Published in 1936, this is a novel very much of its era: it deals with the threat of another war hanging over the continent, and flirts with the hope that an appeal to the better natures of people will overcome their fear and suspicion of one another, and that love can win the day. Love didn’t, as it turns out, win the day. Nor has it been winning much since. But if we put that to one side, this is an exciting novel full of ideas, very interesting ideas, and a tremendously clever novel because of them: ideas which make it worth reading; but also there is a superfluity of ideas, one which spoils the novel, making it quite unengaging: it just doesn’t work. The last several hundred words, a dense patch of philosophizing, will leave the reader cold, just as they might be hoping to leave the book with some warm recollections and a sympathetic evaluation. But to be fair, very much worth reading. Huxley is something of a genius.