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This version of Clockwork Orange written by Anthony Burgess was published in 1962.
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<p>
Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE<lb/>
The Restored Edition<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edited with an Introduction and<lb/>
Notes by Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Foreword by Martin Amis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Published by William Heinemann 2012<lb/>
24681097531<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Copyright © Estate of Anthony Burgess 2012<lb/>
Introduction and Notes copyright © Andrew Biswell 2012<lb/>
Foreword copyright © Martin Amis 2012<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or<lb/>
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the<lb/>
publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in<lb/>
which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition,<lb/>
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edited extract from ‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Kingsley Amis, from the Observer.<lb/>
Copyright © Estate of Kingsley Amis.<lb/>
Review of A Clockwork Orange extracted from ‘New Novels’ by Malcolm Bradbury,<lb/>
Punch, 1962. Reproduced with permission of Punch Limited.<lb/>
All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament, or Enderby’s End by Anthony Burgess’<lb/>
by A. S. Byatt, The Times, 1974. Copyright © A. S. Byatt.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Extract from Reviewery by Christopher Ricks (Penguin Books, 2003), copyright ©<lb/>
Christopher Ricks, 2003. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.<lb/>
Afterword by Stanley Edgar Hyman, copyright © Estate of Stanley Edgar Hyman,<lb/>
2012. Reproduced by permission.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The moral right of the author has been asserted under the Copyright,<lb/>
and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First published in Great Britain in 1962 by<lb/>
William Heinemann<lb/>
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,<lb/>
London swiv 2sa<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rains Riy septal<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be<lb/>
found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/ offices.htm<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CIP catalogue record for this book<lb/>
is available from the British Library<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ISBN 9780434021512<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council®<lb/>
(FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books<lb/>
carrying the FSC label are printed on FSC® certified paper. FSC is the only<lb/>
forest certification scheme endorsed by the leading environmental organisations,<lb/>
including Greenpeace. Our paper procurement policy<lb/>
can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk/environment<lb/>
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<p>
MIX<lb/>
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Paper from<lb/>
responsible sources<lb/>
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Esc FSC? C014496<lb/>
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‘Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire<lb/>
Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH, PéBneck<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ns<lb/>
Se<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Contents<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FOREWORD by Martin Amis<lb/>
INTRODUCTION by Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ONE<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
TWO<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
THREE<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NOTES<lb/>
NADSAT GLOSSARY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PROLOGUE to A Clockwork Orange:<lb/>
A Play with Music by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
EPILOGUE: ‘A Malenky Govoreet about the<lb/>
Molodoy’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND REVIEWS<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="3"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Clockwork Marmalade’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Extract from an Unpublished Interview<lb/>
with Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Programme Note for A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
2004 by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘Ludwig Van’, a review of Beethoven by<lb/>
Maynard Solomon by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘Gash Gold-Vermillion’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Kingsley Amis<lb/>
‘New Novels’ by Malcolm Bradbury<lb/>
‘Horror Show’ by Christopher Ricks<lb/>
‘All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament,<lb/>
or Enderbys End’ by A. S. Byatt<lb/>
Afterword by Stanley Edgar Hyman<lb/>
A Last Word on Violence by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ANNOTATED PAGES from Anthony Burgess’s<lb/>
1961 Typescript of A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
</p>
<p>
245<lb/>
253<lb/>
259<lb/>
</p>
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263<lb/>
267<lb/>
275<lb/>
277<lb/>
279<lb/>
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293<lb/>
</p>
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297<lb/>
305<lb/>
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<p>
307<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FOREWORD<lb/>
Martin Amis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The day-to-day business of writing a novel often seems to<lb/>
consist of nothing but decisions — decisions, decisions,<lb/>
decisions. Should this paragraph go here? Or should it go<lb/>
there? Can that chunk of exposition be diversified by<lb/>
dialogue? At what point does this information need to be<lb/>
revealed? Ought I to use a different adjective and a different<lb/>
adverb in that sentence? Or no adverb and no adjective?<lb/>
Comma or semicolon? Colon or dash? And so on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
These decisions are minor, clearly enough, and they are<lb/>
processed more or less rationally by the conscious mind.<lb/>
All the major decisions, by contrast, have been reached<lb/>
before you sit down at your desk; and they involve not a<lb/>
moment’s thought. The major decisions are inherent in<lb/>
the original frisson — in the enabling throb or whisper (a<lb/>
whisper that says, Here is a novel you may be able to write).<lb/>
Very mysteriously, it is the unconscious mind that does<lb/>
the heavy lifting. No one knows how it happens. This is<lb/>
why Norman Mailer called his (excellent) book on fiction<lb/>
The Spooky Art.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When, in 1960, Anthony Burgess sat down to write A<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="4"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
knew that the novel would be set in the near future (and<lb/>
that it would take the standard science-fictional route,<lb/>
developing, and fiercely exaggerating, current tendencies).<lb/>
He knew that his vicious anti-hero, Alex, would narrate,<lb/>
and that he would do so in an argot or idiolect that the<lb/>
world had never heard before (he eventually settled on an<lb/>
unfailingly delightful blend of Russian, Romany, and<lb/>
rhyming slang). He knew that it would have something<lb/>
to do with Good and Bad, and Free Will. And he knew,<lb/>
crucially, that Alex would harbour a highly implausible<lb/>
Passion: an ecstatic love of classical music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We see the wayward brilliance of that last decision when<lb/>
we reacquaint ourselves, after half a century, with Burgess’s<lb/>
leering, sneering, sniggering, snivelling young sociopath (a<lb/>
type unimprovably caught by Malcolm McDowell in<lb/>
Stanley Kubrick's uneven but justly celebrated film). ‘It<lb/>
wasn't me, brother,’ Alex whines at his social worker (who<lb/>
has hurried to the local jailhouse): ‘Speak up for me, sir,<lb/>
for I’m not so bad.’ But Alex is so bad; and he knows it.<lb/>
The opening chapters of A Clockwork Orange still deliver<lb/>
the shock of the new: they form a red streak of gleeful evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On their first night on the town Alex and his droogs (or<lb/>
partners in crime) waylay a schoolmaster, rip up the books<lb/>
he is carrying, strip off his clothes, and stomp on his<lb/>
dentures; they rob and belabour a shopkeeper and his wife<lb/>
(‘a fair tap with a crowbar); they give a drunken bum a<lb/>
kicking (‘we cracked into him lovely’); and they have a<lb/>
ruck with a rival gang, using the knife, the chain, the<lb/>
straight razor: this ‘would be real, this would be proper,<lb/>
this would be the nozh, the oozy, the britva, not just fisties<lb/>
and boots . . . and there I was dancing about with my<lb/>
britva like I might be a barber on board a ship on a very<lb/>
rough sea’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Then there was like quiet and we were full of like<lb/>
hate, so [we] smashed what was left to be smashed<lb/>
~ typewriter, lamp, chairs — and Dim, it was typical<lb/>
old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung<lb/>
on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said<lb/>
no. ‘Out out out out,’ I howled. The writer veck and<lb/>
his zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and<lb/>
making noises. But they'd live.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And all this has been accomplished by the time we reach<lb/>
page 30.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before Part 1 ends, fifty-one pages later, with Alex in a<lb/>
rozz-shop smelling ‘of like sick and lavatories and beery<lb/>
rots [mouths] and disinfectant’, our ‘Humble Narrator<lb/>
drugs and ravishes two ten-year-olds, slices up Dim with<lb/>
his britva, and robs and murders an elderly spinster:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
.. . but this baboochka . . . like scratched my litso<lb/>
[face]. So then I screeched: ‘You filthy old soomka<lb/>
[woman]’, and upped with the little malenky [little]<lb/>
like silver statue and cracked her a fine fair tolchock<lb/>
[blow] on the gulliver [head] and that shut her up<lb/>
real horrorshow [good] and lovely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the brief hiatus between these two storms of ‘ultra-<lb/>
violence’ (the novel’s day one and day two), Alex goes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
home—to Municipal Flatblock 18A. And here, fora change,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ix<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="5"/>
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<p>
he does nothing worse than keep his parents awake by<lb/>
playing the multi-speaker stereo in his room. First he listens<lb/>
to a new violin concerto, before moving on to Mozart and<lb/>
Bach. Burgess evokes Alex’s sensations in a bravura passage<lb/>
which owes less to nadsat, or teenage pidgin, and more to<lb/>
the modulations of Ulysses:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and<lb/>
behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silver-<lb/>
flamed, and there by the door the timps rolling<lb/>
through my guts and out again crunched like candy<lb/>
thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then,<lb/>
a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery<lb/>
wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now,<lb/>
came the violin solo above all the other strings, and<lb/>
those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here we feel the power of that enabling throb or whisper<lb/>
— the authorial insistence that the Beast would be suscep-<lb/>
tible to Beauty. At a stroke, and without sentimentality,<lb/>
Alex is decisively realigned. He has now been equipped<lb/>
with a soul, and even a suspicion of innocence — a suspi-<lb/>
cion confirmed by the deft disclosure in the final sentences<lb/>
of Part 1: “That was everything. I'd done the lot, now.<lb/>
And me still only fifteen.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the late 1950s, when A Clockwork Orange was just a<lb/>
twinkle in the author's eye, the daily newspapers were monot-<lb/>
onously bewailing the rise of mass delinquency, as the post-<lb/>
war Teddy Boys diverged and multiplied into the Mods and<lb/>
the Rockers (who would later devolve into the Hippies and<lb/>
the Skinheads). Meanwhile, the literary weeklies were much<lb/>
concerned with the various aftershocks of World War II — in<lb/>
