The A-N-T-I-C, yes that's the book for me.

The two other books I've read by Aldous Huxley, Brave New World and Time Must Have A Stop, seem to suggest that mankind is on a tramline for destruction, but there are a couple stations at which we can reroute our path. Antic Hay, beneath all of its hazy merriment, points at just the opposite. The rerouting station is miles past for each of us. Freud was on the high ebb around the time this book was written and it shows. All the characters are presented as a messy knot of libidinal forces, becoming more tangled as they try to un-knot themselves. Perhaps if they could turn back the clock they could recast their childhoods and live decent adult lives, but it is Aldous Huxley writing their lives, not H. P. Lovecraft, and no such solace is offered. Glimmers of hope appear throughout the book, such as intimate real love, but every characters ambitions conclude in a fashion that makes Brave New World look like Disney World. If you want a strange book writhing with sex, suicide , thwarted ambition, and innocence being slapped in the face at every corner, don't hesitate to peel open the cover of Antic Hay. It's a very bleak look at humanity, but after you raise your head from the pages you may be able to discern like never before what's hollow in your life and what is to be held dear.