A poem by Aldous Huxley (1894 – 1963)


I am getting on well with this anecdote,

When suddenly I recall

The many times I have told it of old,

And all the worked-up phrases, and the dying fall

Of voice, well timed in the crisis, the note

Of mock-heroic ingeniously struck–

The whole thing sticks in my throat,

And my face all tingles and pricks with shame

For myself and my hearers.

These are the social pleasures, my God!

But I finish the story triumphantly all the same.

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