ABSTRACT
The average reader, wading through much unnecessary nastiness and muck, finds it impossible also not to wish that Mr. Huxley had got one stage further. After loving human beings-and all other creaturesfor God; after loving God in His creatures, human and other; it is necessary to come to love those creatures-even oneself-in God. (This is the knowledge Bernanos's Country Priest arrives at on his deathbed.) If only Mr. Huxley could do this, he would be less tangled in the terrible love-hate of repulsion-attraction that would be comic if it were not so nauseating. All the oldest Freudian gambits are in his new novel, from the ' "goats" pills of excrement' to the Eliot-esque tart's rubber corset, and even to Fräulein with the töpfchen (chamberpot).
