H. G. Wells

Food of the gods

Book one

FOOD DISCOVERY

Towards the middle of the nineteenth century, in our very strange world, for the first time begins to grow a class of people (mostly elderly people) who are rightly called "scientists", but who cannot stand the name. They dislike him to such an extent that in the journal Priroda, which from the very beginning became their privileged organ, the word "scientist" is never used, as if it were not in the lexicon at all. But the public and press still refer to them as "scientists" when they are mentioned. “Respected scientist”, “our famous scientist”, “venerable scientist” - this is how we usually call them.

Both Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood undoubtedly deserved any of the above adjectives for the word "scientist" even before their miraculous discovery, which is discussed below. Mr. Bensington was a Fellow of the Royal Society and ex-President of the Chemical Society, and Professor Redwood read physiology at the Bond Street College of the University of London and was periodically harassed by anti-vivisectionists. Both from early youth devoted themselves to science and lived academic lives.

Like all scientists, they had a rather nondescript appearance. There is far more self-confidence in the manner and figure of any mediocre actor than in all the members of the Royal Society put together. Mr. Bensington was small, bald and had a slight stutter; he wore gold spectacles and soft boots, cut in many places due to the presence of calluses. There was nothing remarkable about Professor Redwood's appearance either. Before the discovery of The Food of the Gods (I insist on this title), they lived in such obscurity as only eminent scientists can, and therefore I can tell the reader nothing about their past.

Mr. Bensington won his spurs (if I may say so about a gentleman who wears soft shoes) with a remarkable study of poisonous alkaloids, and Professor Redwood became famous for ... something I can’t even remember what! I only know that something very important. He seems to have written a thick book on muscle reflexes, with numerous diagrams and beautifully crafted new terminology.

The general public, of course, knew nothing of any of these gentlemen. Sometimes, however, in such places as the Royal Institute or the Academy of Arts, she had the opportunity to admire Mr. Bensington's purple baldness and stand-up collars and listen to his mumbling. Once, I remember, a very long time ago, when the British Association met at Dover, I happened to fall into one of its sections - headed either C, or B, or maybe some other letter - and followed by two very serious ladies simply out of curiosity, he entered a dark room, on one of the walls of which a circle from a magic lantern stood out as a bright spot with Professor Redwood's diagrams incomprehensible to me. For a long time I looked at the incessantly changing drawings, listening to the hiss of the lantern, to the quiet voice of the professor, and to some other sounds that were completely inexplicable, when suddenly the hall was lit up, and I realized that these last sounds were caused by the friendly chewing of the rolls and sandwiches brought from themselves as thrifty members of the Association.

Redwood continued to talk as he paced in front of a screen that had just displayed his diagrams. His appearance was the most ordinary. Black-haired, thin, nervously hurried, he resembled a man who, along with reading a report, was busy with something else.

I also happened to listen to Bensington once - at a pedagogical convention in Bloomsbury. Like most chemists and botanists, he considered himself an expert in pedagogy, although, in my opinion, he would not have been fit even to be an elementary school teacher. As far as I remember, Mr. Bensington was then promoting some improvement in Professor Armstrong's heuristic method, by which, with the help of apparatus costing three or four hundred pounds, and with the exclusive attention to the case of both students and teachers, it would be possible for the most ordinary boy to for ten or twelve years, to teach chemistry as well as from the cheap textbooks that were common at that time.

With their learning, both respectable gentlemen were, as you see, the most ordinary people. Perhaps even less practical - this can be said about all scientists in the world. A wide audience does not notice anything remarkable in them, and the little things, on the contrary, are striking to everyone.

Generally speaking, there are no more petty people than scientists. They live for the most part in a close circle of fellow scientists, almost in a monastic setting, forever busy with their research. In addition to satisfying their own petty pride, they are not interested in anything. It's amusing to look at some small, dry, gray-haired, awkward and self-satisfied "great scientist" when he, decorated with a wide ribbon of some order, accepts the congratulations of his colleagues. It is amusing to read in the journal "Nature" lamentations on the topic of "contempt for science" when the angel of New Year's awards passes the members of the Royal Society, leaving nothing for them to remember. It is amusing to listen to some indefatigable worker in the field of the histology of the mystical couple when he criticizes the work of another such worker of the same venerable science. All this only illustrates human pettiness.

Petty though they are, our two scientists have made an astonishing discovery, fraught with important consequences for the human race, one that only great men would have been able to accomplish. Perhaps they themselves did not realize the importance of what they were doing. Suppose that both Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood in their youth, choosing their profession, devoting their strength to the relevant sciences, could not help but be guided in part by fantasy - dreams of glory, of the greatness of their vocation. Without such a dream, how could a young man completely devote himself to a cause that promises him only the position of a “scientist”?

No, they certainly understood what they were doing, they undoubtedly dreamed, and not only delved into science. But the greatness of the discovery overshadowed them so much that they themselves, having seen this greatness up close, ceased to believe in it.

That is why, perhaps, Redwood became so quarrelsome and irritable.

I call "Food of the Gods" the substance discovered by Bensington and Redwood. Subsequent events have already proved, and will continue to prove, that I am not exaggerating in the least.

But Mr. Bensington was, in fact, as incapable of giving this name to his discovery as of walking out of his apartment in Slan Street wearing a purple toga and a laurel wreath. This name escaped him in the first minute under the influence of scientific enthusiasm, but he immediately recognized it as absurd.

As befits a real "scientist", seeing greatness close up, he immediately closed his eyes in front of him. To christen his discovery "Food of the Gods" seemed almost impudent to him. He was even surprised that such a name escaped from him in the first minute.

And yet ... and yet, I believe that in the depths of his soul he himself does not know the real price of his discovery: this can be seen from him sometimes ...

Well, yes, you know, - he once said, rubbing his hands and laughing nervously, - this is of interest not only from a theoretical point of view ...

Then, bending down to Professor Redwood's ear, he whispered:

With the proper arrangement of the matter, we could perhaps sell it as food, or at least as an ingredient in food.

How to name? he continued, answering Redwood's question and staring at the slits in his soft boots. - It seems to me that it is necessary to dwell on some subtle classical hint ... This corresponds to the dignity of science. I thought... you might find my fantasy funny... but sometimes it's okay to fantasize a little... what about Herakleophorbia? BUT? "Food of Hercules"?! But if you don't like it...

Redwood sat silently and made no objection.

You can, perhaps, call Titanophorbia - "Food of the Titans" ... Do you prefer the first name? Don't you find it somewhat...

