What would the Controller think?
To be labelled as the friend of a man who said that he didn't like civilization-said it openly and, of all people, to the Controller-it was terrible.
"But, John," he began.
A look from Mustapha Mond reduced him to an abject silence.
"Of course," the Savage went on to admit, "there are some very nice things.
All that music in the air, for instance ..."
"Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about my ears and sometimes voices."
The Savage's face lit up with a sudden pleasure.
"Have you read it too?" he asked.
"I thought nobody knew about that book here, in England."
"Almost nobody.
I'm one of the very few.
It's prohibited, you see.
But as I make the laws here, I can also break them.
With impunity, Mr. Marx," he added, turning to Bernard.
"Which I'm afraid you can't do."
Bernard sank into a yet more hopeless misery.
"But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage.
In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else.
The Controller shrugged his shoulders.
"Because it's old; that's the chief reason.
We haven't any use for old things here."
"Even when they're beautiful?"
"Particularly when they're beautiful.
Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things.
We want them to like the new ones."
"But the new ones are so stupid and horrible.
Those plays, where there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people kissing."
He made a grimace.
"Goats and monkeys!"
Only in Othello's word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred.
"Nice tame animals, anyhow," the Controller murmured parenthetically.
"Why don't you let them see Othello instead?"
"I've told you; it's old.
Besides, they couldn't understand it."
Yes, that was true.
He remembered how Helmholtz had laughed at Romeo and Juliet.
"Well then," he said, after a pause, "something new that's like Othello, and that they could understand."
"That's what we've all been wanting to write," said Helmholtz, breaking a long silence.
"And it's what you never will write," said the Controller.
"Because, if it were really like Othello nobody could understand it, however new it might be.
And if were new, it couldn't possibly be like Othello."
"Why not?"
"Yes, why not?" Helmholtz repeated.
He too was forgetting the unpleasant realities of the situation.
Green with anxiety and apprehension, only Bernard remembered them; the others ignored him.
"Why not?"
"Because 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.