Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?    Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?    Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?    Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?    Death.
All this messy blood?    Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?    Death.
This wicked little tongue?    Death.
This occasional wakefulness?    Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?    Death.
Who owns all of space?    Death.

Who is stronger than hope?    Death.
Who is stronger than the will?    Death.
Stronger than love?    Death.
Stronger than life?    Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.

 

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Spooky reading

And, oh, my God, my God, pity me! He placed his reeking lips upon my throat! … How long this horrible thing lasted I know not; but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. I saw it drip with the fresh blood!

Here’s a very spooky read for Halloween. This rare edition features some creepy wood engravings by Swiss graphic and stained glass artist Felix Hoffmann (1911-1975) for the 1965 Limited Editions Club production of Bram Stoker’s (1847-1912) masterpiece Dracula, printed with 33 wood engravings, with eight in three colors, at the in a limited edition of 1500 copies.

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illumination comes to our rescue

Marcel Proust on the beach

“But sometimes illumination comes to our rescue at the very moment when all seems lost; we have knocked at every door and they open on nothing until, at last, we stumble unconsciously against the only one through which we can enter the kingdom we have sought in vain a hundred years – and it opens.”
― Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

 

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Halloween is nigh

 

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