Antic Hay, by Aldous Huxley

I remember once, when I used to hang about the biological laboratories at school, eviscerating frogs–crucified with pins, they were, belly upwards, like little green Christs–I remember once, when I was sitting there, quietly poring over the entrails, in came the laboratory boy and said to the stinks usher: ‘Please, sir, may I have the key of the Absolute?’  And, would you believe it, that usher calmly put his hand in his trouser pocket and fished out a small Yale key and gave it him without a word. What a gesture! The key of the Absolute. But it was only the absolute alcohol the urchin wanted–to pickle some loathsome foetus in, I suppose.