No, I don't.

Ah, so much the better! I am glad!

So they called their discovery Heracleophorbia. This name is also used in the report to the Royal Society, which, however, was never published due to further unexpected events. As a matter of fact, there were four varieties of Heracleophorbia, and only the last of them, the fourth, I call here "Food of the Gods."

The idea of ​​the discovery belonged to Bensington, but as it was suggested to him by one of the works of Professor Redwood, Bensington considered it his duty to consult this gentleman about further work. The idea itself was equally from the field of physiology and from the field of chemistry.

No. This is not about gigantism at all. For Wells, it is important that thoughts become new, the psychology of people changes, and the size only emphasizes the difference from outdated moral dwarfs.

It is not for nothing that a village boy without education exclaims: “They think that I myself am huge, but the little soul in me is like a chicken!” and all the time he thinks about the world and about his place in it. A princess who renounced palace conventions for the sake of her beloved, ready to risk her life. The Kossar brothers, constantly inventing, dreaming of making the world a better place, arranging the life of little ones for free, so that only those would feel good. All of them are people without self-interest, with a new worldview, cleaner and more honest. Giants of the Human Spirit. And Keiterem, who opposes them, fights not for truth, but for power and victory (no matter what and over what, as long as there is victory), cheering himself up with drugs, a pathetic, sick and miserable dwarf.

“- For greatness is not only in us, not only in Food, but also in the essence of all things! It lies in the nature of all things; it is part of space and time. Grow, always grow, from the first to the last hour - such is Being, such is the law of life. There is no other law!

What about helping others?

Help grow, move forward. This means we are growing. If we do not help them to remain nonentities…”

That is why man needs the Cosmos. That's what progress is for. An excellent novel about the conflict between the old and the new.

"Endless struggle. Endless strife. That is life. Great and small cannot find a common language. But in every newly born person, a grain of greatness slumbers, slumbers - and waits for Food.

Rating: no

Yes, a book about the greatness of the human spirit, but also about enduring adventurers with diplomas. In 1904 they were driven by a pure love of science, today they are driven by the desire to make money. It didn't get any easier. So the scientists decided to make humanity happy with the Food of the Gods, without thinking about the consequences. Or rather, one does not think about anything, the other doubts, but cannot stop the experiment halfway, the third makes a career, the fourth consciously seeks to change the world. And after all, people, in general, are good, and they wanted the best. And it turned out a giant nettle, giant rats, wasps, spiders, beetles, cockroaches and all in the same vein. In modern parlance, this is called an ecological catastrophe. But scientists, of course, are not to blame. Blame the farmer assigned to feed the Food to the experimental chickens.

Wells, with his optimism and respect for science, could not end on that note. The new world is showing its bright side. Giant people are really great. One of Wells' best utopias. There are dozens of them so far. It is easy to imagine what will happen to the planet when all two billion inhabitants of the Earth turn into giants, as Redwood Jr. dreams of it. Utopia, in any case, will not. But the alternative is even more terrible - a hundred giants are building their Utopia, and two billion are dying in the jungles of the new world.

The world that the giants want to create is beautiful. But nothing will come of it if the process is based on total destruction. And the question remains, which is still relevant today - how else will little experimenters have time to disfigure our planet.

Score: 8

If you ask me the question: "What is this book about," then I will probably get confused and start frantically trying to make a gradation of the main thoughts, of which there are a lot from reading the book. Herbert Wells wrote the novel "Food of the Gods", judging by the title, it should be about some kind of "food of the Gods", in fact, it is about it. But this thread of the novel, penetrating all the chapters of the novel, is just a metaphor, although not devoid of physical meaning and content. The book is about Life, about the meaning of life, about human destinies, about relationships, about social problems, about science, about religion, about people's attitude towards themselves and those other than themselves.

I pay tribute to Herbert for the skill of the writer, Wells perfectly conveys "England" in the text, literally all the lines of the description of this or that moment of the story create the maximum effect of presence. How detailed, and most importantly, without drearyness and tediousness, he can describe certain manifestations of the gigantism of nature, combining this with elements of some mysticism and horror, giving odds to the current masters of horror with their banal attack of some huge creature on a person. Writing the way Herbert Wells writes is wonderful, the very thought and idea of ​​creating such a novel is worth a lot.

The book has literally everything, the plot is flawless, and I believe that the author has achieved the almost impossible, namely, he created an excellent compilation of an interesting plot and strong morality, which is very subtly and harmoniously inscribed, without any pressure or teaching. There is no secondary or abstract moment in the book, if you think about it and analyze it, you can see that everything written makes sense, everything is written for a reason. It is very difficult to imagine that this book was written many years ago, for which the book rises in my eyes even much higher. And, of course, special thanks for the translation work, which adapted Wells to the maximum, using the fullness and beauty of the Russian language.

Score: 9

A large volume novel about the struggle between the new and the old, revolutionary and evolutionary paths of development. This author's idea was realized through the invention of a certain substance - the food of the gods - which allows people, as well as animals and plants, to grow into giants with attendant consequences for those around them.

All the humor/action is concentrated in the first third of the book - the organization of the experimental farm by the inventors, the very original management of the experiments, and the subsequent actions of the team of enthusiasts caused by the results of these experiments. There is also a struggle with giant rats (that's who the founder of the horror story about huge rats in the sewers!), wasps, other creeping reptiles and harmful plants.

But basically the novel is philosophical - about the conflict of the emerging new world and the inevitable conflict of this world with the old traditional one, giants with pygmies. At the same time, the characteristics that Wells gives about the reasons for the escalation of this conflict by the "pygmies" - victory in the elections and the retention of the parliamentary majority - have absolutely not lost their relevance.

In general, the novel is ideological, for reflection, fast rhythm and hard action, as in the first novels of the author, there is no here.

Score: 7

Somehow everyone speaks gloomily about this work, although of course it's not for me to judge. In my opinion, this piece is excellent. The man is reasonable, and the crowd is an unstoppable blunt force. This is the obvious truth. A person is afraid of everything that he does not understand or is afraid of. The scientist who created a miracle food with distant views on the future, wanted the good for all mankind, but received quite the opposite fear of people before his invented drug.

Yes, under its influence, children grew to gigantic sizes, but they were people, the same as everyone else, only they were huge in growth. Everyone has their own soul, thoughts and love.

Their hatred for all those small people who hated them, or, to be more precise, were afraid, and very much, is understandable. It would be possible to coexist together, so there is no need to necessarily destroy. The book is great. I recommend reading.