particular, the supposedly startling coexistence, in the Third<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reich, of industrialised barbarism and High Culture. This<lb/>
is a debate that the novel boldly joins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lying naked on his bed, and thrilling to Mozart and<lb/>
Bach, Alex fondly recalls his achievements, earlier that<lb/>
night, with the maimed writer and his ravaged wife:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
...and I thought, slooshying [listening] away to the<lb/>
brown gorgeousness of the starry [old] German<lb/>
master, that I would like to have tolchocked them<lb/>
both harder and ripped them to ribbons on their own<lb/>
floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thus Burgess is airing the sinister but not implausible<lb/>
suggestion that Beethoven and Birkenau didn’t merely<lb/>
coexist. They combined and colluded, inspiring mad<lb/>
dreams of supremacism and omnipotence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Part 2, violence comes, not from below, but from<lb/>
above: it is the ‘clean’ and focused violence of the state.<lb/>
Having served two years of his sentence, the entirely incor-<lb/>
rigible Alex is selected for Reclamation Treatment (using<lb/>
‘Ludovico’s Technique’). This turns out to be a crash course<lb/>
of aversion therapy. Each morning he is injected with a<lb/>
strong emetic and wheeled into a screening room, where<lb/>
his head is clamped in a brace and his eyes pinned wide<lb/>
open; and then the lights go down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first Alex is obliged to watch familiar scenes of recre-<lb/>
ational mayhem (tolchocking malchicks, creeching<lb/>
devotchkas, and the like). We then move on to lingering<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="6"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Using Ludwig van like that. He did no harm to<lb/>
anyone. He just wrote music.’ And then I was really<lb/>
sick and they had to bring a bowl that was in the<lb/>
shape of like a kidney . . . ‘It can’t be helped,’ said<lb/>
Dr Branom. ‘Each man kills the thing he loves, as<lb/>
the poet-prisoner said. Here’s the punishment element,<lb/>
perhaps. The Governor ought to be pleased.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From now on Alex will feel intense nausea, not only when<lb/>
he contemplates violence, but also when he hears Ludwig<lb/>
van and the other starry masters. His soul, such as it was,<lb/>
has been excised.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We now embark on the curious apologetics of Part 3.<lb/>
‘Nothing odd will do long,’ said Dr Johnson — meaning<lb/>
that the reader’s appetite for weirdness is very quickly<lb/>
surfeited. Burgess (unlike, say, Pranz Kafka) is sensitive to<lb/>
this near-infallible law; but there’s a case for saying that<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange ought to be even shorter than its 196<lb/>
pages. It was in fact published with two different endings.<lb/>
The American edition omits the final chapter (this is the<lb/>
version used by Kubrick), and closes with Alex recovering<lb/>
from what proves to be a cathartic suicide attempt. He is<lb/>
listening to Beethoven’s Ninth:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When it came to the Scherzo I could viddy myself<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
This is the ‘dark’ ending. In the official version, though,<lb/>
Alex is afforded full redemption. He simply — and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
bathetically — ‘outgrows’ the atavisms of youth, and starts<lb/>
itching to get married and settle down; his musical tastes<lb/>
turn to ‘what they call Lieder, just a goloss [voice] and a<lb/>
piano, very quiet and like yearny’; and he carries around<lb/>
with him a photo, scissored out of the newspaper, of a<lb/>
plump baby — ‘a baby gurgling goo goo goo’. So we are<lb/>
asked to accept that Alex has turned all soft and broody<lb/>
— at the age of eighteen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It feels like a startling loss of nerve on Burgess’s part,<lb/>
or a recrudescence (we recall that he was an Augustinian<lb/>
Catholic) of self-punitive religious guilt. Horrified by its<lb/>
own transgressive energy, the novel submits to a Reclamation<lb/>
Treatment sternly supplied by its author. Burgess knew<lb/>
that something was wrong: ‘a work too didactic to be<lb/>
artistic’, he half-conceded, ‘pure art dragged into the arena<lb/>
of morality’. And he shouldn’t have worried: Alex may be<lb/>
a teenager, but readers are grown-ups, and are perfectly<lb/>
at peace with the unregenerate. Besides, A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange is in essence a black comedy. Confronted by evil,<lb/>
comedy feels no need to punish or correct. It answers with<lb/>
corrosive laughter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In his book on Joyce, Joysprick (1973), Burgess made a<lb/>
provocative distinction between what he calls the ‘A’<lb/>
novelist and the ‘B’ novelist: the A novelist is interested<lb/>
in plot, character, and psychological insight, whereas the<lb/>
B novelist is interested, above all, in the play of words.<lb/>
The most famous B novel is Finnegans Wake, which<lb/>
Nabokov aptly described as ‘a cold pudding of a book, a<lb/>
snore in the next room’; and the same might be said of<lb/>
Ada: A Family Chronicle, by far the most B-inclined of<lb/>
Nabokov’s nineteen fictions. Anyway, the B novel, as a<lb/>
genre, is now utterly defunct; and A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
may be its only long-term survivor. It is a book that can<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xiil<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="7"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
still be read with steady pleasure, continuous amusement,<lb/>
and — at times — incredulous admiration. Anthony Burgess,<lb/>
then, is not ‘a minor B novelist’, as he described himself;<lb/>
he is the only B novelist. I think he would have settled for<lb/>
that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
LER CUO NOG G NA NB RGN VACA Gea tal<lb/>
</p>
<p>
INTRODUCTION<lb/>
Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In 1994, less than a year after Anthony Burgess had died<lb/>
at the age of seventy-six, BBC Scotland commissioned the<lb/>
novelist William Boyd to write a radio play in celebration<lb/>
of his life and work. This was broadcast during the<lb/>
Edinburgh Festival on 21 August 1994, along with a concert<lb/>
performance of Burgess’s music and a recording of his<lb/>
Glasgow Overture. The programme was called ‘An Airful<lb/>
of Burgess’, with the actor John Sessions playing the parts<lb/>
of both Burgess and his fictional alter ego, the poet F. X.<lb/>
Enderby. On the same day, the Sunday Times ran a front-<lb/>
page story about the same radio play under the headline<lb/>
‘BBC in Row Over Festival Play’s Violent Rape Scene’.<lb/>
The newspaper claimed that the broadcast would feature<lb/>
‘a live re-enactment of a rape scene based on the controv-<lb/>
ersial Anthony Burgess work, A Clockwork Orange.’<lb/>
Stanley Kubrick’s film, which was said in the article to<lb/>
have been ‘blamed for carbon-copy crimes’, was also crit-<lb/>
icised for its ‘explicit depiction of gratuitous rape, violence<lb/>
and murder.’ Yet anyone who tuned into the radio broad-<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
than two minutes of material derived from A Clockwork<lb/>
‘Orange, was a dignified tribute to Burgess’s long life of<lb/>
musical and literary creativity. Even in death, it seemed,<lb/>
Burgess (who had often parodied the style of no-nonsense,<lb/>
right-wing columnists in his fiction) could not escape being<lb/>
the subject of under-informed and apocalyptic journalism.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘To understand the development of the controversy which<lb/>
has come to surround A Clockwork Orange in its various<lb/>
manifestations, we must go back more than fifty years to<lb/>
1960, when Anthony Burgess was planning a series of novels<lb/>
about imaginary futures. In the earliest surviving plan for<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange, he outlined a book of around 200<lb/>
pages, to be divided into three sections of seventy pages<lb/>
and set in the year 1980. The anti-hero of this novel, whose<lb/>
working titles included “The Plank in Your Eye’ and ‘A<lb/>
Maggot in the Cherry’, was a criminal named Fred Verity.<lb/>
Part one was to deal with his crimes and eventual convic-<lb/>
tion. In the second part, the imprisoned Fred would<lb/>
undergo a new brainwashing technique and be released<lb/>
from jail. Part three would consider the agitation of liberal<lb/>
politicians who were concerned about freedom and churches<lb/>
concerned about sin. At the novel’s conclusion Fred, cured<lb/>
of the treatment, would return to his life of crime.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other novel Burgess was planning at this time was<lb/>
‘Let Copulation Thrive’ (published in October 1962 as The<lb/>
Wanting Seed), another futuristic fable about an over-<lb/>
populated future in which religion is outlawed and homo-<lb/>
sexuality has become the norm, officially promoted by<lb/>
government policies to control the birth-rate. In Burgess’s<lb/>
imaginary future, men are press-ganged into the armed<lb/>
forces to take part in war games. The true purpose of these<lb/>
conflicts is to turn the bodies of the dead into tinned meat<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to feed a hungry population. What The Wanting Seed and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SAE NOR AN NNER AANA A AOI NANO ACIRU BIR<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange share is an underpinning idea of poli-<lb/>
tics as a constantly swinging pendulum, with the govern-<lb/>
ments in both novels alternating between authoritarian<lb/>
discipline and liberal /aissez-faire. Despite his gifts as a<lb/>
comic novelist, and the cultural optimism he had shown<lb/>
during his years as a school-teacher, Burgess was an<lb/>
Augustinian Catholic at heart, and he could not altogether<lb/>
shake off the belief in original sin (the tendency of human-<lb/>
kind to do evil rather than good) which had been drilled<lb/>
into him by the Manchester Xaverian Brothers when he<lb/>
was a schoolboy. A similar fascination with evil is found<lb/>
in the works of his friend and co-religionist Graham Greene,<lb/>
whose novel Brighton Rock (1938) presents a comparable<lb/>
blend of social decay and teenage delinquency.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before Burgess came to write dystopian novels of his<lb/>
own, he had spent nearly thirty years reading other exam-<lb/>
ples of the genre. In his critical study The Novel Now<lb/>
(published as a pamphlet in 1967 and expanded to book-<lb/>
length in 1971), he devoted a chapter to fictional utopias<lb/>
and dystopias. Twentieth-century literary writers, he<lb/>
argued, had on the whole rejected the socialist utopianism<lb/>
of H. G. Wells, who denied original sin and put his faith<lb/>
in scientific rationalism. Burgess was far more interested<lb/>
in the anti-utopian tradition of Aldous Huxley, who chal-<lb/>
lenged the progressive assumption that scientific progress<lb/>
would automatically bring happiness in speculative novels<lb/>
such as Brave New World (1932) and After Many a Summer<lb/>
(1939). He was no less impressed by the political dystop-<lb/>
ianism of Sinclair Lewis's novel Jt Can't Happen Here (1935),<lb/>
a gloomy prophecy about the rise of a right-wing dictator-<lb/>
ship in America, or by The Aerodrome (1941), Rex Warner's<lb/>
wartime fable about the appeal of handsome young pilots<lb/>
with fascist inclinations. Burgess had read George Orwell’s<lb/>
</p>
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xvii<lb/>
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</p>
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</p>
<pb n="9"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nineteen Eighty-Four shortly after publication (the title<lb/>
page of his diary for 1951 is headed: ‘Down with Big<lb/>
Brother’), but he tended to disparage Orwell’s novel as a<lb/>
dying man’s prophecy, which was unduly pessimistic about<lb/>
the capacity of working people to resist their ideological<lb/>
oppressors. In his hybrid novel/critical book 1985, Burgess<lb/>
suggested that Orwell had simply been caricaturing tenden-<lb/>
cies that he saw around him in 1948. ‘Perhaps every dysto-<lb/>
pian vision is a figure of the present,’ Burgess wrote, ‘with<lb/>
certain features sharpened and exaggerated to point a moral<lb/>
and a warning.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
British dystopian fiction was enjoying a minor renais-<lb/>
