If we could sniff or swallow something that would, for five or six hours each day, abolish our solitude as individuals, atone us with our fellows in a glowing exaltation of affection and make life in all its aspects seem not only worth living, but divinely beautiful and significant, and if this heavenly, world-transfiguring drug were of such a kind that we could wake up next morning with a clear head and an undamaged constitution—then, it seems to me, all our problems (and not merely the one small problem of discovering a novel pleasure) would be wholly solved and earth would become paradise.
Aldous Huxley (1894–1963), British author. "Wanted, a New Pleasure," Music at Night and Other Essays (1949).
Huxley's earlier writings revealed a different attitude: "I prefer being sober to even the rosiest and most agreeable intoxications," he wrote in his introduction to Texts and Pretexts (1932). "The peyotl-trances of Swinburne, for example, have always left me perfectly compos mentis; I do not catch the infection."