Score: 10

Okay, I roughly understand what the author wanted to say allegorically with this work about "giants of thought among the dwarfs of the spirit." But the form in which it is implemented does not allow one to feel the ideas of the work. Giant people will require a huge amount of resources, because of which it is quite possible that they will start to fight widely with the “shorties”, and then they may even gnaw at each other completely, completely forgetting about their desire for the stars. Because high ideals are high ideals, and you also need to eat something. Of course, at the time when the work was written, the problems of overpopulation in our unfortunate little world were not so acute. But even then the author could see with his own eyes, at least on the example of his native London, what a too large concentration of the human mass could approximately lead to.

But still, the main drawback of the work is its ending. Which is not open, but simply ragged. Having scattered a heap of ideas, the writer retires, leaving his heroes and readers in the face of uncertainty. Perhaps he saw an exceptionally bright future for the giants ahead. And I think there's a lot more that could be said here. And it would not be so difficult to do this, given the structural form of the work, consisting of various fragments. But, alas and ah, from the point of view of the author, we will never know what awaited the titans in the world of midgets in the future. He was no longer interested, apparently, carried away by ideas, he eventually just forgot about his heroes a little.

Score: 6

I am very sensitive to the books of H. G. Wells, since it was with the "Time Machine" and "War of the Worlds" in my early childhood that my acquaintance with science fiction as a genre began. And it was after these books that I fell in love with fantasy literature. Therefore, I cannot strictly judge Wells' books. Yes, this novel is clearly not the best work of the author. The idea is far from new. The ending is boring and filled with unnecessary details. But the novel is written in excellent language, and the first half of the book is also written with humor. And do not forget about the year of writing. At the time, this book was one of the first on the subject.

So - 9 out of 10.

Score: 9

A very successful work. Here everyone will find for himself what he likes. Lovers of dynamic adventures - hunting for giant rats and other evil spirits (Part 1), lovers of descriptions - development of the main character (Part 2), lovers of social romance - disagreements between people and giants (Part 3). The main idea of ​​the novel is the attitude of conservative people, accustomed to and loving the old system, to everything new. And everything new, to varying degrees, destroys something in the old system, just as here clumsy giants often smash the human economy, arousing distrust and hatred.

Wells ended the novel in a very correct place. In my opinion, he would spoil the impression if he continued the story. He has already said what he wanted to say, and what will happen next is unimportant, think for yourself. And the gloomy Wells style completes the effect. Bravo, 10 out of 10.

Score: 10

It seems to me that this is the first novel in science fiction in which the author raises the problem of confrontation between the old man (ordinary) and the new (genetically modified). Then there will be many works, when they begin to acquire the most incredible abilities, and, as they said in Soviet science fiction, we have raised a new improved person. In a word, an original, serious, classic fantasy with all its virtues, which is the right place on the collection shelf.

Current page: 1 (the book has 15 pages in total)

H. G. Wells
FOOD OF THE GODS

Part one
"The Birth of Food"

1. Food discovery

In the middle of the nineteenth century, in our strange world, the number of people of that special category, mostly elderly, who are called scientists - and very correctly called, although they do not like it at all, began to grow and multiply unprecedentedly. They dislike it so much that from the pages of Nature, the organ that from the very beginning serves as their eternal and unchanging mouthpiece, the word is carefully banished as a kind of obscenity. But the public and its press have a different opinion, they only call them that, and not otherwise, and if any of them attract even a modicum of attention, we call him “outstanding scientist”, “venerable scientist”, “illustrious scientist”, and even more magnificent.

To be sure, both Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood fully deserved all these titles long before their astonishing discovery, which this book will tell. Mr. Bensington was a Fellow of the Royal Society, and formerly also President of the Chemical Society, while Professor Redwood taught a course in physiology at Bond Street College, London University, and was more than once vehemently attacked by the anti-vivisectionists. Both from a young age devoted themselves entirely to science.

Of course, like all true scientists, both of them were unremarkable in appearance. There is more dignity in the posture and manner of any of the humblest actors than all the members of the Royal Society put together. Mr. Bensington was short, round-shouldered, and exceedingly bald, and wore gold-rimmed spectacles and cloth shoes cut in many places because of innumerable calluses. Professor Redwood's appearance was also the most ordinary. Until they happened to discover the Food of the Gods (I have to insist on this name), their life proceeded in worthy and obscure scientific pursuits, and there is absolutely nothing to tell the reader about it.

Mr. Bensington won knights' spurs (if I may say so about a gentleman with slit cloth shoes) with his brilliant research into the most poisonous alkaloids, and Professor Redwood immortalized himself ... really, I don’t remember exactly what. I only know that somehow he immortalized himself. And glory is usually the further, the louder. It seems that his fame was brought by an extensive work on muscle reflexes, equipped with many tables, sphygmographic curves (if I am confused, please correct me) and excellent new terminology.

The general public had a rather vague idea of ​​these gentlemen. From time to time, at the Royal Society, the Society for the Promotion of Crafts, and similar institutions, she had the opportunity to look at Mr. Bensington, or at least at his ruddy bald head, collar or frock coat, and listen to fragments of a lecture or article, which he seemed to him to read quite clearly ; I remember once, an eternity ago, when the British Association was meeting at Dover, I wandered into one of its sections - either B or C; - located in a tavern; out of pure curiosity, I followed two serious ladies with paper bundles under their arms through a door marked "Billiard Room" and found myself in a completely indecent darkness, broken only by the beam of a magic lantern with which Redwood showed his tables.

I watched slide after slide and listened to a voice that belonged in all probability to Professor Redwood - I don't remember what he was talking about; in addition, in the darkness there was a buzzing of a magic lantern and some other strange sounds - I could not understand what it was, and curiosity did not let me go away. And then suddenly a light flashed on, and then I realized that incomprehensible sounds came from chewing mouths, for members of the scientific society had gathered here, at the magic lantern, to chew buns, sandwiches and other food under the cover of darkness.

I remember that all the time the lights were on, Redwood kept talking and pointing at the place on the screen where the table was supposed to be and where we saw it again, when at last it became dark again. I remember that he seemed to me then the most ordinary person: swarthy skin, a little restless movement, as if he was absorbed in some thoughts of his own, and now he is reading the report simply out of a sense of duty.