sance in the early 1960s, and Burgess, who was reviewing<lb/>
new novels for the Times Literary Supplement and the<lb/>
Yorkshire Post, was well placed to notice this phenomenon<lb/>
and respond to it in his own imaginative writing. In 1960<lb/>
he read Facial Justice by L. P. Hartley and When the Kissing<lb/>
Had to Stop by Constantine Fitzgibbon. But the novel<lb/>
which caught his attention more than any other was The<lb/>
Unsleep (1961) by Diana and Meir Gillon, a husband-and-<lb/>
wife writing team who also worked together on a number<lb/>
of political non-fiction books. Reviewing this book in the<lb/>
Yorkshire Post on 6 April 1961, Burgess wrote:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[The Unsleep is] much to my taste, a Piece of FF<lb/>
(futfic or future fiction) which, in that post-Orwellian<lb/>
manner which is really a reversion to Brave New World<lb/>
Unrevisited, terrifies not with the ultimate totalitarian<lb/>
nightmare but with a dream of liberalism going mad.<lb/>
In this perhaps-not-so-remote Gillon-England, with<lb/>
its stability (no war, no crime) ensured by advanced<lb/>
psychological techniques, life is for living. Life’s<lb/>
biggest enemy is sleep; sleep, therefore, must be<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XVIii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
liquidated. A couple of jabs of Sta-Wake and you<lb/>
reclaim thirty years from the darkness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But things don’t go quite as expected. There’s too<lb/>
much wakeful leisure: crime and delinquency ensue<lb/>
and there have to be police. Then comes an epidemic<lb/>
of unconsciousness, believed at first to be caused by<lb/>
a virus from Mars. Nature reacts violently to Sta-Wake<lb/>
and warns man, as she’s warned him before, against<lb/>
excessive naughtiness or liberalism.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other book Burgess read while he was preparing to<lb/>
write A Clockwork Orange was Brave New World Revisited<lb/>
(1959), Huxley’s non-fiction sequel to his earlier novel.<lb/>
From Huxley he learned about the emerging technologies<lb/>
of behaviour modification, brainwashing and chemical<lb/>
persuasion. There is no evidence to suggest that Burgess<lb/>
had read Science and Human Behaviour by the psychologist<lb/>
B. F Skinner, but he found a summary of Skinner’s<lb/>
theories in the pages of Huxley's book:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And even today we find a distinguished psychologist,<lb/>
Professor B. F, Skinner of Harvard University, insisting<lb/>
that, ‘as scientific explanation becomes more and more<lb/>
comprehensive, the contribution which may be<lb/>
claimed by the individual himself appears to approach<lb/>
zero. Man’s vaunted creative powers, his achievements<lb/>
in art, science and morals, his capacity to choose and<lb/>
our right to hold him responsible for the consequences<lb/>
of his choice — none of these is conspicuous in the<lb/>
new scientific self-portrait.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As Jonathan Meades has observed, ‘Skinner would be<lb/>
completely forgotten today were it not for Burgess’s hatred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
xix<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="10"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of him,’ which he articulated in fictional form through<lb/>
the character of Professor Balaglas in The Clockwork<lb/>
Testament (1974). In his day, Skinner was well known for<lb/>
his utopian novel Walden Two (1948), in which he imagined<lb/>
a bright technocratic future of teetotal conformity, commu-<lb/>
nal child-rearing (the words ‘mother’ and ‘father’ have<lb/>
become meaningless), utilitarian clothing, and harmonious<lb/>
living in single-sex dormitories. The bright lights and garish<lb/>
posters of advertising have been abolished in Skinner’s<lb/>
ideal community, and history is no longer thought to be<lb/>
worth studying. In Science and Human Behaviour, he<lb/>
dismisses genetics, culture, environment and individual<lb/>
freedom of choice as insignificant factors when it comes<lb/>
to determining human personality. To Burgess, who<lb/>
believed in the primacy of free will (and whose public<lb/>
persona was almost entirely self-created), this was the most<lb/>
revolting kind of nonsense. One of the purposes of his<lb/>
own dystopian novel was to offer a counter-argument to<lb/>
the mechanistic determinism of Skinner and his followers.<lb/>
The prison chaplain in A Clockwork Orange sums up<lb/>
Burgess’s position very concisely: “When a man cannot<lb/>
choose, he ceases to be a man.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess was a talented linguist who had studied Malay<lb/>
to degree standard and made translations of literary works<lb/>
written in French, Russian and Ancient Greek. It was his<lb/>
interest in Russian language and literature rather than<lb/>
politics which took him to Leningrad (now known as St<lb/>
Petersburg) for a working holiday in June and July 1961.<lb/>
He had been sent there by his publisher, William<lb/>
Heinemann, who hoped that he might write a travel book<lb/>
about Soviet Russia. He taught himself the basics of<lb/>
Russian by acquiring copies of Gezting Along in Russian<lb/>
by Mario Pei, Teach Yourself Russian by Maximilian<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fourman, and The Penguin Russian Course. Yet the intended<lb/>
non-fiction project was soon put aside when a different<lb/>
kind of book began to take shape. Before leaving England,<lb/>
Burgess had contemplated writing his novel about teenage<lb/>
hoodlums using British slang of the early 1960s, but he<lb/>
was worried that the language would be out of date before<lb/>
the book was published. Outside the Metropole Hotel in<lb/>
Leningrad, Burgess and his wife witnessed gangs of violent,<lb/>
well-dressed youths who reminded him of the Teddy Boys<lb/>
back home in England. He claimed in his memoirs that<lb/>
this was the moment at which he decided to devise a new<lb/>
language for his novel based on Russian, to be called<lb/>
‘Nadsat’ (this being the Russian suffix meaning ‘teen’). The<lb/>
urban location of the novel ‘could be anywhere,” he wrote<lb/>
later, ‘but I visualised it as a sort of compound of my<lb/>
native Manchester, Leningrad and New York.’ For Burgess,<lb/>
the important idea was that dandified, lawless youth is an<lb/>
international phenomenon, equally visible on both sides<lb/>
of the Iron Curtain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess’s literary agent, Peter Janson-Smith, submitted<lb/>
the typescript of A Clockwork Orange to Heinemann in<lb/>
London on 5 September 1961, with a covering letter<lb/>
explaining that he had been too busy to read it. Heinemann’s<lb/>
chief fiction reader, Maire Lynd, wrote a cautious report,<lb/>
and she noted that ‘Everything hangs on whether the reader<lb/>
can get into the book quickly enough [. . .] Once in, it<lb/>
becomes hard to stop. But the language difficulty, though<lb/>
fun to wrestle with, is great. With luck the book will be a<lb/>
big success and give the teenagers a new language. But it<lb/>
might be an enormous flop. Certainly nothing in between.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
James Michie, Burgess’s editor, circulated a memo on 5<lb/>
October, in which he described the novel as ‘one of the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="11"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
about how to promote the book, which was very different<lb/>
in genre from Burgess’s previous comic novels about Malaya<lb/>
and England. Michie was confident that the invented<lb/>
language would not be too forbidding for most readers,<lb/>
but he identified a risk that certain episodes of sexual<lb/>
violence in A Clockwork Orange might lead to a prosecu-<lb/>
tion under the 1959 Obscene Publications Act. “The author<lb/>
can plead artistic justification, Michie wrote, ‘but a<lb/>
delicate-minded critic could convincingly accuse him of<lb/>
indulging in sadistic fantasies.’ One of Michie’s suggestions<lb/>
was that the possible damage to Burgess’s reputation could<lb/>
be limited by publishing the novel with Peter Davies (an<lb/>
imprint of Heinemann) and under a pseudonym. It is<lb/>
unlikely that Burgess knew anything about these flutters<lb/>
of nervousness among his publishers. By 4 February 1962<lb/>
he was corresponding with William Holden, Heinemann’s<lb/>
publicity director, about a glossary of Nadsat to be circu-<lb/>
lated to the travelling bookshop reps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One other publishing difficulty was created by Burgess<lb/>
himself. At the end of Part 3, Chapter 6, the typescript<lb/>
contains a note in Burgess’s handwriting: ‘Should we end<lb/>
here? An optional “epilogue” follows.’ James Michie<lb/>
decided to include the epilogue (sometimes referred to as<lb/>
the twenty-first chapter) in the UK edition. When. the<lb/>
novel was published in New York by W. W. Norton in<lb/>
1963, the American editor, Eric Swenson, arrived at a<lb/>
different answer to Burgess’s editorial question (‘Should<lb/>
we end here?’). Looking back on these events more than<lb/>
twenty years later, Swenson wrote: “What I remember is<lb/>
that he responded to my comments by telling me that I<lb/>
was right, that he had added the twenty-first upbeat chapter<lb/>
because his British publisher wanted a happy ending. My<lb/>
memory also claims that he urged me to publish an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xxii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
American edition without that last chapter, which was,<lb/>
again as I remember it, how he had originally ended the<lb/>
novel. We did just that.’ Burgess came to regret having<lb/>
allowed two different versions of his novel to circulate in<lb/>
different territories. In 1986 he wrote: ‘People wrote to me<lb/>
about this — indeed much of my later life has been expended<lb/>
on Xeroxing statements of intention and the frustration<lb/>
of intention.’ Yet it is clear from the 1961 typescript that<lb/>
Burgess’s intentions about the ending of his novel were<lb/>
ambiguous from the start.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange was published by Heinemann on<lb/>
14 May 1962 in an edition of 6,000 copies. The book sold<lb/>
poorly, despite having been praised by critics such as Julian<lb/>
Mitchell in the Spectator and Kingsley Amis in the Observer.<lb/>
A memorandum in the publisher’s archive notes that only<lb/>
3,872 copies had been sold by the mid-1960s. The tone of<lb/>
many early reviews was one of bafflement and distaste for<lb/>
the novel’s linguistic experiments. Writing in the Times<lb/>
Literary Supplement, John Garrett described A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange as ‘a viscous verbiage which is the swag-bellied<lb/>
offspring of decay.’ Robert Taubman in the New Statesman<lb/>
said that it was ‘a great strain to read.’ Diana Josselson,<lb/>
writing in the Kenyon Review, compared A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange unfavourably with The Inheritors, William Golding’s<lb/>
novel about Neanderthals: ‘How much one cares for these<lb/>
hairy creatures, how much one hates their successor, Man.’<lb/>
Malcolm Bradbury, whose more encouraging review<lb/>
appeared in Punch, claimed that the novel was a ‘modern’<lb/>
work in the sense that it dealt with ‘our indirection and<lb/>
our indifference, our violence and our sexual exploitation<lb/>
of one another, our rebellion and our protest.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Despite these mixed responses from the mainstream press,<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange soon began to gather an underground<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XXIil<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="12"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
following. William S. Burroughs, the author of The Naked<lb/>
Lunch (published in Paris in 1959), wrote an enthusiastic<lb/>
recommendation for the Ballantine paperback edition in<lb/>
the United States: ‘I do not know of any other writer who<lb/>
has done as much with language as Mr Burgess has done<lb/>
here — the fact that this is also a very funny book may pass<lb/>
unnoticed.’ In 1965 Andy Warhol and his regular collabo-<lb/>
rator Ronald Tavel made a low-budget 16mm black-and-<lb/>
white film, Vinyl, based very loosely on Burgess’s novel and<lb/>
starring Gerard Malanga and Edie Sedgwick. Described even<lb/>
by its admirers as sixty-six minutes of torture, Vinyl is<lb/>
composed of four shots and apparently improvised dialogue.<lb/>
The film was first shown at the New York Cinematheque<lb/>
