Island

by Aldous Huxley

Faith is something very different from belief. Belief is the systematic taking of unanalyzed words much too seriously. Paul’s words, Mohammed’s words, Marx’s words, Hitler’s words—people take them too seriously, and what happens? What happens is the senseless ambivalence of history—sadism versus duty, or (incomparably worse) sadism as duty; devotion counterbalanced by organized paranoia;

“Don’t ask me,” she answered. “That’s a question for a neurotheologian.” “Meaning what?” he asked. “Meaning precisely what it says. Somebody who thinks about people in terms, simultaneously, of the Clear Light of the Void and the vegetative nervous system. The grown-ups are a mixture of Mind and physiology.” “And the children?” “The children are the little fellows who think they know better than the grown-ups.” “And so must be told to run along and play.” “Exactly.”

“Naturally. Because I always have the same name and the same nose and eyes, it doesn’t follow that I’m always the same woman. Recognizing that fact and reacting to it sensibly—that’s part of the Art of Loving.”

We cannot reason ourselves out of our basic irrationality. All we can do is to learn the art of being irrational in a reasonable way.