I once heard Bensington in those bygone days; it was in Bloomsbury at a teachers' conference. Like most eminent chemists and botanists, Mr. Bensington spoke with great authority on teaching, although I am sure that the most ordinary class in any closed school would have scared him half to death in the first half hour; as far as I remember, he proposed to improve Professor Armstrong's heuristic method, whereby, using apparatus and instruments worth three hundred or even four hundred pounds, completely abandoning all other sciences, with the undivided attention and help of an extremely gifted teacher, the average student for ten or twelve years, I would have learned more or less thoroughly almost as much knowledge of chemistry as could be gleaned from textbooks that were very common at that time, worthy of contempt, for which the red price is a shilling.

As you can see, in everything that does not concern science, both Redwood and Bensington were the most ordinary people. That's just, perhaps, beyond measure impractical. But that's how all scientists in the world are. By the fact that there is truly great in them, they only prick the eyes of learned brethren, for the general public it remains a book with seven seals; but everyone notices their weaknesses.

The weaknesses of scientists are indisputable, like no other, it is impossible not to notice them. These people live closed, in their narrow little world; scientific research requires from them extreme concentration and almost monastic solitude, and they are almost not enough for anything else. You will see how another graying clumsy eccentric, a little man who has made great discoveries and laughingly adorned with a wide order ribbon, shy and proud, accepts the congratulations of his brothers; one reads in Natura the lamentations about the "neglect of science" when a member of the Royal Society is passed over with an award on the day of the jubilee; you will listen to how another tireless researcher of mosses and lichens dismantles the solid work of his equally tireless colleague, and involuntarily you will understand how small and insignificant people are.

Meanwhile, two modest little scientists have created and continue to create something amazing, extraordinary, which promises humanity in the future unimaginable greatness and power! They don't seem to know the value of what they do.

A long time ago, when Mr. Bensington, choosing a profession, decided to devote his life to alkaloids and similar substances, a vision flickered before his inner eye and illuminated him at least for a moment. After all, if it were not for a premonition, not for the hope of fame and position, which only scientists are awarded, hardly anyone from his youth would have devoted his whole life to such work. No, of course, they were lit up with a premonition of glory - and this vision, probably, was so bright that it blinded them. The brilliance blinded them, fortunately for them, so that until the end of their lives they could calmly hold the torch of knowledge for us!

Perhaps some of the oddities of Redwood, who was, as it were, out of this world, are explained by the fact that he (there is no doubt about this now) was somewhat different from his fellows, he was different, because something had not yet faded before his eyes. an old dazzling vision.

"Food of the Gods" is what I call the substance that Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood have created; and considering the fruits it has already borne and will certainly bring in the future, the title is well deserved. And so I will continue to call her that. But Mr. Bensington, in his right mind and memory, was incapable of such grandiose words - it would have been like leaving the house in Sloane Street dressed in regal purple and with a laurel wreath on his forehead. These words escaped him in the first minute simply from amazement. He called his offspring the Food of the Gods, overwhelmed with delight, and this lasted no more than an hour. And then he decided that he was being ridiculous. At first, thinking about their common discovery, he seemed to see with his own eyes immense possibilities, truly immense, the sight amazed and blinded him, but, as befits a conscientious scientist, he immediately closed his eyes so as not to see. After that, the name "Food of the Gods" already seemed to him noisy, almost indecent. He was surprised at himself: how such an expression escaped his tongue!

And, however, this fleeting insight did not pass without a trace, but again and again reminded of itself.

“Really,” he said, rubbing his hands and laughing nervously, “this is not only of theoretical interest. For example,” he leaned confidentially towards Professor Redwood and lowered his voice, “if you take it skillfully, it will probably even be possible to sell it ... to sell it precisely as a food product,” he continued, moving to the other end of the room. Or at least as a battery. Provided, of course, that it is edible. We don't know this until we've made it.

Bensington returned to the fireplace and stood on the rug, carefully examining the neat cuts in his cloth shoes.

- What should I call her? he asked, and raised his head. – I personally would prefer something classic, with meaning. It's--it's more like a scientific discovery. Gives, you know, such an old-fashioned dignity. And I thought... I don't know, maybe it will seem ridiculous and absurd to you... But sometimes it's not a sin to fantasize... Shouldn't it be called Heracleophorbia? Food for future Hercules? Perhaps, indeed ... Of course, if, in your opinion, this is not so ...

Redwood looked thoughtfully into the fire and was silent.

- Do you think this name is appropriate?

Redwood nodded solemnly.

- You can also call it Titanophorbia. Food of the titans... What do you like best?

Are you sure it's not too much...

- Sure.

- Well, that's great.

So, during further research, they called their discovery Heracleophorbia, as it was called in their report - in a report that was not published due to unforeseen events that turned all their plans upside down. Three variants of food were made, and only on the fourth time it was possible to create exactly what the theoretical calculations predicted; respectively Bensington and Redwood spoke of Heracleophorbia number one, number two, and number three. And the Food of the Gods I will call Heracleophorbia number four in this book, for I strongly insist on the name that Bensington first gave it.

The idea for Food was Mr. Bensington's. But this idea was suggested to him by one of Professor Redwood's articles in the Philosophical Transactions, and therefore, before developing it further, he consulted with the author of the article - and he did the right thing. Moreover, the forthcoming research related not only to chemistry, but to the same extent to physiology.

Professor Redwood was one of those pundits who cannot live without curves and diagrams. If you are the sort of reader I like, you are certainly familiar with the sort of scientific papers I am talking about. When you read them, you can’t understand anything, and at the end there are about six huge diagrams; unfold them - and in front of you are some amazing zigzags of unprecedented lightning or incomprehensible twists of the so-called "curves" growing from the abscissa and tending to the ordinates, and so on. You rack your brains for a long time, trying in vain to understand what it all means, and then you begin to suspect that the author himself does not understand this either. But in reality, many scientists perfectly understand the meaning of their writings, but they just do not know how to express their thoughts in a language that is understandable even for us mere mortals.

It seems to me that Professor Redwood thought precisely in diagrams and curves. Having finished a monumental work on muscle reflexes (let the reader, far from science, endure a little more - and everything will become clear as day), Redwood began to deduce curves and sphygmograms related to growth, and just one of his articles on growth prompted Mr. Bensington to new idea.

Redwood measured everything that grows - kittens, puppies, sunflowers, mushrooms, beans, and peas, and (until his wife objected) his own son - and proved that growth does not occur evenly and continuously, but in leaps.