on 4 June 1965 and, according to Warhol’s memoir, POPism,<lb/>
it was subsequently projected at least twice in 1966, forming<lb/>
a series of background images for the Velvet Underground’s<lb/>
concerts in New York and at Rutgers University. In April<lb/>
1966, Christopher Isherwood noted in his diary that Brian<lb/>
Hutton (who went on to direct Where Eagles Dare in 1978)<lb/>
had asked him to write a film script based on A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange. In May of the following year, Terry Southern and<lb/>
Michael Cooper, who proposed to cast Mick Jagger in the<lb/>
leading role, submitted their draft script to the British Board<lb/>
of Film Censors, but this version was rejected as ‘an unre-<lb/>
lieved diet of hooliganism by teenagers [. . .] not only<lb/>
undesirable but also dangerous.’ Burgess himself was asked<lb/>
to write another script in January 1969, but nobody could<lb/>
be persuaded to film it. By January 1970 Stanley Kubrick<lb/>
was corresponding with Si Litvinoff and Max Raab, who<lb/>
sold the film rights to Warner Brothers shortly afterwards.<lb/>
In retrospect it is clear that, from its first appearance in<lb/>
print, Burgess’s story had always been waiting to find a<lb/>
wider audience.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kubrick's cinematic adaptation was released in New York<lb/>
in December 1971 and in London in January 1972. Kubrick<lb/>
said that he had been attracted to Burgess’s novel because of<lb/>
the ‘wonderful plot, strong characters and clear philosophy,’<lb/>
and Burgess repaid the compliment by describing the film<lb/>
as ‘a radical reworking of my own novel.’ Forced by the<lb/>
constraints of his visual medium to abandon a good deal of<lb/>
the invented language, Kubrick as director does his best to<lb/>
imply the first-person perspective by playing one of the fight<lb/>
scenes in slow motion (with a soundtrack by Rossini) and<lb/>
shooting the orgy scene at ten times normal speed. But the<lb/>
realism of film inevitably makes the violence of the first<lb/>
forty-five minutes more immediate, which may be one reason<lb/>
why Kubrick chose to omit the second murder in the prison,<lb/>
and to raise the age of the ten-year-old girls who are sexually<lb/>
abused by Alex (they become consenting adults in the film).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is clear from Burgess’s correspondence with his agent<lb/>
that Kubrick was aware of both of the novel’s possible<lb/>
endings, and that his decision to follow the shorter US<lb/>
version of the book was reached only after careful thought.<lb/>
Speaking to Michel Ciment in 1980, Kubrick said: ‘[The]<lb/>
extra chapter depicts the rehabilitation of Alex. But it is,<lb/>
as far as I am concerned, unconvincing and inconsistent<lb/>
with the style and intent of the book [. . .] I certainly<lb/>
never gave any serious consideration to using it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Although Burgess reviewed the film enthusiastically on<lb/>
its first release in 1972, he changed his mind about Kubrick<lb/>
when the director published his own illustrated book,<lb/>
under the title Stanley Kubricks A Clockwork Orange.<lb/>
Burgess, infuriated by the idea that Kubrick was presenting<lb/>
himself as the sole author of the cultural artefact known<lb/>
as A Clockwork Orange, reviewed this book-of-the-film for<lb/>
the Library Journal (on 1 May 1973) in persona as Alex,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="13"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
deploying some new items of Nadsat vocabulary which<lb/>
had not appeared in the novel itself:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our starry droog Kubrick the sinny veck has, my<lb/>
brothers, like brought forth from his like bounty and<lb/>
all that cal this kniggiwig, which is like all real horror-<lb/>
show lomticks from his Great Masterpiece which would<lb/>
make any fine upstanding young malchick smeck from<lb/>
his yarbles and keeshkas. What it like is is lashings of<lb/>
ultraviolence and the old in-out in-out, but not in<lb/>
slovos except where the chellovecks are govoreeting but<lb/>
in veshches you can viddy and not have to send the<lb/>
old Gulliver to spatchka with like being bored when<lb/>
you are on your sharries in a biblio.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you can like viddy as well that the Great Purpose<lb/>
in his jeezny for this veck Kubrick or Zubrick (that<lb/>
being the Arab eemya for a grahzny veshch) which is<lb/>
like now at last being made flesh and all that cal, was<lb/>
to have a Book. And now he has a Book. A Book he<lb/>
doth have, O my malenky brothers, verily he doth.<lb/>
Righty right. It was a book he did wish to like make,<lb/>
and he hath done it, Kubrick or Zubrick the Bookmaker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But, brothers, what makes me smeck like bezoomny<lb/>
is that this like Book will tolchock out into the dark-<lb/>
mans the book what there like previously was, the<lb/>
one by F. Alexander or Sturgess or some such eemya,<lb/>
because who would have slovos when he could viddy<lb/>
real jeezny with his nagoy glazzies?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And so it is like that. Righty right. And real horror-<lb/>
show. And lashings of deng for the carmans of<lb/>
Zubrick. And for your malenky droog not none no<lb/>
more. So gromky shooms of lip-music brrrrrr to thee<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and thine. And all that cal. — Alex.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other point to note about Kubrick’s film is that it<lb/>
overlooks the prominence of drugs within the subculture<lb/>
of the novel. In Burgess’s unpublished screenplay, which<lb/>
had been rejected by Kubrick, Alex’s bedroom closet<lb/>
contains various horrors, including a child’s skull and<lb/>
hypodermic syringes. In the novel, immediately before<lb/>
Alex rapes the young girls, he injects himself with a drug<lb/>
to increase his potency. And in the Korova Milkbar<lb/>
(‘korova’ being Russian for ‘cow’), where Alex and his<lb/>
droogs gather to plan their crimes, the milk is spiked with<lb/>
an assortment of drugs, such as ‘synthemesc’ (mescaline)<lb/>
and ‘knives’ (amphetamines).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, who had frequently smoked hashish and opium<lb/>
in Malaya in the 1950s, was sometimes said to be one of<lb/>
the pioneers of the literary drug movement. His reputa-<lb/>
tion in this area must have arisen purely from the novel<lb/>
version of A Clockwork Orange, since drugs are almost<lb/>
entirely absent from Kubrick's film. Anyone who had read<lb/>
the novel with attention in or shortly after 1962 would<lb/>
have been able to make the connections between teenage<lb/>
gang culture, fashion, music and the casual use of drugs,<lb/>
and it is likely that these elements were instrumental in<lb/>
spreading the novel’s countercultural reputation. In many<lb/>
ways it looks like a book which might have been calculated<lb/>
to appeal both to the hallucinogenic flower people of the<lb/>
late 1960s and to the more aggressive skinhead and punk<lb/>
subcultures which followed throughout the 1970s. Burgess,<lb/>
who was vociferous in his hatred of hippies (‘bearded<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
XXVILi<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="14"/>
<p>
of bands whose names are drawn directly from the novel:<lb/>
Heaven 17, Moloko, The Devotchkas and Campag Velocet<lb/>
are merely the most obvious examples. Julian Cope, the<lb/>
front man of the Liverpool band The ‘Teardrop Explodes,<lb/>
recalls in his autobiography that he decided to learn Russian<lb/>
after reading Burgess’s novel while he was at school. The<lb/>
drummer of the Sex Pistols claimed that he had only ever<lb/>
tead two books: a biography of the Kray Twins and A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange. The Rolling Stones wrote the sleeve-<lb/>
notes to one of their albums in Nadsat. Blur dressed up<lb/>
as droogs for the video of their song “The Universal’. The<lb/>
décor of Kubrick’s Korova Milkbar is replicated in the<lb/>
nightclub scene in Danny Boyle’s film version of<lb/>
Trainspotting. Even Kylie Minogue put on a white jump-<lb/>
suit, black bowler hat and false eyelash during the stadium<lb/>
tour of her Fever album in 2002.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beyond all this, there is an abiding sense that Burgess’s<lb/>
novel opened up new linguistic possibilities for subsequent<lb/>
generations of British novelists. Martin Amis, J. G. Ballard,<lb/>
Will Self, William Boyd, A. S. Byatt and Blake Morrison<lb/>
are among the more established literary writers who have<lb/>
acknowledged its influence on their work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, who was a prolific amateur composer in addi-<lb/>
tion to his work as a linguist and novelist, made two<lb/>
separate musical stage adaptations of A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
in 1986 and 1990. One of these (with the futuristic title<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange 2004) was performed by the Royal<lb/>
Shakespeare Company at the Barbican Theatre in London<lb/>
in 1990. On this occasion the music was provided by Bono<lb/>
and The Edge from the Irish band Un. Reviewing this<lb/>
‘blandly inoffensive’ RSC production, directed by Ron<lb/>
Daniels, in the Sunday Times, John Peter wrote: “The<lb/>
violence is obviously mimed: it creates a sense of balletic<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XXVIli<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hysteria rather than terror. The acting is coarse, hard and<lb/>
impersonal, but only partly because the script has no room<lb/>
for anything as finicky as character. Alex (Phil Daniels) is<lb/>
yukky but never frightening, and he narrates the events<lb/>
as he goes along, which makes the story come across like<lb/>
a bizarre anecdote. I know that the novel is a first-person<lb/>
narrative too; but there is a vital difference between the<lb/>
implied drama of the printed text and the open drama of<lb/>
the live stage.’ Burgess’s theatrical version of the play has<lb/>
been revived on many subsequent occasions — most recently<lb/>
in London and Edinburgh ~ but at the time of writing<lb/>
(spring 2012) there has been only one complete perfor-<lb/>
mance of his Clockwork Orange music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the final scene of Burgess’s stage version, ‘a man<lb/>
bearded like Stanley Kubrick’ enters, playing Singin’ in the<lb/>
Rain on a trumpet. He is kicked off the stage by the other<lb/>
actors. Burgess’s determination to regain control over his<lb/>
own text is readily apparent in this musical joke. But perhaps<lb/>
his anxiety about authorship was misplaced. Among the<lb/>
younger generation of readers which has come to maturity<lb/>
since his death in 1993, there is little doubt about whose<lb/>
version of A Clockwork Orange is more likely to last.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Note on the Restored Edition<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Readers of this fiftieth anniversary edition will notice that,<lb/>
among other additions, it includes the Prologue and<lb/>
Epilogue written by Burgess in the 1980s. These paratexts<lb/>
have not previously been published alongside the text of<lb/>
the novel. Both of them were written around the time<lb/>
that he was making the first of his stage adaptations,<lb/>
published as A Clockwork Orange: A Play with Music in<lb/>
1987, and they illustrate some of the ways in which he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="15"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
revisited his own novel and entered into dialogue with it.<lb/>
I have restored the music for the prisoners’ hymn in Part<lb/>
2, Chapter 1, as it appears in the typescript. The likely<lb/>
reason for its omission in the 1962 Heinemann and 1963<lb/>
Norton editions is that the cost of reproducing music<lb/>
would have been very high before the introduction of<lb/>
cheap offset lithography.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The 1961 typescript has formed the basis of this restored<lb/>
text, and I have compared each line with the published<lb/>
Heinemann and Norton texts. My principle has been to<lb/>
include as much Nadsat as possible, and on occasion this<lb/>
has involved restoring words and passages which were<lb/>
cancelled in the typescript. Some of Burgess’s handwritten<lb/>
amendments to the 1961 typescript are ambiguous, but in<lb/>
general I have preferred a ‘lost’ Nadsat word (such as<lb/>
‘bugatty, meaning ‘rich, on page 74) to the standard<lb/>
English equivalent as it appeared in the earliest published<lb/>
