This was another book club pick, this time for a group that usually focuses on philosophy. I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it, since this is a group I appreciate for filling in the gaps in my philosophy education rather than my literary reading, but Brave New World was also one of those Great Classics that had passed me by, the rare book that I remember giving up on, so I was still game.
Well, at least I finished it this time around. Some ninety years after publication and I struggle with understanding why it persists as a Great Classic. Brave New World suffers from the kind of aged-like-milk retrofuturism that consigns other science fiction to the dustbin of history; I’m feeling a bit punchy today so I’ll make the bold claim that Huxley’s continued commentary and sequels, as well as his overall literary reputation, probably helped Brave New World stick better in the public consciousness than your typical pulp magazine story. The novel starts with a load of technobabble infodumping at the hatchery that would have been right at home in an issue of Amazing Stories or Weird Tales, and my eyes glazed over as quickly as they had on my first attempt some twenty-odd years ago. Most of the satirical bits, such as the all the Ford jokes, have also lost their shine in the intervening years.
The most interesting parts of the book for me were the parts that Huxley didn’t spend that much time on: the psychic, psychological cost of the culture clashes, like between Linda and the Savage Reservation community, or John and the World State. They both suffer miserable fates, but that narrative fate is the shallowest, laziest commentary Huxley could have possibly provided. Why, for example, is John so unmoored by his attraction to Lenina? Sure, the differences in the sexual norms they’re used to would naturally lead to misunderstandings or incompatibilities—John even articulates that when he rejects her point-blank offer, saying he wants to do or accomplish something to deserve her first. Sure, that’s understandable, even if it’s completely dismissive of what the woman in this situation thinks. But while the violent outburst that follows is a fairly realistic, if extreme, depiction of the mixed and unprocessed emotions a lot of (straight) men have about sex and the women they’re sexually attracted to, Huxley doesn’t really dig any deeper into John’s psychology than that. To a modern reader (or, to this modern reader), John’s reaction to Lenina isn’t anything spontaneous that would arise in nature: it’s one that’s a result of repressive ideas about sex and gender norms. But because Brave New World isn’t supposed to be a critique or a satire of the society John grew up in, it’s hard to argue that Huxley recognizes that. It sure seems like for Huxley the normal state of sexual relations is one where men must constantly strive and impress naturally disinterested, picky women.
The only character who gets any interesting psychological treatment is Bernard. His suffering and marginalization because of his outsider status don’t automatically turn him into a hero, which is too often the case in a lot of stories. Being slightly outside the order of things has given him something a moral standard, and a greater insight into (and cynicism about) the whole World State system, but when it comes to his actions Bernard is just as often a coward or a clout-chaser as he is an upstanding moral person. In a story full of cardboard cutouts, Bernard is the only actual person.
Brave New World is one of the most notorious of banned books, and as someone who ardently believes in not banning books, I feel a bit guilty about not liking it more. Should it be banned? Of course not. But not every banned book is worth reading, either.
