ABSTRACT
The contemporary satirist is in the unfortunate position of being almost forced to go too far. Buchenwald and Hiroshima, Belsen and Nagasaki make the vilest individual human actions seem almost like acts of compassion-every debutante implies an Irma Kraus and wide-eyed innocence the baby-face killer. Evelyn Waugh has recently been driven to embalming and the funeral parlor, and now we have Aldous Huxley back in a new world far less brave and far more bestial than the one he gave up sixteen years ago. Malthusian belts have been replaced by rawhide whips, the 'feelies' and the most enjoyable unbridled license by five days of orgy and three hundred and sixty of unadulterated hell.