editions. The 1973 Caedmon audio LB Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Reads A Clockwork Orange, differs in some respects from<lb/>
the printed texts, and I have preferred ‘boor joyce’ from<lb/>
the LP to ‘bourgeois’ as it appears in the typescript. Burgess<lb/>
was not always a careful typist or proofreader, and he was<lb/>
inconsistent in his spelling of ‘otchkies’ (sometimes<lb/>
‘ochkies’) and ‘kupetting’ (sometimes ‘koopeeting’). I have<lb/>
done my best to bring order to the text, but I have been<lb/>
mindful of what Burgess wrote to James Michie (in a letter<lb/>
of 25 February 1962) on the subject of Nadsat spelling:<lb/>
‘One has to remember that it’s a spoken language and is<lb/>
bound to be orthographically a bit vague. But I think it’s<lb/>
spelt like proper now.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The 1963 Norton edition and the subsequent Ballantine<lb/>
paperbacks included an afterword by the literary critic<lb/>
Stanley Edgar Hyman (reprinted here because it is part of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the history of Burgess’s book) and a glossary of Nadsat<lb/>
terms. The expanded glossary in this edition has been<lb/>
compiled with reference to Burgess’s letters to his editors<lb/>
in the Heinemann archive. I am grateful to Tom Avery<lb/>
and Jean Rose for bringing these to my attention.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One of the pleasures of annotating Burgess’s novel is<lb/>
that the breadth of his allusions has become fully apparent<lb/>
for the first time. Those who are familiar with Burgess's<lb/>
critical writings about Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot will not<lb/>
be surprised to find these authors being quoted in the text.<lb/>
But nobody has previously commented on the extent to<lb/>
which Burgess, who was fascinated by the dark corners of<lb/>
slang, was indebted to Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang<lb/>
and Unconventional English. Burgess’s two copies of this<lb/>
work, which are now part of the book collection at the<lb/>
International Anthony Burgess Foundation, have been read<lb/>
so heavily that they are almost falling apart. The embedded<lb/>
quotations from the poems and plays of Gerard Manley<lb/>
Hopkins have not been noticed before, and I have reprinted<lb/>
one of the essays on Hopkins from Urgent Copy to give a<lb/>
sense of the importance of Hopkins to Burgess’s formation<lb/>
as a writer. No doubt there are one or two allusions that<lb/>
I have missed; but I should like the notes to be read.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="16"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="17"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
stealing, fighting—<lb/>
Shakespeare, The Winter’ Tale, Act III, Scene 3<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="18"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="19"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wuat’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There was me, that is Alex, and my three<lb/>
droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim,<lb/>
Dim being really dim, and we sat in the<lb/>
Korova Milkbar making up our rassoo-<lb/>
docks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter<lb/>
bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus<lb/>
mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what<lb/>
these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days<lb/>
and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being<lb/>
much read neither. Well, what they sold there was milk<lb/>
plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor,<lb/>
but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new<lb/>
veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so<lb/>
you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice<lb/>
quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All<lb/>
His Holy Angels And Saints in your left shoe with lights<lb/>
bursting all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with<lb/>
knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you<lb/>
up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one,<lb/>
and that was what we were peeting this evening I’m starting<lb/>
off the story with.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our pockets were full of deng, so there was no real need<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="20"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to tolchock some old veck in an alley and viddy him swim<lb/>
in his blood while we counted the takings and divided by<lb/>
four, nor to do the ultra-violent on some shivering starry<lb/>
grey-haired ptitsa in a shop and go smecking off with the<lb/>
till’s guts. But, as they say, money isn’t everything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The four of us were dressed in the heighth of fashion,<lb/>
which in those days was a pair of black very tight tights<lb/>
with the old jelly mould, as we called it, fitting on the<lb/>
crutch underneath the tights, this being to protect and<lb/>
also a sort of a design you could viddy clear enough in a<lb/>
certain light, so that I had one in the shape of a spider,<lb/>
Pete had a rooker (a hand, that is), Georgie had a very<lb/>
fancy one of a flower, and poor old Dim had a very hound-<lb/>
and-horny one of a clown’s litso (face, that is), Dim not<lb/>
ever having much of an idea of things and being, beyond<lb/>
all shadow of a doubting thomas, the dimmest of we four.<lb/>
Then we wore waisty jackets without lapels but with these<lb/>
very big built-up shoulders (‘pletchoes’ we called them)<lb/>
which were a kind of mockery of having real shoulders<lb/>
like that. Then, my brothers, we had these off-white cravats<lb/>
which looked like whipped-up kartoffel or spud with a<lb/>
sort of a design made on it with a fork. We wore our hair<lb/>
not too long and we had flip horrorshow boots for kicking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There were three devotchkas sitting at the counter all<lb/>
together, but there were four of us malchicks and it was<lb/>
usually like one for all and all for one. These sharps were<lb/>
dressed in the heighth of fashion too, with purple and<lb/>
green and orange wigs on their gullivers, each one not<lb/>
costing less than three or four weeks of those sharps’ wages,<lb/>
I should reckon, and make-up to match (rainbows round<lb/>
the glazzies, that is, and the rot painted very wide). Then<lb/>
they had long black very straight dresses, and on the groody<lb/>
</p>
<p>
8<lb/>
</p>
<p>
part of them they had little badges of like silver with<lb/>
different malchicks’ names on them — Joe and Mike and<lb/>
suchlike. These were supposed to be the names of the<lb/>
different malchicks they'd spatted with before they were<lb/>
fourteen. They kept looking our way and I nearly felt like<lb/>
saying the three of us (out of the corner of my rot, that<lb/>
is) should go off for a bit of pol and leave poor old Dim<lb/>
behind, because it would be just a matter of kupetting<lb/>
Dim a demi-litre of white but this time with a dollop of<lb/>
synthemesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing<lb/>
like the game. Dim was very very ugly and like his name,<lb/>
but he was a horrorshow filthy fighter and very handy<lb/>
with the boot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The chelloveck sitting next to me, there being this long<lb/>
big plushy seat that ran round three walls, was well away<lb/>
with his glazzies glazed and sort of burbling slovos like<lb/>
‘Aristotle wishy washy works outing cyclamen get forficu-<lb/>
late smartish.’ He was in the land all right, well away, in<lb/>
orbit, and I knew what it was like, having tried it like<lb/>
everybody else had done, but at this time I'd got to thinking<lb/>
it was a cowardly sort of a veshch, O my brothers. Youd<lb/>
lay there after you'd drunk the old moloko and then you<lb/>
got the messel that everything all round you was sort of<lb/>
in the past. You could viddy it all right, all of it, very clear<lb/>
— tables, the stereo, the lights, the sharps and the malchicks<lb/>
— but it was like some veshch that used to be there but<lb/>
was not there not no more. And you were sort of hypno-<lb/>
tised by your boot or shoe or a finger-nail as it might be,<lb/>
and at the same time you were sort of picked up by the<lb/>
old scruff and shook like it might be a cat. You got shook<lb/>
and shook till there was nothing left. You lost your name<lb/>
and your body and your self and you just didn’t care, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="21"/>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you waited till your boot or your finger-nail got yellow,<lb/>
then yellower and yellower all the time. Then the lights<lb/>
started cracking like atomics and the boot or finger-nail<lb/>
or, as it might be, a bit of dirt on your trouser-bottom<lb/>
turned into a big big big mesto, bigger than the whole<lb/>
world, and you were just going to get introduced to old<lb/>
Bog or God when it was all over. You came back to here<lb/>
and now whimpering sort of, with your rot all squaring<lb/>
up for a boohoohoo. Now, that’s very nice but very<lb/>
cowardly. You were not put on this earth just to get in<lb/>
touch with God. That sort of thing could sap all the<lb/>
strength and the goodness out of a chelloveck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The stereo was on and you got the idea that the singer's<lb/>
goloss was moving from one part of the bar to another,<lb/>
flying up to the ceiling and then swooping down again<lb/>
and whizzing from wall to wall. It was Berti Laski rasping<lb/>
a real starry oldie called “You Blister My Paint.’ One of<lb/>
the three ptitsas at the counter, the one with the green<lb/>
wig, kept pushing her belly out and pulling it in in time<lb/>
to what they called the music. I could feel the knives in<lb/>
the old moloko starting to prick, and now I was ready for<lb/>
a bit of twenty-to-one. So I yelped, ‘Out out out out! like<lb/>
a doggie, and then I cracked this veck who was sitting<lb/>
next to me and well away and burbling a horrorshow crack<lb/>
on the ooko or earhole, but he didn’t feel it and went on<lb/>
with his “Telephonic hardware and when the farfarculule<lb/>
gets rubadubdub.’ He'd feel it all right when he came to,<lb/>
out of the land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where out?’ said Georgie.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, just to keep walking,’ I said, ‘and viddy what turns<lb/>
up, O my little brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we scatted out into the big winter nochy and walked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby<lb/>
Avenue, and there we found what we were pretty well<lb/>
looking for, a malenky jest to start off the evening with.<lb/>
There was a doddery starry schoolmaster type veck, glasses<lb/>
on and his rot open to the cold nochy air. He had books<lb/>
under his arm and a crappy umbrella and was coming<lb/>
round the corner from the Public Biblio, which not many<lb/>
lewdies used those days. You never really saw many of the<lb/>
older boorjoyce type out after nightfall those days, what<lb/>
with the shortage of police and we fine young malchicki-<lb/>
wicks about, and this prof type chelloveck was the only<lb/>
one walking in the whole of the street. So we goolied up<lb/>
to him, very polite, and I said, ‘Pardon me, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked a malenky bit poogly when he viddied the<lb/>
four of us like that, coming up so quiet and polite and<lb/>
smiling, but he said, “Yes? What is it?’ in a very loud<lb/>
teacher-type goloss, as if he was trying to show us he wasn't<lb/>
poogly. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see you have them books under your arm, brother. It<lb/>
is indeed a rare pleasure these days to come across some-<lb/>
body that still reads, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, all shaky. ‘Is it? Oh, I see.’ And he kept<lb/>
looking from one to the other of we four, finding himself<lb/>
now in the middle of a very smiling and polite square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It would interest me greatly, brother, if<lb/>
you would kindly allow me to see what books those are<lb/>
that you have under your arm. I like nothing better in<lb/>
this world than a good clean book, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Clean, eh?’ And then Pete skvatted<lb/>
these three books from him and handed them round<lb/>
real skorry. Being three, we all had one each to viddy<lb/>
at except for Dim. The one I had was called Elementary<lb/>
