Biography of Aldous Huxley
Aldous Leonard Huxley (26 July 1894 – 22 November 1963) was an English writer and one of the most prominent members of the famous Huxley family. Best known for his novels including Brave New World and a wide-ranging output of essays, Huxley also edited the magazine Oxford Poetry, and published short stories, poetry, travel writing, film stories and scripts. Huxley spent the later part of his life in the United States, living in Los Angeles from 1937 until his death.
Aldous Huxley was a humanist, pacifist, and satirist, and he was latterly interested in spiritual subjects such as parapsychology and philosophical mysticism. He is also well known for advocating and taking psychedelics.
By the end of his life Huxley was widely acknowledged as one of the pre-eminent intellectuals of his time and respected as an important researcher into visual communication and sight-related theories as well.
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Aldous Huxley Poems
My Firm Belief Is, That Pizarro
My firm belief is, that Pizarro Received education at Harrow -
My close-walled soul has never known That innermost darkness, dazzling sight, Like the blind point, whence the visions spring In the core of the gazer's chrysolite… The mystic darkness that laps God's throne In a splendour beyond imagining, So passing bright.
A petal drifted loose From a great magnolia bloom, Your face hung in the gloom, Floating, white and close.
The Defeat Of Youth
There had been phantoms, pale-remembered shapes Of this and this occasion, sisterly In their resemblances, each effigy Crowned with the same bright hair above the nape's White rounded firmness, and each body alert With such swift loveliness, that very rest Seemed a poised movement: ... phantoms that impressed But a faint influence and could bless or hurt No more than dreams. And these ghost things were she; For formless still, without identity, Not one she seemed, not clear, but many and dim. One face among the legions of the street, Indifferent mystery, she was for him Something still uncreated, incomplete.
Dear absurd child- too dear to my cost I've found- God made your soul for pleasure, not for use: It cleaves no way, but angled broad obtuse, Impinges with a slabby-bellied sound
A Little Memory
White in the moonlight, Wet with dew, We have known the languor Of being two.
Oh wind-swept towers, Oh endlessly blossoming trees, White clouds and lucid eyes,
Doors Of The Temple
Many are the doors of the spirit that lead Into the inmost shrine: And I count the gates of the temple divine, Since the god of the place is God indeed.
Scenes Of The Mind
I have run where festival was loud With drum and brass among the crowd Of panic revellers, whose cries Affront the quiet of the skies;
Noonday upon the Alpine meadows Pours its avalanche of Light And blazing flowers: the very shadows Translucent are and bright.
The eyes of the portraits on the wall Look at me, follow me, Stare incessantly: I take it their glance means nothing at all? - Clearly, oh clearly! Nothing at all ...
Spring is past and over these many days, Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop, Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees.
At your mouth, white and milk-warm sphinx, I taste a strange apocalypse: Your subtle taper finger-tips
The stars are golden instants in the deep Flawless expanse of night: the moon is set: The river sleeps, entranced, a smooth cool sleep Seeming so motionless that I forget
Spring is past and over these many days,
Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop,
Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees.
Nor is there any hope in me. I walk
Slowly homeward. Night is as empty and dark
Behind my eyes as it is dark without
And empty round about me and over me.
Spring is past and over these many days;
But, looking up, suddenly I see