“Our world is not the same as Othello’s world. You can’t make flivers without steel, and you can’t make tragedies without social instability. The world is stable now; people are happy. They get what they want, and they never want what they can’t get. They’re well off, they are safe, they are never ill, they are not afraid of death; they are blissfully ignorant of passion and old age. They are plagued with no Mothers or Fathers, they’ve got not wives or children or lovers to feel strongly about. They are so conditioned they practically can’t help but behaving as they ought to behave. And if anything goes wrong, there is SOMA (which you go and chuck out of the window in the name of Liberty, Mr. Savage). LIBERTY! (He laughed); expecting Deltas to know what liberty is, and now expecting them to understand Othello? Oh, my good boy…”
“All the same," he insisted obstinately, "Othello is good. Othello is better than those feelies."
"Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that’s the price we have to pay for stability. You’ve got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We’ve sacrificed the high art; we have the feelies and the scent organ instead."
"But they don’t mean anything."
"They mean only themselves. They mean a lot of agreeable sensations to the audience."
"But they’re, they’re told by an idiot!"
The controller laughed, "You’re not being very polite to your friend, Mr. Watson, one of our most distinguished emotional engineers."
"But, he’s right,’ said Helmholtz gloomily, "because it is idiotic. Writing when there is nothing to say."
"Precisely, but that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You are making flivers out of the absolute minimum of steel; works of art out of practically nothing but pure sensation."
The savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible."
"Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison for the over-compensations for misery. And of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability, and being contented has none of the glamor of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."
“All the same," he insisted obstinately, "Othello is good. Othello is better than those feelies."
"Of course it is," the Controller agreed. "But that’s the price we have to pay for stability. You’ve got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We’ve sacrificed the high art; we have the feelies and the scent organ instead."
"But they don’t mean anything."
"They mean only themselves. They mean a lot of agreeable sensations to the audience."
"But they’re, they’re told by an idiot!"
The controller laughed, "You’re not being very polite to your friend, Mr. Watson, one of our most distinguished emotional engineers."
"But, he’s right,’ said Helmholtz gloomily, "because it is idiotic. Writing when there is nothing to say."
"Precisely, but that requires the most enormous ingenuity. You are making flivers out of the absolute minimum of steel; works of art out of practically nothing but pure sensation."
The savage shook his head. "It all seems to me quite horrible."
"Of course it does. Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison for the over-compensations for misery. And of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability, and being contented has none of the glamor of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand."
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