Crystallography, so 1 opened it up and said, ‘Excellent,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Il<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="22"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
really first-class,’ keeping turning the pages. Then I said<lb/>
in a very shocked type goloss, ‘But what is this here?<lb/>
What is this filthy slovo? I blush to look at this word.<lb/>
You disappoint me, brother, you do really.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ he tried, ‘but, but.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now,’ said Georgie, ‘here is what I should call real dirt.<lb/>
There’s one slovo beginning with an f and another with<lb/>
ac. He had a book called The Miracle of the Snowflake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said poor old Dim, smotting over Pete’s shoulder<lb/>
and going too far, like he always did, ‘it says here what<lb/>
he done to her, and there’s a picture and all. Why,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘you're nothing but a filthy-minded old skitebird.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘An old man of your age, brother,’ I said, and | started<lb/>
to rip up the book Id got, and the others did the same<lb/>
with the ones they had, Dim and Pete doing a tug-of-war<lb/>
with The Rhombohedral System. The starry prof type began<lb/>
to creech: ‘But those are not mine, those are the property<lb/>
of the municipality, this is sheer wantonness and vandal<lb/>
work,’ or some such slovos. And he tried to sort of wrest<lb/>
the books back off of us, which was like pathetic. “You<lb/>
deserve to be taught a lesson, brother,’ I said, ‘that you<lb/>
do.’ This crystal book I had was very tough-bound and<lb/>
hard to razrez to bits, being real starry and made in the<lb/>
days when things were made to last like, but I managed<lb/>
to rip the pages up and chuck them in handfuls of like<lb/>
snowflakes, though big, all over this creeching old veck,<lb/>
and then the others did the same with theirs, old Dim<lb/>
just dancing about like the clown he was. “There you are,’<lb/>
said Pete. “There’s the mackerel of the cornflake for you,<lb/>
you dirty reader of filth and nastiness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
out his false zoobies, upper and lower. He threw these<lb/>
down on the pavement and then I treated them to the<lb/>
old boot-crush, though they were hard bastards like, being<lb/>
made of some new horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck<lb/>
began to make sort of chumbling shooms — ‘wuf waf wof’<lb/>
_ 50 Georgie let go of holding his goobers apart and just<lb/>
let him have one in the toothless rot with his ringy fist,<lb/>
and that made the old veck start moaning a lot then, then<lb/>
out comes the blood, my brothers, real beautiful. So all<lb/>
we did then was to pull his outer platties off, stripping<lb/>
him down to his vest and long underpants (very starry;<lb/>
Dim smecked his head off near), and then Pete kicks him<lb/>
lovely in his pot, and we let him go. He went sort of<lb/>
staggering off, it not having been too hard of a tolchock<lb/>
really, going ‘Oh oh oh’, not knowing where or what was<lb/>
what really, and we had a snigger at him and then riffled<lb/>
through his pockets, Dim dancing round with his crappy<lb/>
umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn’t much in them. There<lb/>
were a few starry letters, some of them dating right back<lb/>
to 1960, with ‘My dearest dearest’ in them and all that<lb/>
chepooka, and a keyring and a starry leaky pen. Old Dim<lb/>
gave up his umbrella dance and of course had to start<lb/>
reading one of the letters out loud, like to show the empty<lb/>
street he could read. ‘My darling one,’ he recited, in this<lb/>
very high type goloss, ‘I shall be thinking of you while<lb/>
you are away and hope you will remember to wrap up<lb/>
warm when you go out at night.’ Then he let out a very<lb/>
shoomny smeck — ‘Ho ho ho’ — pretending to start wiping<lb/>
his yahma with it. ‘All right,’ I said. “Let it go, O my<lb/>
brothers.’ In the trousers of this starry veck there was only<lb/>
a malenky bit of cutter (money, that is) — not more than<lb/>
three gollies — so we gave all his messy little coin the scatter<lb/>
treatment, it being hen-korm to the amount of pretty polly<lb/>
</p>
<p>
13<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="23"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
we had on us already. Then we smashed the umbrella and<lb/>
razrezzed his platties and gave them to the blowing winds,<lb/>
my brothers, and then we'd finished with the starry teacher<lb/>
type veck. We hadn't done much, I know, but that was<lb/>
only like the start of the evening and I make no appy<lb/>
polly loggies to thee or thine for that. The knives in the<lb/>
milk-plus were stabbing away nice and horrorshow now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The next thing was to do the sammy act, which was<lb/>
one way to unload some of our cutter so we'd have more<lb/>
of an incentive like for some shop-crasting, as well as it<lb/>
being a way of buying an alibi in advance, so we went<lb/>
into the Duke of New York on Amis Avenue and sure<lb/>
enough in the snug there were three or four old baboochkas<lb/>
peeting their black and suds on SA (State Aid). Now we<lb/>
were the very good malchicks, smiling good evening to<lb/>
one and all, though these wrinkled old lighters started to<lb/>
get all shook, their veiny old rookers trembling round their<lb/>
glasses and making the suds spill on the table. “Leave us<lb/>
be, lads,’ said one of them, her face all mappy with being<lb/>
a thousand years old, ‘we're only poor old women.’ But<lb/>
we just made with the zoobies, flash flash flash, sat down,<lb/>
rang the bell, and waited for the boy to come. When he<lb/>
came, all nervous and rubbing his rookers on his grazzy<lb/>
apron, we ordered us four veterans — a veteran being rum<lb/>
and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just then,<lb/>
some liking a dash of lime in it, that being the Canadian<lb/>
variation. Then I said to the boy:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing<lb/>
something. Large Scotchmen all round and something to<lb/>
take away.’ And I poured my pocket of deng all over the<lb/>
table, and the other three did likewise, O my brothers. So<lb/>
double firegolds were brought in for the scared starry<lb/>
lighters, and they knew not what to do or say. One of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
14<lb/>
</p>
<p>
them got out “Thanks, lads,’ but you could see they thought<lb/>
there was something dirty like coming. Anyway, they were<lb/>
each given a bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take<lb/>
away, and I gave money for them to be delivered each a<lb/>
dozen of black and suds that following morning, they to<lb/>
leave their stinking old cheenas’ addresses at the counter.<lb/>
Then with the cutter that was left over we did purchase,<lb/>
my brothers, all the meat pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps<lb/>
and chocbars in that mesto, and those too were for the<lb/>
old sharps. Then we said, “Back in a minoota,’ and the old<lb/>
ptitsas were still saying, “Thanks, lads,’ and ‘God bless you,<lb/>
boys,’ and we were going out without one cent of cutter<lb/>
in our carmans.<lb/>
‘Makes you feel real dobby, that does,’ said Pete. You<lb/>
could viddy that poor old Dim the dim didn't quite pony<lb/>
all that, but he said nothing for fear of being called gloopy<lb/>
and a domeless wonderboy. Well, we went off now round<lb/>
the corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and<lb/>
cancers shop still open. We'd left them alone near three<lb/>
months now and the whole district had been very quiet<lb/>
on the whole, so the armed millicents or rozz patrols werent<lb/>
round there much, being more north of the river these<lb/>
days. We put our maskies on — new jobs these were, real<lb/>
horrorshow, wonderfully done, really; they were like faces<lb/>
of historical personalities (they gave you the name when<lb/>
you bought) and I had Disraeli, Pete had. Elvis Presley,<lb/>
Georgie had Henry VIII and poor old Dim had a poet<lb/>
veck called Peebee Shelley; they were a real like disguise,<lb/>
hair and all, and they were some very special plastic veshch<lb/>
so you could roll up when you'd done with it and hide it<lb/>
in your boot — then the three of us went in, Pete keeping<lb/>
chasso without, not that there was anything to worry about<lb/>
out there. As soon as we launched on the shop we went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I5<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="24"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for Slouse who ran it, a big portwine jelly of a veck who<lb/>
viddied at once what was coming and made straight for<lb/>
the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-<lb/>
oiled pooshka, complete with six dirty rounds. Dim was<lb/>
round that counter skorry as a bird, sending packets of<lb/>
snoutie flying and cracking over a big cut-out showing a<lb/>
sharp with all her zoobies going flash at the customers and<lb/>
her groodies near hanging out to advertise some new brand<lb/>
of cancers. What you could viddy then was a sort of a big<lb/>
ball rolling into the inside of the shop behind the curtain,<lb/>
this being old Dim and Slouse sort of locked in a death<lb/>
struggle. Then you could slooshy panting and snorting<lb/>
and kicking behind the curtain and veshches falling over<lb/>
and swearing and then glass going smash smash smash.<lb/>
Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of froze behind the<lb/>
counter. We could tell she would creech murder given one<lb/>
chance, so I was round that counter very skorry and had<lb/>
a hold of her, and a horrorshow big lump she was too, all<lb/>
nuking of scent and with flipflop big bobbing groodies on<lb/>
her. I'd got my rooker round her rot to stop her belting<lb/>
out death and destruction to the four winds of heaven,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
but this lady doggie gave me a large foul big bite on it<lb/>
and it was me that did the creeching, and then she opened<lb/>
up beautiful with a flip yell for the millicents. Well, then<lb/>
she had to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for the scales, and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for opening cases, and that brought the red out like an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old friend. So we had her down on the floor and a rip of<lb/>
her platties for fun and a gentle bit of the boot to stop<lb/>
</p>
<p>
her moaning. And, viddying her lying there with her<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groodies on show, I wondered should I or not, but that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was for later on in the evening. Then we cleaned the till,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and there was flip horrorshow takings that nochy, and we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had a few packs of the very best top cancers apiece, then<lb/>
off we went, my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A real big heavy great bastard he was,’ Dim kept saying.<lb/>
I didn’t like the look of Dim; he looked dirty and untidy,<lb/>
like a veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of<lb/>
course, but you should never look as though you have<lb/>
been. His cravat was like someone had trampled on it, his<lb/>
maskie had been pulled off and he had floor-dirt on his<lb/>
litso, so we got him in an alleyway and tidied him up a<lb/>
malenky bit, soaking our tashtooks in spit to cheest the<lb/>
dirt off. The things we did for old Dim. We were back in<lb/>
the Duke of New York very skorry, and I reckoned by my<lb/>
watch we hadn't been more than ten minutes away. The<lb/>
starry old baboochkas were still there on the black and<lb/>
suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we said, “Hallo<lb/>
there, girlies, what’s it going to be?’ They started on the<lb/>
old ‘Very kind, lads, God bless you, boys,’ and so we rang<lb/>
the collocoll and brought a different waiter in this time<lb/>
and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my<lb/>
brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted. Then I said<lb/>
to the old baboochkas: ‘We haven’t been out of here, have<lb/>
we? Been here all the time, haven’t we?’ They all caught<lb/>
on real skorry and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s right, lads. Not been out of our sight, you haven’.<lb/>
God bless you, boys,’ drinking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not that it mattered much, really. About half an hour<lb/>
went by before there was any sign of life among the milli-<lb/>
cents, and then it was only two very young rozzes that<lb/>
came in, very pink under their big copper’s shlemmies.<lb/>
