`But I don't want comfort. 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
syphillis 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.

Aldous Huxley
A Brave New World
Chapter XVII