I am currently reading Aldous Huxley's terrific novel Point Counter Point. It has within its pages some of the most insightful encounters with humanities many a semblance that it is often staggering. Reading through the thoughts of Spandrel is like dissecting this infectious wound embedded deep within humankind. In is this wonderful excerpt:
He hoped there was a hell for him to go to and regretted his inability to believe in its existence. Still, hell or no hell, it was satisfactory, it was even exciting in those early days to know that one was doing something bad or wrong. But there is in debauchery something so intrinsically dull, something so absolutely and hopelessly dismal, that it is only the rarest beings, gifted with much less than the usual amount of intelligence and much more than the usual intensity of appetite, who can go on actively enjoying a regular course of vice or continue actively to believe in its wickedness.
pg. 217 of the Dalkey Archive Press edition, 2004
Huxley is an expert in dealing with the complex inner workings of both conscience and soul. This novel is a masterpiece and I have thoroughly enjoyed reading it and entertaining its notions in my own mind.
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