CHROME YELLOW ALDOUS HUXLEY PDF

Scogan groaned. Little Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever. He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with melancholy thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future.

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Scogan groaned. Little Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever. He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with melancholy thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance; he dabbles delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future.

Scogan had described the plan of his novel with an accuracy that was appalling. He made an effort to laugh. Luckily, he reflected, only two chapters were written. He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked. Professional anthropologists might find it interesting to turn sometimes from the beliefs of the Blackfellow to the philosophical preoccupations of the undergraduate.

And after all, even in England, even in Germany and Russia, there are more adults than adolescents. A serious book about artists regarded as artists is unreadable; and a book about artists regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like is really not worth writing again. Scogan hastened to explain. She was somehow always out of breath when she talked. And her speech was punctuated by little gasps. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for example—I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring Denis woke up next morning to find the sun shining, the sky serene.

He decided to wear white flannel trousers—white flannel trousers and a black jacket, with a silk shirt and his new peach-coloured tie. And what shoes? White was the obvious choice, but there was something rather pleasing about the notion of black patent leather. He lay in bed for several minutes considering the problem. Before he went down—patent leather was his final choice—he looked at himself critically in the glass.

His hair might have been more golden, he reflected. As it was, its yellowness had the hint of a greenish tinge in it. But his forehead was good. His forehead made up in height what his chin lacked in prominence. His nose might have been longer, but it would pass. His eyes might have been blue and not green.

But his coat was very well cut and, discreetly padded, made him seem robuster than he actually was. His legs, in their white casing, were long and elegant. Satisfied, he descended the stairs. Most of the party had already finished their breakfast. He found himself alone with Jenny. He might talk for ever of care-charmer sleep and she of meteorology till the end of time. Did one ever establish contact with anyone?

We are all parallel straight lines. Jenny was only a little more parallel than most. Or are you above being frightened? I always go to bed in a storm. One is so much safer lying down. Denis finished his porridge and helped himself to bacon. For lack of anything better to say, and because Mr. Has anyone been suggesting that I am? Scogan told Mary she was one. Denis could not induce her to say anything more, could not induce her even to listen. She just smiled at him, smiled and occasionally nodded.

Denis went out on to the terrace to smoke his after-breakfast pipe and to read his morning paper. An hour later, when Anne came down, she found him still reading. By this time he had got to the Court Circular and the Forthcoming Weddings.

He got up to meet her as she approached, a Hamadryad in white muslin, across the grass. There was no possible retort. He was put out; the conversation had taken such a preposterous and unexpected turn.

And now she had got in first with the trousers. It was provoking; his pride was hurt. That part of the garden that sloped down from the foot of the terrace to the pool had a beauty which did not depend on colour so much as on forms. It was as beautiful by moonlight as in the sun. The silver of water, the dark shapes of yew and ilex trees remained, at all hours and seasons, the dominant features of the scene. It was a landscape in black and white. For colour there was the flower-garden; it lay to one side of the pool, separated from it by a huge Babylonian wall of yews.

You passed through a tunnel in the hedge, you opened a wicket in a wall, and you found yourself, startlingly and suddenly, in the world of colour. The July borders blazed and flared under the sun.

Within its high brick walls the garden was like a great tank of warmth and perfume and colour. Denis held open the little iron gate for his companion.

Oh how sweet And round your equal fires do meet; Whose shrill report no ear can tell, But echoes to the eye and smell Look at those sunflowers! And I like the way the tits cling to the flowers and pick out the seeds, while the other loutish birds, grubbing dirtily for their food, look up in envy from the ground.

Do they look up in envy? Education again. It always comes back to that. Anne had sat down on a bench that stood in the shade of an old apple tree. He did not sit down, but walked backwards and forwards in front of the bench, gesticulating a little as he talked.

One reads so many, and one sees so few people and so little of the world. Great thick books about the universe and the mind and ethics. I must have read twenty or thirty tons of them in the last five years. Twenty tons of ratiocination. His voice rose, fell, was silent a moment, and then talked on. He moved his hands, sometimes he waved his arms. Anne looked and listened quietly, as though she were at a lecture.

He was a nice boy, and to-day he looked charming—charming! One entered the world, Denis pursued, having ready-made ideas about everything. One had a philosophy and tried to make life fit into it. Life, facts, things were horribly complicated; ideas, even the most difficult of them, deceptively simple. In the world of ideas everything was clear; in life all was obscure, embroiled. Was it surprising that one was miserable, horribly unhappy? Denis came to a halt in front of the bench, and as he asked this last question he stretched out his arms and stood for an instant in an attitude of crucifixion, then let them fall again to his sides.

He was really too pathetic as he stood there in front of her in his white flannel trousers. It seems very extraordinary. Well, I suppose I am. He sat down. There are the twenty tons of ratiocination to be got rid of first. One enjoys the pleasant things, avoids the nasty ones. But, then, you were born a pagan; I am trying laboriously to make myself one. I can take nothing for granted, I can enjoy nothing as it comes along.

I make up a little story about beauty and pretend that it has something to do with truth and goodness. I have to say that art is the process by which one reconstructs the divine reality out of chaos. Pleasure is one of the mystical roads to union with the infinite—the ecstasies of drinking, dancing, love-making. I should like to see myself believing that men are the highway to divinity. He could not say it.

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Crome Yellow Quotes

In view of its episodic nature, the novel was described in The Spectator as "a Cubist Peacock". There is little plot development. Indeed, H. Although "Nothing important happens…the story floats and sails upon the turbid intensity of restless sex. Described by his hostess as "one of our younger poets", he has been invited by Priscilla and Henry Wimbush to join their summer guests. Denis is secretly in love with their niece, Anne Wimbush, who appears more interested in the artist Gombauld. The hard-of-hearing Jenny Mullion confines most of her thoughts on what goes on to her journal, in which Denis eventually discovers a devastating deconstruction of his self and fellow guests.

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