“All right then," said the savage defiantly, I'm claiming the right to be unhappy.""Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat, the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence."I claim them all," said the Savage at last.”

“Isn't there something in living dangerously?'There's a great deal in it,' the Controller replied. 'Men and women must have their adrenals stimulated from time to time.'What?' questioned the Savage, uncomprehending.It's one of the conditions of perfect health. That's why we've made the V.P.S. treatments compulsory.'V.P.S.?'Violent Passion Surrogate. Regularly once a month. We flood the whole system with adrenin. It's the complete physiological equivalent of fear and rage. All the tonic effects of murdering Desdemona and being murdered by Othello, without any of the inconvenience.'But I like the inconveniences.'We don't,' said the Controller. 'We prefer to do things comfortably.'But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.'In fact,' said Mustapha Mond, 'you're claiming the right to be unhappy. Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer, the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.' There was a long silence.I claim them all,' said the Savage at last.Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. 'You're welcome,' he said.”

“I'm claiming the right to be unhappy.”

“Those who believe that they are exclusively in the right are generally those who achieve something.”

“Whatever is he saying?" said a voice, very near, distinct and shrill through the warblings of the Super-Wurlitzer. The Savage violently started and, uncovering his face, looked round. Five khaki twins, each with the stump of a long eclair in his right hand, and their identical faces variously smeared with liquid chocolate, were standing in a row, puggily goggling at him. They met his eyes and simultaneously grinned. One of them pointed with his eclair butt. "Is she dead?"he asked.”

“...we were back at home, and I had returned to that reassuring but profoundly unsatisfactory state known as 'being in one's right mind.”

“True, Clara's eyebrows didn't meet. But she was really too pneumatic. Whereas Fifi and Joanna were absolutely right. Plump, blonde, not too large...And it was that great lout, Tom Kawaguchi, who now took the seat between them.”