One said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You lot know anything about the happenings at Slouse’s<lb/>
shop this night?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Us?’ I said, innocent. “Why, what happened?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
17<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="25"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Stealing and roughing. Two hospitalisations. Where’ve<lb/>
you lot been this evening?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I don't go for that nasty tone,’ I said. “I don’t care much<lb/>
for these nasty insinuations. A very suspicious nature all<lb/>
this betokeneth, my little brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘They've been in here all night, lads,’ the old sharps<lb/>
started to creech out. ‘God bless them, there’s no better<lb/>
lot of boys living for kindness and generosity. Been here<lb/>
all the time they have. Not seen them move we haven't.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘We're only asking,’ said the other young millicent.<lb/>
“We've got our job to do like anyone else.’ But they gave<lb/>
us the nasty warning look before they went out. As they<lb/>
were going out we handed them a bit of lip-music: brrrr-<lb/>
zzzzirtr. But, myself, I couldn't help a bit of disappointment<lb/>
at things as they were those days. Nothing to fight against<lb/>
really. Everything as easy as kiss-my-sharries. Still, the night<lb/>
was still very young.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHEN we got outside of the Duke of<lb/>
New York we viddied, by the main bar's<lb/>
long lighted window, a burbling old pyah-<lb/>
nitsa or drunkie, howling away at the<lb/>
filthy songs of his fathers and going blerp<lb/>
blerp in between as it might be a filthy old orchestra in<lb/>
his stinking rotten guts. One veshch I could never stand<lb/>
was that. I could never stand to see a moodge all filthy<lb/>
and rolling and burping and drunk, whatever his age<lb/>
might be, but more especially when he was real starry<lb/>
like this one was. He was sort of flattened to the wall<lb/>
and his platties were a disgrace, all creased and untidy<lb/>
and covered in cal and mud and filth and stuff. So we<lb/>
got hold of him and cracked him with a few good horror-<lb/>
show tolchocks, but he still went on singing. The song<lb/>
went:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But when Dim fisted him a few times on his filthy drunk-<lb/>
ard’s rot he shut up singing and started to creech: ‘Go on,<lb/>
do me in, you bastard cowards, I don’t want to live anyway,<lb/>
not in a stinking world like this one.’ I told Dim to lay<lb/>
off a bit then, because it used to interest me sometimes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
19<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="26"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to slooshy what some of these starry decreps had to say<lb/>
about life and the world. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh. And what’s stinking about it?’ He cried out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s a stinking world because it lets the young get on to<lb/>
the old like you done, and there’s no law nor order no<lb/>
more.’ He was creeching out loud and waving his rookers<lb/>
and making real horrorshow with the slovos, only the odd<lb/>
blurp blurp coming from his keeshkas, like something was<lb/>
orbiting within, or like some very rude interrupting sort<lb/>
of a moodge making a shoom, so that this old veck kept<lb/>
sort of threatening it with his fists, shouting: ‘It’s not world<lb/>
for an old man any longer, and that means that I’m not<lb/>
one bit scared of you, my boyos, because I’m too drunk<lb/>
to feel the pain if you hit me, and if you kill me [ll be<lb/>
glad to be dead.’ We smecked and then grinned but said<lb/>
nothing, and then he said: “What sort of a world is it at<lb/>
all? Men on the moon and men spinning round the earth<lb/>
like it might be midges round a lamp, and there’s not no<lb/>
attention paid to earthly law nor order no more. So your<lb/>
worst you may do, you filthy cowardly hooligans.’ Then<lb/>
he gave us some lip-music — “Prrrrzzzzrrrr — like we'd done<lb/>
to those young millicents, and then he started singing again:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
O dear dear land, I fought for thee<lb/>
And brought thee peace and victory —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we cracked into him lovely, grinning all over our litsos,<lb/>
but he still went on singing. Then we tripped him so he<lb/>
laid down flat and heavy and a bucketload of beer-vomit<lb/>
came whooshing out. That was disgusting so we gave him<lb/>
the boot, one go each, and then it was blood, not song<lb/>
nor vomit, that came out of his filthy old rot. Then we<lb/>
went on our way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was round by the Municipal Power Plant that we<lb/>
came across Billyboy and his five droogs. Now in those<lb/>
days, my brothers, the teaming up was mostly by fours or<lb/>
fives, these being like auto-teams, four being a comfy<lb/>
number for an auto, and six being the outside limit for<lb/>
gang-size. Sometimes gangs would gang up so as to make<lb/>
like malenky armies for big night-war, but mostly it was<lb/>
best to roam in these like small numbers. Billyboy was<lb/>
something that made me want to sick just to viddy his<lb/>
fat grinning litso, and he always had this von of very stale<lb/>
oil that’s been used for frying over and over, even when<lb/>
he was dressed in his best platties, like now. They viddied<lb/>
us just as we viddied them, and there was like a very quiet<lb/>
kind of watching each other now. This would be real, this<lb/>
would be proper, this would be the nozh, the oozy, the<lb/>
britva, not just fisties and boots. Billyboy and his droogs<lb/>
stopped what they were doing, which was just getting<lb/>
ready to perform something on a weepy young devotchka<lb/>
they had there, not more than ten, she creeching away<lb/>
but with her platties still on, Billyboy holding her by one<lb/>
rooker and his number-one, Leo, holding the other. They'd<lb/>
probably just been doing the dirty slovo part of the act<lb/>
before getting down to a malenky bit of ultra-violence.<lb/>
When they viddied us a-coming they let go of this boo-<lb/>
hooing little ptitsa, there being plenty more where she<lb/>
came from, and she ran with her thin white legs flashing<lb/>
through the dark, still going ‘Oh oh oh.’ I said, smiling<lb/>
very wide and droogie, “Well, if it isn’t fat stinking billygoat<lb/>
Billyboy in poison. How art thou, thou globby bottle of<lb/>
cheap stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles,<lb/>
if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly, thou.’ And then<lb/>
we started.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There were four of us to six of them, like I have already<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="27"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
indicated, but poor old Dim, for all his dimness, was worth<lb/>
three of the others in sheer madness and dirty fighting. Dim<lb/>
had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain round his<lb/>
waist, twice wound round, and he unwound this and began<lb/>
to swing it beautiful in the eyes or glazzies. Pete and Georgie<lb/>
had good sharp nozhes, but I for my own part had a fine<lb/>
starry horrorshow cut-throat britva which, at that time, I<lb/>
could flash and shine artistic. So there we were dratsing<lb/>
away in the dark, the old Luna with men on it just coming<lb/>
up, the stars stabbing away as it might be knives anxious<lb/>
to join in the dratsing. With my britva I managed to slit<lb/>
right down the front of one of Billyboy’s droog’s platties,<lb/>
very very neat and not even touching the plott under the<lb/>
cloth. Then in the dratsing this droog of Billyboy’s suddenly<lb/>
found himself all opened up like a peapod, with his belly<lb/>
bare and his poor old yarbles showing, and then he got very<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and letting in old Dim with his chain snaking whissssssh-<lb/>
hbhhhhhh, so that old Dim chained him right in the glazzies,<lb/>
and this droog of Billyboy’s went tottering off and howling<lb/>
his heart out. We were doing very horrorshow, and soon<lb/>
we had Billyboy’s number-one down underfoot, blinded<lb/>
with old Dim’s chain and crawling and howling about like<lb/>
an animal, but with one fair boot on the gulliver he was<lb/>
out and out and out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of the four of us Dim, as usual, came out the worst in<lb/>
point of looks, that is to say his litso was all bloodied and<lb/>
his platties a dirty mess, but the others of us were still<lb/>
cool and whole. It was stinking fatty Billyboy I wanted<lb/>
now, and there I was dancing about with my britva like<lb/>
I might be a barber on board a ship on a very rough sea,<lb/>
trying to get in at him with a few fair slashes on his unclean<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oily litso. Billyboy had a nozh, a long flick-type, but he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
22<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was a malenky bit too slow and heavy in his movements<lb/>
to vred anyone really bad. And, my brothers, it was real<lb/>
satisfaction to me to waltz — left two three, right two three<lb/>
— and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two<lb/>
curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time,<lb/>
one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter<lb/>
starlight. Down this blood poured in like red curtains, but<lb/>
you could viddy Billyboy felt not a thing, and he went<lb/>
lumbering on like a filthy fatty bear, poking at me with<lb/>
his nozh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents<lb/>
were coming with pooshkas pushing out of the police-<lb/>
auto-windows at the ready. That little weepy devotchka<lb/>
had told them, no doubt, there being a box for calling<lb/>
the rozzes not too far behind the Muni Power Plant. “Get<lb/>
you soon, fear not,’ I called, ‘stinking billygoat. I’ll have<lb/>
your yarbles off lovely.’ Then off they ran, slow and<lb/>
panting, except for Number One Leo out snoring on the<lb/>
ground, away north towards the river, and we went the<lb/>
other way. Just round the next turning was an alley, dark<lb/>
and empty and open at both ends, and we rested there,<lb/>
panting fast then slower, then breathing like normal. It<lb/>
was like resting between the feet of two terrific and very<lb/>
enormous mountains, these being the flatblocks, and in<lb/>
the windows of all of the flats you could viddy like blue<lb/>
dancing light. This would be the telly. Tonight was what<lb/>
they called a worldcast, meaning that the same programme<lb/>
was being viddied by everybody in the world that wanted<lb/>
to, that being mostly the middle-aged middle-class lewdies.<lb/>
There would be some big famous stupid comic chelloveck<lb/>
or black singer, and it was all being bounced off the special<lb/>
telly satellites in outer space, my brothers. We waited<lb/>
panting, and we could slooshy the sirening millicents going<lb/>
</p>
<p>
23<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="28"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
east, so we knew we were all right now. But poor old Dim<lb/>
kept looking up at the stars and planets and the Luna<lb/>
with his rot wide open like a kid who'd never viddied any<lb/>
such thing before, and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's on them, I wonder. What would be up there<lb/>
on things like that?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I nudged him hard, saying: ‘Come, gloopy bastard as<lb/>
thou art. Think thou not on them. There'll be life like<lb/>
down here most likely, with some getting knifed and others<lb/>
doing the knifing. And now, with the nochy still molodoy,<lb/>
let us be on our way, O my brothers.’ The others smecked<lb/>
at this, but poor old Dim looked at me serious, then up<lb/>
again at the stars and the Luna. So we went on our way<lb/>
down the alley, with the worldcast blueing on on either<lb/>
side. What we needed now was an auto, so we turned left<lb/>
coming out of the alley, knowing right away we were in<lb/>
Priestley Place as soon as we viddied the big bronze statue<lb/>
of some starry poet with an apey upper lip and a pipe<lb/>
stuck in a droopy old rot. Going north we came to the<lb/>
filthy old Filmdrome, peeling and dropping to bits through<lb/>
nobody going there much except malchicks like me and<lb/>
my droogs, and then only for a yell or a razrez or a bit of<lb/>
