FROM ALDOUS HUXLEY'S BRAVE NEW WORLD:

He hated Pope more and more. A man can smile and smile and be a villain. Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain. What did the words exactly mean? He only half knew. But their magic was strong and went on rumbling in his head, and somehow it was as though he had never really hated Pope before; never really hated him because he had never been able to say how much he hated him. But now he had these words, these words like drums and singing and magic. These words and the strange, strange story out of which they were taken (he couldn't make head or tail of it, but it was wonderful, wonderful all the same)--they gave him a reason for hating Pope; and they made his hatred more real; they even made Pope himself more real. (132)

Bernard looked, and then quickly, with a little shudder, averted his eyes. His conditioning made him not so much pitiful as profoundly squeamish. The mere suggestion of illness or wounds was to him not only horrifying, but even repulsive and rather disgusting. Like dirt, or deformity, or old age. Hastily he changed the subject. (138)

"This hive of industry," as the Director was fond of calling it, was in the full buzz of work. Every one was busy, everyhting in ordered motion. Under the microscopes, their long tails furiously lashing, spermatozoa were burrowing head first into eggs; and, fertilized, the eggs were expanding, dividing, or if bokanovskified, budding and breaking up into whole populations of separate embryos. From the Social Predestination Room the escalators went rumbling down into the basement, and there, in the crimson darkness, stewing warm on their cushion of peritoneum and gorged with blood-surrogate and hormones, the foetuses grew and grew or, poisoned, languished into a tainted Epsilonhood. With a faint hum and rattle the moving racks crawled imperceptibly the weeks and the recapitulated aeons to where, in the Decanting Room, the newly-unbottled babes uttered their first yell of horror and amazement. (146-47)

"Do they read Shakespear?" asked the Savage as they walked, on their way to the Bio-cheminal Laboratories, past the School Library.

"Certainly not," said the Head Mistress, blushing.

"Our library," said Dr. Gaffney, "contains only books of reference. If our young people need distraction, they can get it at the feelies. We don't encourage them to indulge in any solitary amusements." (163)

there were ten seconds of complete darkness; then suddlenly, dazzling and incomparably more solid than they would have seemed in actual flesh and blood, far more real than reality, there stood the stereoscopic images, locked in one another's arms, of a gigantic negro and a golden-haired young brachycephalic Beta-Plus female.

The Savage started. That sensation on his lips! He lifted a hand to his mouth; the titillation ceased; let his hand fall back on the metal knob; it began again. (168)

It was a masterly piece of work. But once you started admitting explanations in terms of purpose--well, you didn't know what the result might be. It was the sort of idea that might easily decondition the more unsettled minds among the higher castes--make them lose their faith in happiness as the Sovereign Good and take to believing, instead, that the goal was somewhere beyond, somewhere outside the present human sphere; that the purpose of life was not the maintenance of well-being, but some intensification and refining of consciousness, some enlargement of knowledge. (177)

At the foot of every bed, confronting its moribund occupant, was a television box. Television was left on, a running tap, from morning till night. (198)

Suddenly, from out of the Synthetic Music Box a Voice began to speak. The Voice of Reason, the Voice of Good Feeling. The sound-track roll was unwinding itself in Synthetic Anti-Riot Speech Number Two (Medium Strength). Straight from the depths of a non-existent heart, "My friends, my friends!" said the Voice so pathetically, with a note of such infinitely tender reproach that, behind their gas masks, even the policemen's eyes were momentarily dimmed with tears. . . .(215)

our world is not the same as Othello's world. You can't make flivvers without steel--and you can't make tragedies without social instability. The world's stable now. (220)

". . . An Alpha-decanted, Alpha-conditioned man would go mad if he had to do Epsilon Semi-Moron work--go mad, or start smashing things up. Alphas can be completely socialized--but only on condition that you make them do Alpha work. Only an Epsilon can eb expected to make Epsilon sacrifices, for the good reason that for him they aren't sacrifices; they're the line of least resistance. His conditioning have laid down rails along which he's got to run. (222)

But truth's a menace, science is a public danger, As dangerous as it's been beneficent. It has given us the stablest equilibrium in history. . . But we can't allow science to undo its own good work. That's why we so carefully limit the scope of its researches--that's why I almost got sent to an island. (227)

God isn't compatible with machinery and scientific medicine and universal happiness. you must make your choice. Our civilization has chosen machinery and medicine and happiness. That's why I have to keep these books locked up in a safe. (234)