Nothing grows constantly and uniformly, and, as far as he could establish, constant and uniform growth is generally impossible: apparently, in order to grow, all living things must first accumulate strength; then it grows violently, but not for long, and then there is a break again. In vague, jargon-strewn, truly "scientific" language, Redwood cautiously expressed himself in the sense that growth probably requires quite a lot of a certain substance in the blood, and it is formed very slowly - and when its supply is depleted in the process of growth, the body is forced to wait for it to resume. Redwood compared this unknown substance to the lubricant in a car. A growing animal, he says, is like a locomotive that, after traveling a certain distance, can no longer move on without lubrication. (“But why not lubricate the machine from the outside?” remarked Mr. Bensington, after reading this reasoning.) Very likely, Redwood added, with the delightful inconsistency characteristic of all his restless brethren, that all this will help us to shed light on the hitherto unsolved meaning of certain endocrine glands. And at what here, one asks, these glands?

In his next report, Redwood went even further. He put on a whole huge exhibition of diagrams that looked a lot like the trajectory of a flying rocket; their meaning - if there was one - boiled down to the fact that the blood of puppies and kittens (as well as the juice of mushrooms and plants) in the so-called "periods of intensive growth" and in periods of slow growth are different in composition.

Turning the diagrams this way and that, and even upside down, Mr. Bensington finally saw what the difference was, and was amazed. It turned out, you see, that this difference, in all likelihood, is due to the presence of the very substance that he had recently tried to isolate, investigating alkaloids, which have a particularly beneficial effect on the nervous system. Here Mr. Bensington placed Redwood's pamphlet on a lectern most awkwardly attached to his chair, took off his gold-rimmed spectacles, breathed on the glasses, and wiped them carefully.

- That's the thing! - he said.

Then he put on his glasses again and turned to the music stand, but as soon as he touched it with his elbow, it squealed coquettishly, leaned over - and the brochure with all the diagrams flew to the floor.

- That's the thing! repeated Mr. Bensington, leaning over the arm of his chair with an effort (he was already accustomed to patiently enduring the vagaries of this new-fangled device), making sure that he still couldn’t reach the scattered diagrams, and, dropping on all fours, began to pick them up. It was then, on the floor, that the idea dawned on him to call his offspring the Food of the Gods ...

After all, if both he and Redwood are right, then by injecting or adding to the food the substance he discovered, one can do away with interruptions and respite, and instead of taking place in leaps, the growth process (I hope you get my point) will go on continuously.

The night after his conversation with Redwood, Mr. Bensington could not sleep. Only once did he doze off briefly, and then it seemed to him that he dug a deep hole in the earth and poured ton after ton of the Food of the gods into it - and the globe swells, swells, the borders of states burst, and all members of the Royal Geographical Society, like workers of a huge tailor's workshop , hastily rip apart the equator ...

The dream, of course, is absurd, but it shows more clearly than all the words and actions of Mr. Bensington during his sober hours of wakefulness, how excited this gentleman was and what importance he attached to his discovery. Otherwise, I would not mention it, because, as a rule, other people's dreams do not interest anyone.

Coincidentally, Redwood also had a dream that night. He dreamed of a diagram inscribed with fire on an endless scroll of universal expanses. And he, Redwood, stands on a certain planet in front of some kind of black platform and reads a lecture about the new opportunities for growth that are now opening up, and listens to his Super-Royal Society of primordial forces - the very ones under the influence of which the growth of all things is still (up to the peoples , empires, celestial bodies and planetary systems) went in uneven leaps, and in other cases even with regression.

And he, Redwood, clearly and convincingly explains to them that these slow ways of growth, sometimes even leading to decline and extinction, will very soon go out of fashion by the grace of his discovery.

The dream, of course, is ridiculous! But it also shows...

I do not at all mean to say that these dreams are to be considered in any measure prophetic, or to be attributed to them any significance other than that which I have already mentioned and on which I emphatically insist.

2. Experimental farm

Mr. Bensington first suggested that, as soon as the first portion of Food could be made, it should be tried on tadpoles. Scientific experiments are always done on tadpoles, because that's why tadpoles exist in the world. It was agreed that it was Bensington who would conduct the experiments, since Redwood's laboratory was cluttered at that time with a ballistic apparatus and experimental calves, on which Redwood studied the frequency of the calf's butting movements and its daily fluctuations; research results were expressed in the most fantastic and unexpected curves; until this experiment was over, the presence of fragile glass vessels with tadpoles in the laboratory would be highly undesirable.

But when Mr. Bensington partially devoted his cousin Jane to his plans, she immediately vetoed them, declaring that she would not allow tadpoles and other experimental creatures to be born in the house. She does not mind, let him do his chemistry in the far closet (although this is an empty and worthless occupation), as long as nothing explodes there; she even let him put in a gas stove, a sink, and a hermetically sealed cupboard, a shelter from the storms of the weekly cleaning she wasn't about to cancel. Let him try to excel in his scientific deeds, because there are much more serious sins in the world: for example, you never know men who are obsessed with a passion for drinking! But for him to spread any creeping living creatures here or cut them and spoil the air - no, she will not allow this. This is unhealthy, and he, as you know, is in poor health, and let him not argue, she will not even listen to these nonsense. Bensington tried to explain to her how great his discovery was and what benefits it could bring, but to no avail. All this is fine, answered Cousin Jane, but there is no need to make dirt and disorder in the house, because it will not do without it, and then he himself will be the first to be dissatisfied.

Forgetting his calluses, Mr. Bensington paced from corner to corner and resolutely, even angrily, suggested to Cousin Jane that she was wrong, but it was all in vain. Nothing should stand in the way of Science, he said, and Cousin Jane replied that science was science, and tadpoles shouldn't be in the house. In Germany, he said, a man who made such a discovery would immediately be provided with a spacious, twenty thousand cubic feet, ideally equipped laboratory. And she answered: “I, thank God, am not a German.” These experiments would bring him unfading fame, he said, and she replied that if their already cramped apartment was full of tadpoles, he would ruin his last health. “After all, I am the master of my house,” said Bensington, and she replied that she would rather be a housekeeper in some school boarding house, but she would not babysit tadpoles; then he tried to appeal to the prudence of his cousin, and she asked him to be sensible himself and abandon the stupid idea with tadpoles; she must respect his ideas, said Bensington, but she objected that she would not respect ideas that would stink all over the house; here Bensington could not stand it and (contrary to Huxley's well-known statements on this matter) got out. Not that it is very rude, but still got out.

Of course, Cousin Jane was extremely offended, and he had to apologize, and any hope of trying the discovery on tadpoles - at least at home - vanished like smoke.

So, it was necessary to look for another way out, because as soon as the Food could be made, someone would need to be fed it to demonstrate its effect. For several days Bensington considered whether to give the tadpoles to the care of some reliable person, and then a chance article in the newspaper led him to the idea of ​​an experimental farm.

