The Paris Review Interview

Summary

This interview centers on Aldous Huxley’s writing habits, literary judgments, and reflections on the relationship between imagination, philosophy, and altered states of consciousness. Speaking in the context of a Paris Review-style conversation about writers at work, he describes a disciplined routine: he writes regularly, usually in the mornings and again before dinner, and rarely at night. He emphasizes that he rewrites extensively, often revising each page many times, and says that his ideas are usually only dimly formed at the outset. He begins with a general sense of direction, then allows the work to develop as he writes. At times, he has written large amounts only to discover that the material does not work and must be discarded. He also admits that he does not keep notebooks, though he thinks he should, and says he has only occasionally kept diaries for short periods. A major portion of the discussion concerns his current project, which he describes as a fantasy or a reversed Brave New World: a society in which real efforts are made to realize human potentialities. He contrasts this with Ape and Essence, which he calls a pure fantasy or parable rather than a direct reflection of postwar reality. He also discusses The Genius and the Goddess, explaining that it was a shorter work and that he did not have to throw away large sections while writing it. He says that his favorite of his own books may be Time Must Have a Stop, because he feels it integrates the essayistic and fictional elements especially well. The interview then turns to the question of psychedelics, especially lysergic acid, and whether such drugs can aid creativity. Huxley argues that there is no single general rule because people respond very differently. He believes the experience can be profoundly significant and may indirectly help creativity by expanding perception, but he rejects the idea that one can simply take a drug in order to produce a great poem or novel on demand. He suggests that the experience may be more immediately useful to lyric poets or painters because it can produce an extraordinary vision of life and a transformed sense of the external world. He stresses, however, that the experience itself is largely beyond words, and that its value for art lies in the aftereffects: a new way of seeing, a memory of transfigured reality, and a possible glimpse into the visionary worlds associated with figures such as van Gogh, Blake, and Odilon Redon. Even so, he doubts that the drug would automatically improve an artist’s technical output, noting that many attempts to depict drug experiences in painting seem shallow or merely expressionistic. Huxley reflects at length on his own limitations as a novelist. He says he is not a “congenital novelist,” meaning that he does not have plots pouring out of him naturally and does not possess the effortless storytelling gift of some writers. He finds plot invention difficult and says he has a limited repertory of characters. He contrasts himself with writers like Stevenson, who claimed that subconscious “brownies” supplied his plots in dreams. Huxley suggests that temperament matters: some writers are wholly absorbed by fiction, while others have many competing interests. He also explains that he values fiction, biography, and history because they allow abstract ideas to be embodied in concrete lives and situations. In his view, this is far more profound than abstract philosophy alone. He praises Dostoevsky for expressing philosophical depth through fiction and argues that the highest literary form may be one that fuses tragedy, comedy, and total human experience more completely than existing forms do. The conversation moves through a wide range of literary preferences and judgments. Huxley names Lawrence, Proust, Gide, Faulkner, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Dumas, Chaucer, Homer, Swift, Fielding, Pope, Diderot, Hume, and others as writers he admires or has learned from. He speaks warmly of Lawrence, whom he knew personally and whose work he still rereads with admiration, especially the short stories and Women in Love. He says he was never much taken with Joyce, though he respects Ulysses as an extraordinary book. He praises Faulkner’s early novels, admires Tolstoy’s short works such as The Death of Ivan Ilyich, and values Dostoevsky’s short fiction and philosophical intensity. He also discusses Henry James, Thomas Mann, and E. M. Forster, generally with mixed or restrained enthusiasm. He notes the beauty and difficulty of Chaucer, the enduring force of Swift, and the brilliance of Dumas as a pure storyteller. Another recurring theme is Huxley’s defense of satire and his early satirical impulse. He says he is in favor of more satire in the world because people take things too seriously. He recalls reading Swift and the Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum as a young man and says these shaped his sense of humor. He also discusses the evolution of his own work, acknowledging that his interests changed over time and that he moved away from the social satire of his early novels. He does not think that place alone determines fiction, though he concedes that some kinds of fiction are tied to specific social environments, as with Trollope’s English middle-class world. He notes that Lawrence showed how a writer could carry a world with him and write about many different settings, including Mexico and other places. The interview closes with remarks about Bloomsbury figures such as Virginia Woolf, Roger Fry, Lytton Strachey, Clive Bell, and Keynes, whom he knew well. He also mentions his teaching and lecture commitments at UCSB, his lack of interest in writing poetry because it is too time-consuming, and his current work on the long fantasy. The exchange ends on a practical note about editing the transcript for the Paris Review and a possible invitation to speak at Claremont, underscoring the interview’s blend of literary reflection, personal recollection, and ongoing intellectual engagement.