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Chrome Yellow
By Aldous Huxley
http://www.idph.net
April 6, 2003
2
IDPH
Contents
CHAPTER I
5
CHAPTER II
9
CHAPTER III
15
CHAPTER IV
21
CHAPTER V
27
CHAPTER VI
31
CHAPTER VII
39
CHAPTER VIII
45
CHAPTER IX
47
CHAPTER X
55
CHAPTER XI
59
CHAPTER XII
65
CHAPTER XIII
69
3
4
IDPH
CHAPTER XIV
81
CHAPTER XV
85
CHAPTER XVI
89
CHAPTER XVII
93
CHAPTER XVIII
101
CHAPTER XIX
105
CHAPTER XX
117
CHAPTER XXI
121
CHAPTER XXII
125
CHAPTER XXIII
131
CHAPTER XXIV
135
CHAPTER XXV
141
CHAPTER XXVI
147
CHAPTER XXVII
151
CHAPTER XXVIII
159
CHAPTER XXIX
163
CHAPTER XXX
169
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CHAPTER I
Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains–
the few that there were–stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of
those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Tim-
pany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water. Camlet was where he
always got out, leaving the train to creep indolently onward, goodness only
knew whither, into the green heart of England.
They were snorting out of West Bowlby now. It was the next station, thank
Heaven. Denis took his chattels off the rack and piled them neatly in the corner
opposite his own. A futile proceeding. But one must have something to do.
When he had finished, he sank back into his seat and closed his eyes. It was
extremely hot.
Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which
he might have done so much, so much–written the perfect poem, for example,
or read the one illuminating book. Instead of which–his gorge rose at the smell
of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in
that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what
had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his
reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis groaned in the spirit, condemned himself
utterly with all his works. What right had he to sit in the sunshine, to occupy
corner seats in third-class carriages, to be alive? None, none, none.
Misery and a nameless nostalgic distress possessed him. He was twenty-three,
and oh! so agonizingly conscious of the fact.
The train came bumpingly to a halt. Here was Camlet at last. Denis jumped up,
crammed his hat over his eyes, deranged his pile of baggage, leaned out of the
window and shouted for a porter, seized a bag in either hand, and had to put
them down again in order to open the door. When at last he had safely bundled
himself and his baggage on to the platform, he ran up the train towards the van.
5
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