And about chickens. From the first minute he decided to breed chickens on the farm. He suddenly imagined chickens growing to fabulous sizes. In his mind he already saw chicken coops and pens - huge chicken coops and bird yards, which are getting larger by the day. Chickens are so accessible, they are much easier to feed and observe, they are easier to handle during measurements and research, they are dry, you don’t need to wet your hands ... compared to them, tadpoles are wild and unyielding creatures, not at all suitable for his experiments! It is incomprehensible how he did not think about chickens from the very beginning! In addition, there would be no need to quarrel with Cousin Jane. He shared his thoughts with Redwood, who fully agreed with him.

It's very wrong for physiologists to do their experiments on animals that are too small, Redwood said. It's the same as doing chemical experiments with an insufficient amount of matter: there are too many errors, inaccuracies and miscalculations. Now it is very important for scientists to defend their right to conduct experiments on large material. That is why he also experiments on calves at his college, despite the fact that they sometimes behave frivolously and, when meeting in the corridors, somewhat embarrass students and teachers of other subjects. But the curves are unusually interesting, and when they are published, everyone will be convinced that his choice is correct. No, if it weren't for the paucity of funds allocated in England for the needs of science, he, Redwood, would not waste money on trifles and would use only whales for his research. But, unfortunately, at present, at least in England, there are no public vivariums large enough to obtain the necessary material, this is an unrealizable dream. Here in Germany - another matter ... and so on in the same spirit.

Since the calves demanded Redwood's vigilant attention, the care of choosing and setting up an experimental farm fell to Bensington. It was agreed that he would cover all the expenses, at least until he could get a state subsidy. And so, snatching time from work in his home laboratory, he travels around the southern suburbs of London in search of a suitable farm, and his attentive eyes behind glasses, a simple-minded bald head and cut-up shoes arouse vain hopes in numerous owners of crappy and neglected farms. In addition, he advertised in Nature and several daily newspapers that a trustworthy couple, conscientious and energetic, was needed to run a three-acre pilot farm.

A place that seemed suitable to him was found in Hickleybrow (Kent), not far from Arshot. It was a strange corner in a hollow surrounded on all sides by old pine trees, gloomy and unwelcoming in the evening twilight. A humpbacked hill blocked off the valley from the west, blocking out the sunlight; the dwelling house seemed even smaller because an awkward well protruded nearby under a rickety canopy. The little house was bare, not dressed up even with a sprig of ivy or honeysuckle; half of the windows are broken; in the shed in broad daylight it was dark, even if you gouged out your eye. The farm was on the outskirts, a mile and a half from the village of Hickleybraw, and the silence here was broken only by a many-voiced echo, which only made the desolation and loneliness more acute.

Bensington imagined that all this was unusually easy and convenient to adapt for scientific research. He circled the lot, waving his hand to indicate exactly where the chicken coops would be and where the pens would be, and the kitchen, in his opinion, with little or no modification, could accommodate enough incubators and brooders. And he immediately bought the plot; on the way back he stopped at Dunton Green, arranged with a suitable couple who responded to his advertisement, and that same evening he managed to make such a portion of Heracleophorbia that it fully justified all his decisive actions.

The matched couple, destined, under Mr. Bensington's direction, to feed the hungry Food of the Gods for the first time on Earth, were not only very old, but also unusually slovenly. Mr. Bensington did not notice this last circumstance, for nothing is so detrimental to worldly observation as a life devoted to scientific experiments. The surname of the chosen couple was Skylett; Bensington visited Mr. and Mrs. Skylett in their cramped little room, where the windows were sealed shut, a spotted mirror hung over the fireplace, and pots of stunted calceolaria stuck out on the windowsills.

Mrs. Skylett turned out to be a tiny, wizened old woman; she did not wear a cap, she twisted her gray hair, which had not been washed for a long time, in a knot at the back of her head; the most prominent part of her face had always been her nose, but now, when her teeth fell out, her mouth sunken in, and her cheeks withered and wrinkled, from the whole face only one nose remained. She was wearing a charcoal gray dress (if you can tell the color of that dress at all) that had a red flannel patch on it. Mrs. Skillet let the visitor into the house and said that Mr. Skillet would go out now, just clean himself up; she answered questions in monosyllables, cautiously glancing at Bensington with her small eyes because of her huge nose. The only surviving tooth did not contribute much to the intelligibility of her speeches; she restlessly clasped her long, wrinkled hands in her lap. She told Mr. Bensington that she had been fowling for many years, and that she was well versed in incubators; at one time she and her husband even had their own farm, only in the end they were not lucky, because there were few young animals left. “The benefit is all from the young,” she explained.

Then Mr. Skylett appeared; he mumbled heavily and squinted so that one of his eyes rushed somewhere over the head of the interlocutor; his slippers were cut in many places, which immediately aroused the sympathy of Mr. Bensington, and his clothes were clearly missing buttons. The shirt and jacket were splayed at the chest, and Mr. Skylett held them with one hand, and with the other forefinger traced the gold patterns on the black embroidered tablecloth; the eye, not occupied by the tablecloth, sadly and detachedly watched a certain sword of Damocles over the head of Mr. Bensington.

“So you don’t need the farm for profit, sire. Yes, yes, sir. This is the same for us. Experiences. I understand, sir.

He said that he and his wife could move immediately. In Danton Green he is not particularly busy with anything, so he tailors a little.

“I thought you could make some money here, sir, and this is the real backwater.” So, if you like, we will immediately and pereberem ...

A week later, Mr. and Mrs. Skylett were already settled on the new farm, and a carpenter hired in Hickleybrow made chicken coops and fenced off areas for pens, while Mr. Bensington's bones were washed along the way.

“I haven’t had much to do with him yet,” said Mr. Skillett, “only, I tell me, he’s a full-blown fool.

“But in my opinion, he just doesn’t have all the houses,” the carpenter objected.

"Thinks he's a chicken connoisseur," said Mr. Skillet. - Listen to him, so it turns out, except for him, no one in the bird sniffs anything.

“He looks like a chicken himself,” said the carpenter. - How to look from the side through the glasses - well, a clean chicken.

Mr. Skillett moved closer, his mournful eye staring into the distance, at the village of Hickleybraw, and an evil light lit up in the other eye.

“He orders them to be measured every single day,” he whispered mysteriously to the carpenter. “Measuring every chicken every day—where is that supposed to be?” It is necessary, he says, to see how they rashtut. To measure every single day - have you ever heard of such a thing?

