"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York
And all the clouds that loured upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried."
Richard III, W. Shakespeare
"But I don't want confort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin."
"In fact", said Mustapha Mond, "you're claiming the right to be unhappy."
"All right, then", said the Savage defiantly. I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."
"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind."
There was a long silence.
"I claim them all", said the Savage at last.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. "You're welcome", he said.
Brave New World (1932), Aldous Huxley