Author: Aldous Huxley
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Cold for all the summer beyond the panes, for all the tropical heat of the room itself, a harsh thin light glared through the windows, hungrily seeking some draped lay figure, some pallid shape of academic goose-flesh, but finding only the glass and nickel and bleakly shining porcelain of a laboratory.
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Wintriness responded to wintriness.
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For particulars, as every one knows, make for virture and happiness; generalities are intellectually necessary evils.
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Like chickens drinking, the students lifted their eyes towards the distant ceiling.