Mr. Skylett delicately covered his mouth with his hand and laughed, and doubled over with laughter, only his mournful eye did not participate in this fit of merriment. Then, not quite sure that the carpenter fully understood what the salt was, he repeated in a hissing whisper:

- To measure!

“Yes, this one seems to be even stranger than our former owner,” said the carpenter from Hickleybrow. “Here, pop my eyes!”

Scientific experiments are the most boring and tedious business in the world (except for the reports of them in the Philosophical Transactions), and it seemed to Mr. Bensington that an eternity passed until his first dreams of grandiose possibilities opening up were replaced by the first grains of tangible achievements. He started a pilot farm in October, but glimpses of success did not become visible until May. Herakleophorbia number one, number two, and number three were tried first, all failing. On the experimental farm, I had to constantly fight with rats, I also had to fight with the Skylettes. There was only one way to get Skylette to do what he was told to do: fire him. Hearing that he was being paid, Skylett rubbed his unshaven chin with the palm of his hand (strangely, although he was always unshaven, he never grew a real beard) and, staring with one eye at Mr. Bensington, and with the other over his head, said:

- I'm listening, sir. Of course, since you're being serious...

But finally, success dawned. His messenger was a letter from Skilett - a sheet covered with trembling crooked letters.

“There is a new brood,” Skillet wrote. “I don’t like the look of these chickens. Painfully they are lanky, not at all like the old ones that were before your last orders. Those were fine, well-fed, until the cat ate them, and these grow like your weeds. Never seen such people. And they peck very fast, they reach above the shoes, they really don’t let me measure, as you ordered. Real giants eat God knows how much. There is not enough grain, they are painfully gluttonous. They are already larger than adult benthams. If it goes on like this, you can send them to the exhibition, even though they are lanky. Plymouthrocks are unrecognizable in them. Last night I got scared, I thought they were attacked by a cat: I looked out the window - and now, burst my eyes, she dived towards them under the wire. I go out, and the chickens are all awake and pecking at something so greedily, but there is no cat to be seen. He tossed grains at them and locked them tight. What will be your orders, is it necessary to give food in the same manner? Which you then mixed, is already, honestly, all out, and I myself am reluctant to mix, because then it turned out to be a nuisance with the pudding. My wife and I wish you good health and look forward to your continued mercy.

Sincerely, Alfred Newton Skylett."

In the closing lines, Skylett alluded to the incident with the milk pudding, which got a little Heracleophorbia number two, which had a very painful effect on the Skylettes and almost led to the most fatal consequences.

Abstract

Terence McKenna

FOOD OF THE GODS

INTRODUCTION: MANIFESTO FOR A NEW LOOK ON PSYCHOACTIVE DRUGS

1. SHAMANISM: FORMATION OF THE SETTING

2. MAGIC IN FOOD

3. SEARCH FOR THE ORIGINAL TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

4 PLANTS AND PRIMATES: STONE AGE POSTCARDS

5. HABITS AS CULTURE AND AS RELIGION

6. HIGH PLAINS OF PARADISE

II PARADISE LOST

7. SEARCH FOR SOMA - THE MAIN MYSTERY OF THE "VED"

9. ALCOHOL AND CHEMISTRY OF THE SPIRIT

10. THE BALLAD OF THE DREAMING WEAVERS: HEMP AND CULTURE

11. PLEASURES OF PENYUAR: SUGAR, COFFEE, TEA AND CHOCOLATE

12. SMOKE IN YOUR EYES: OPIUM AND TOBACCO

13. SYNTHETICS: HEROIN, COCAINE AND TELEVISION

IV PARADISE REFOUND?

14 A BRIEF HISTORY OF PSYCHODELICS

15. ANTICIPATION OF ARCHAIC PARADISE

EPILOGUE: LOOKING OUT AND IN IN A SEA OF STARS

Terence McKenna

FOOD OF THE GODS

FROM THE EDITOR

This book presents one of the most original versions of the origin of man and everything that is habitually associated with his qualities - language, consciousness, culture. Extravagant, at the edge of refined artistry, originality is an integral facet of the life and work of Terence McKenna. This man, marked by the speech of the Other pouring through him, belongs to a rare breed of visionaries among thinkers, who received from heaven the gift of blurting out the most incredible secrets. It seems that such an almost prophetic mission for the transmission of ultimate experience more successfully than other forms corresponds to the form of visions - multidimensional synesthesia spaces inhabited by objects of sense organs, thoughts and insights that are beyond ordinary existence. Using McKenna's own definition, he is a real shaman - one "who has achieved the vision of the beginning and end of all things, and who can convey this vision" (p. 34).

The memory of his public speech has remained with me as a special trace, well distinguishable from others. Tall and thin, impetuous and energetic, from the very first words he struck me with some kind of morning music playing in him. In contrast to the strength in the foreground, he gave a distinct impression of "out-of-this-world" with his slow voice and large eyes of an elf from Celtic tales in the second. Behind each of his words there was a palpable predominance of the unsaid.

Where did his unhurried melodious speech learn the secret of the sirens, where does he get this careless ability to create multidimensional worlds with one statement? McKenna's speech magic is a special phenomenon in itself. Not without reason, before major publishers became interested in his manuscripts, he gained wide popularity in the underground thanks to the book “Pure Hallucinations” dictated on audio cassettes and several dozen extravagant recordings, and his nightly conversations in Los Angeles took place in the halls filled with the public.

Presenting in this work the “psychedelic theory of human evolution,” McKenna draws on extensive material from anthropology, the history of ancient cultures, botany, psychology, psychopharmacology, cultural studies, and many other areas of knowledge. He carefully studies the hypothesis about the possible significant role of psychoactive substances in the history of mankind, the origin of shamanism, world religions, modern technology and technology. This is a very unusual view, but it deserves careful study.

The influence of psychoactive plants on culture is the subject of the science of ethnomycology founded by Gordon Wasson, which has gained academic recognition. But the topics of this discipline quickly outgrew the framework of pure science and received a sharp universal sound in the 60s of our century. Probably many people know that the American counterculture and the human development movement were in no small part created by the previous decade of the “psychedelic revolution”, that a number of branches of modern rock music and information and communication technology - from the Beatles to virtual reality - were influenced by the experience of non-ordinary states. consciousness. It is also known that some of those who can rightly be called the creators of European civilization - artists, composers, writers, architects, thinkers of the last 500 years - had constant access to such states, spontaneously arising or achieved through individual psychopractices. In these expanded and unusual states, they saw more, expressed more original and deeper, more accurately and unexpectedly corresponded to their time.

