On An Island

I've almost cleared all the work stuff that has to be done which means I have finally found some breathing space. Which in turn means I'll soon to be able to get in touch with real life on something more than a part time basis. The timing is particularly good as I now find myself racing through Aldous Huxley's Island and feeling very impatient with anything that gets in the way.

It's a long time since I read the novel. The edition I'm reading cost 40 pence back in 1973. That was when I was going through my first major Huxley period. In retrospect it was a good time to have read him, the right age. I can remember being especially impressed by The Devils of Loudun and Grey Eminence, more so than the fiction. A good judgment, I think. But I know I didn't enjoy Island, and now I can't think why that was. True, it's no great shakes as a novel but it's a superb exposition of ideas, and has a sense of urgency as if Huxley knew his time was short and he needed to pass on the wisdom he'd accrued.

Oddly, I think somewhere deep inside I've been aware of all that. I've known for quite some time I would go back to the novel, and I'm more than glad I did.