Crome Yellow

I restarted this book by Aldous Huxley recently. It's a hoot.

"Morning, Sir," old Rowley answered. He was the most venerable of the labourers on the farm--a tall, solid man, still unbent, with grey side-whiskers, and a steep, dignified profile. Grave, weighty in his manner, splendidly respectable, Rowley had the air of a great English statesman of the mid-nineteenth century. He halted on the outskirts of the group, and for a moment they all looked at the pigs in a silence that was only broken by the sound of grunting or the squelch of a sharp hoof in the mire. Rowley turned at last, slowly and ponderously and nobly, as he did everything, and addressed himself to Henry Wimbush.
"Look at them, sir," he said, with a motion of his hand towards the wallowing swine. "Rightly is they called pigs."
"Rightly indeed." Mr. Wimbush agreed.
"I am abashed by that man," said Mr. Scogan, as old Rowley plodded off slowly and with dignity. "What wisdom, what judgment, what a sense of values! 'Rightly are they called swine.' Yes. And I wish I could, with as much justice, say, 'Rightly are we called men.'"

I hope I am correctly reading this book as satire. Because I am, and I am enjoying it thoroughly.