Perhaps one of the main characters of McKenna's reflections is the human capacity for imagination and its ultimate - visionary - expression. But the “story of the imagination” is still told by the visionary. Thus, what is offered to the reader is not a theory in the conventional sense, but rather a thought experiment with culture, playing through to the end a view of human history, based on the hypothesis of a symbiotic relationship of proto-humans with psychoactive plants and the central role of language and imagination. in what made us human. Figuratively speaking, by eating a psychoactive mushroom, our ape ancestor changed so much that he was forced to create a modern culture to restore the disturbed balance with nature. The originality of such ideas leads American observers to assert that “if at least part of McKenna’s thinking is true, then someday he will be considered a “Copernic of consciousness”. Interest in these ideas in the world is also expressed by the fact that McKenna's books have already been published in Spanish, German, French, Italian, Portuguese and Japanese.

There are many other perspectives from which this work can be viewed. One should only warn the reader against its superficial interpretations in line with predetermined ideological patterns. Thus, this book is a rather serious analysis of human addictions in general, from addictions to coffee, sugar and tobacco, to addictions to a certain lifestyle, ideas or mind-affecting food, including spices and psychoactive plants. In this series, one can only understand addiction to alcohol and hard drugs - crack cocaine, opiates, amphetamines, etc. In this reading, the book is “the anatomy and archeology of human passions” (“The Algebra of Needs” by W. Burroughs). And it is obvious that without an attempt at an in-depth understanding of this topic, we will never understand “what to do with”, say, 10 million Russian alcoholics or 2 million Russian drug addicts. If all over the world, indulging their habits that have grown to obsessions and addictions, people annually spend on psychoactive substances funds comparable to the costs of medicine and art, then what other arguments are needed to finally seriously and in a new way think about this universal human problem? problem?

McKenna proposes such a conversation, proceeding from a research position that has overcome the usual bourgeois-philistine view of things, to which “everything has long been clear”, and in which the positions of good and evil are painted in advance. He questions the obvious, and his doubts are not easy to dismiss because they are based on objective facts. McKenna's book is certainly thought provoking. One may disagree with the ideas presented in it, but the depth of the approach, the breadth of the topic, and the intellectual height of the discussions engender participation.

That is why this text is useful to read to the modern consumer of tea and coffee, sugar and chocolate, tobacco and alcohol, television and fashion, who believes that “drug addiction” is something else. In one of the senses noted in the book, we all belong to a society of drug addicts whose behavior is controlled by addiction to a dominant food, emotional and mental diet, closely linked to the anti-ecological, self-destructive machine of modern civilization. And if so, then, according to the author, until we realize ourselves as slaves of these habits, our “declarations of independence” will mean no more than the dreams of humanity intoxicated with its addictions, and projects to save the Earth will be nothing more than dying utopias , visions in which, finally, the most important thing from the undone in life “scrolls”.

Vladimir Maikov

FOREWORD TO THE RUSSIAN EDITION

I am very pleased to know that my thoughts are finally being translated into Russian. The ideas of The Food of the Gods, it seems to me, are an effort to merge an extravagant sense of the mystical and mysterious with the dialectic of science and the rational study of nature. I find the same combination in many of my Russian friends, the lovely tension between the romantic dreamer and the industrious technician and engineer. Hence my hope that in Russia these ideas will be able to find a friendly audience capable of developing my insights into a point of view appealing to wide circles. Russia, as a society that has to rebuild itself, can learn a lot from the mistakes made in the West in...

PART ONE

THE BIRTH OF FOOD

FOOD DISCOVERY

In the middle of the nineteenth century, in our strange world, the number of people of that special category began to grow and multiply unprecedentedly, for the most part

The elderly, who are called scientists - and very correctly called, although they do not like it at all. So dislike that from the pages

The "nature" of the organ, which from the very beginning serves as their eternal and unchanging mouthpiece, the word is carefully banished as a kind of obscenity. But

Madam public and its press have a different opinion, it only calls them that, and not otherwise, and if any of them attract even a drop of

Attention, we call him "an outstanding scientist", "a venerable scientist", "an illustrious scientist", and even more magnificently.
Of course, both Mr. Bensington and Professor Redwood fully deserved all these titles long before their amazing discovery, about which

This book will tell. Mr. Bensington was a Fellow of the Royal Society, and in the past also President of the Chemical Society, Professor

Redwood taught a course in physiology at Bond Street College, University of London, and was repeatedly attacked by the anti-vivisectionists.

Both from a young age devoted themselves entirely to science.
Of course, like all true scientists, both of them were unremarkable in appearance. In the posture and manners of any most modest actor, where

More dignity than all members of the Royal Society put together. Mr. Bensington was short, round-shouldered and extremely bald, wore

Gold-rimmed spectacles and cloth shoes, cut in many places due to innumerable calluses. Professor Redwood's appearance was also

The most ordinary. Until they happened to discover the Food of the Gods (I have to insist on this name), their life flowed in worthy and obscure

Scientific studies, and there is absolutely nothing to tell the reader about it.
Mr. Bensington won the knight's spurs (if I may say so of a gentleman in slit cloth shoes) with his brilliant

Research on the most poisonous alkaloids, and Professor Redwood immortalized himself ... really, I don’t remember exactly what. I only know what-

He then immortalized himself. And glory is usually the further, the louder. It seems that an extensive work on muscle reflexes, equipped with

Lots of tables, sphygmographic curves (please correct me if I'm confused) and excellent new terminology.
The general public had a rather vague idea of ​​these gentlemen. Occasionally in the Royal Society, in the Society for the Promotion of Crafts and

In such establishments she had the opportunity to look at Mr. Bensington, or at least at his ruddy bald head, the collar

Or a frock coat and listen to snippets of a lecture or an article that he thought he read quite clearly; I remember once, an eternity ago,

When the British Association was meeting at Dover, I wandered into one of its sections - either B or C; - located in a tavern; from pure

Out of curiosity, I followed two serious ladies with bundles of paper under their arms through the door with the inscription "Billiard Room" and found myself in a completely

Indecent darkness, broken only by the beam of a magic lantern with which Redwood showed his tables.
I looked at slide after slide and listened to a voice that belonged in all probability to Professor Redwood - I don't remember what he was talking about;

In addition, the buzzing of a magic lantern and some other strange sounds were heard in the darkness - I could not understand what it was, and curiosity

It didn't let me leave.