in-out-in-out in the dark. We could viddy from the poster<lb/>
on the Filmdrome’s face, a couple of fly-dirted spots trained<lb/>
on it, that there was the usual cowboy riot, with the arch-<lb/>
angels on the side of the US marshal six-shooting at the<lb/>
rustlers out of hell’s fighting legions, the kind of hound-<lb/>
and-horny veshch put out by Statefilm in those days. The<lb/>
autos parked by the sinny weren't all that horrorshow,<lb/>
crappy starry veshches most of them, but there was a<lb/>
newish Durango 95 that I thought might do. Georgie had<lb/>
one of these polyclefs, as they called them, on his keyring,<lb/>
so we were soon aboard — Dim and Pete at the back,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
24<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
puffing away lordly at their cancers — and I turned on the<lb/>
ignition and started her up and she grumbled away real<lb/>
horrorshow, a nice warm vibraty feeling grumbling all<lb/>
through your guttiwuts. Then I made with the noga, and<lb/>
we backed out lovely, and nobody viddied us take off.<lb/>
We fillied round what was called the backtown for a<lb/>
bit, scaring old vecks and cheenas that were crossing the<lb/>
roads and zigzagging after cats and that. Then we took<lb/>
the road west. There wasn’t much traffic about, so I kept<lb/>
pushing the old noga through the floorboards near, and<lb/>
the Durango 95 ate up the road like spaghetti. Soon it<lb/>
was winter trees and dark, my brothers, with a country<lb/>
dark, and at one place I ran over something big with a<lb/>
snarling toothy rot in the headlamps, then it screamed<lb/>
and squelched under and old Dim at the back near laughed<lb/>
his gulliver off — “Ho ho ho’ — at that. Then we saw one<lb/>
young malchick with his sharp, lubbilubbing under a tree,<lb/>
so we stopped and cheered at them, then we bashed into<lb/>
them both with a couple of half-hearted tolchocks, making<lb/>
them cry, and on we went. What we were after now was<lb/>
the old surprise visit. That was a real kick and good for<lb/>
smecks and lashings of the ultra-violent. We came at last<lb/>
to a sort of a village, and just outside this village was a<lb/>
small sort of a cottage on its own with a bit of a garden.<lb/>
The Luna was well up now, and we could viddy this cottage<lb/>
fine and clear as I eased up and put the brake on, the<lb/>
other three giggling like bezoomny, and we could viddy<lb/>
the name on the gate of this cottage veshch was HOME,<lb/>
a gloopy sort of a name. I got out of the auto, ordering<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
25<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="29"/>
<p>
somebody coming, then a bolt drawn, then the door inched<lb/>
open an inch or so, then I could viddy this one glaz looking<lb/>
out at me and the door was on a chain. ‘Yes? Who is it?”<lb/>
It was a sharp’s goloss, a youngish devotchka by her sound,<lb/>
so I said in a very refined manner of speech, a real gentle-<lb/>
man’s goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Pardon, madam, most sorry to disturb you, but my<lb/>
friend and me were out for a walk, and my friend has<lb/>
taken bad all of a sudden with a very troublesome turn,<lb/>
and he is out there on the road dead out and groaning.<lb/>
Would you have the goodness to let me use your telephone<lb/>
to telephone for an ambulance?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We haven't a telephone,’ said this devotchka. ‘’m sorry,<lb/>
but we haven't. You'll have to go somewhere else.’ From<lb/>
inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack<lb/>
clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing<lb/>
away, and then the typing stopped and there was this<lb/>
chelloveck’s goloss calling: “What is it, dear?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well,” I said, ‘could you of your goodness please let<lb/>
him have a cup of water? It’s like a faint, you see. It seems<lb/>
as though he’s passed out in a sort of a fainting fit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The devotchka sort of hesitated and then said: ‘Wait.’<lb/>
Then she went off, and my three droogs had got out of<lb/>
the auto quiet and crept up horrorshow stealthy, putting<lb/>
their maskies on now, then I put mine on, then it was<lb/>
only a matter of me putting in the old rooker and undoing<lb/>
the chain, me having softened up this devotchka with my<lb/>
gent’s goloss, so that she hadn't shut the door like she<lb/>
should have done, us being strangers of the night. The<lb/>
four of us then went roaring in, old Dim playing the shoot<lb/>
as usual with his jumping up and down and singing out<lb/>
dirty slovos, and it was a nice malenky cottage, I'll say<lb/>
that. We all went smecking into the room with a light on,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
26<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and there was this devotchka sort of cowering, a young<lb/>
pretty bit of sharp with real horrorshow groodies on her,<lb/>
and with her was this chelloveck who was her moodge,<lb/>
youngish too with horn-rimmed otchkies on him, and on<lb/>
a table was a typewriter and all papers scattered everywhere,<lb/>
but there was one little pile of paper like that must have<lb/>
been what he'd already typed, so here was another intel-<lb/>
ligent type bookman type like that we'd fillied with some<lb/>
hours back, but this one was a writer not a reader. Anyway<lb/>
he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is this? Who are you? How dare you enter my<lb/>
house without permission.’ And all the time his goloss was<lb/>
trembling and his rookers too. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Never fear. If fear thou hast in thy heart, O brother,<lb/>
pray banish it forthwith.’ Then Georgie and Pete went<lb/>
out to find the kitchen, while old Dim waited for orders,<lb/>
standing next to me with his rot wide open. “What is this,<lb/>
then?’ I said, picking up the pile like of typing from off<lb/>
of the table, and the horn-rimmed moodge said, dithering:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s just what I want to know. What is this? What<lb/>
do you want? Get out at once before I throw you out.’<lb/>
So poor old Dim, masked like Peebee Shelley, had a good<lb/>
loud smeck at that, roaring like some animal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s a book,’ I said. ‘It’s a book what you are writing.’<lb/>
I made the old goloss very coarse. ‘I have always had the<lb/>
strongest admiration for them as can write books.’ Then<lb/>
I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name — A<lb/>
CLOCKWORK ORANGE ~— and I said, ‘That’s a fair<lb/>
gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?’ Then<lb/>
I read a malenky bit out loud in a sort of very high type<lb/>
preaching goloss: - The attempt to impose upon man, a<lb/>
creature of growth and capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily<lb/>
at the last round the bearded lips of God, to attempt to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
27<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="30"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
impose, I say, laws and conditions appropriate to a mechan-<lb/>
ical creation, against this I raise my swordpen — Dim<lb/>
made the old lip-music at that and I had to smeck myself.<lb/>
Then I started to tear up the sheets and scatter the bits<lb/>
over the floor, and this writer moodge went sort of<lb/>
bezoomny and made for me with his zoobies clenched and<lb/>
showing yellow and his nails ready for me like claws. So<lb/>
that was old Dim’s cue and he went grinning and going<lb/>
er er and a a a for this veck’s dithering rot, crack crack,<lb/>
first left fistie then right, so that our dear old droog the<lb/>
red — red vino on tap and the same in all places, like it’s<lb/>
put out by the same big firm — started to pour and spot<lb/>
the nice clean carpet and the bits of his book that I was<lb/>
still ripping away at, razrez razrez. All this time this<lb/>
devotchka, his loving and faithful wife, just stood like froze<lb/>
by the fireplace, and then she started letting out little<lb/>
malenky creeches, like in time to the like music of old<lb/>
Dim’s fisty work. Then Georgie and Pete came in from<lb/>
the kitchen, both munching away, though with their<lb/>
maskies on, you could do that with them on and no<lb/>
trouble, Georgie with like a cold leg of something in one<lb/>
rooker and half a loaf of kleb with a big dollop of maslo<lb/>
on it in the other, and Pete with a bottle of beer frothing<lb/>
its gulliver off and a horrorshow rookerful of like plum<lb/>
cake. They went haw haw haw, viddying old Dim dancing<lb/>
round and fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
hoo hoo with a very square bloody rot, but it was haw<lb/>
haw haw in a muffled eater’s way and you could see bits<lb/>
of what they were eating. I didn’t like that, it being dirty<lb/>
and slobbery, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Drop that mounch. I gave no permission. Grab hold<lb/>
of this veck here so he can viddy all and not get away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
28<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So they put down their fatty pishcha on the table among<lb/>
all the flying paper and they clopped over to the writer<lb/>
veck whose horn-rimmed otchkies were cracked but still<lb/>
hanging on, with old Dim still dancing round and making<lb/>
ornaments shake on the mantelpiece (I swept them all off<lb/>
then and they couldn’t shake no more, little brothers) while<lb/>
he fillied with the author of A Clockwork Orange, making<lb/>
his litso all purple and dripping away like some very special<lb/>
sort of a juicy fruit. ‘All right, Dim,’ I said. ‘Now for the<lb/>
other veshch, Bog help us all.’ So he did the strong-man<lb/>
on the devotchka, who was still creech creech creeching<lb/>
away in very horrorshow four-in-a-bar, locking her rookers<lb/>
from the back, while I ripped away at this and that and<lb/>
the other, the others going haw haw haw still, and real<lb/>
good horrorshow groodies they were that then exhibited<lb/>
their pink glazzies, O my brothers, while J untrussed and<lb/>
got ready for the plunge. Plunging, I could slooshy cries<lb/>
of agony and this writer bleeding veck that Georgie and<lb/>
Pete held on to nearly got loose howling bezoomny with<lb/>
the filthiest of slovos that I already knew and others he<lb/>
was making up. Then after me it was right old Dim should<lb/>
have his turn, which he did in a beasty snorty howly sort<lb/>
of a way with his Peebee Shelley maskie taking no notice,<lb/>
while I held on to her. Then there was a changeover, Dim<lb/>
and me grabbing the slobbering writer veck who was past<lb/>
struggling really, only just coming out with slack sort of<lb/>
slovos like he was in the land in a milk-plus bar, and Pete<lb/>
and Georgie had theirs. Then there was like quiet and we<lb/>
were full of like hate, so smashed what was left to be<lb/>
smashed — typewriter, lamp, chairs — and Dim, it was<lb/>
typical of old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to<lb/>
dung on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said<lb/>
no. ‘Out out out out,’ I howled. The writer veck and his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
29<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="31"/>
<p>
zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and making<lb/>
noises. But they'd live.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we got into the waiting auto and I left it to Georgie<lb/>
to take the wheel, me feeling that malenky bit shagged,<lb/>
and we went back to town, running over odd squealing<lb/>
things on the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We yeckated back townwards, my brothers,<lb/>
but just outside, not far from what they<lb/>
called the Industrial Canal, we viddied the<lb/>
fuel needle had like collapsed, like our own<lb/>
ha ha ha needles had, and the auto was<lb/>
coughing kashl kashl kash]. Not to worry overmuch,<lb/>
though, because a rail station kept flashing blue — on off<lb/>
on off — just near. The point was whether to leave the<lb/>
auto to be sobiratted by the rozzes or, us feeling like in a<lb/>
hate and murder mood, to give it a fair tolchock into the<lb/>
starry waters for a nice heavy loud plesk before the death<lb/>
of the evening. This latter we decided on, so we got out<lb/>
and, the brakes off, all four tolchocked it to the edge of<lb/>
the filthy water that was like treacle mixed with human<lb/>
hole products, then one good horrorshow tolchock and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in she went. We had to dash back for fear of the filth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
went, down and lovely. ‘Farewell, old droog,’ called<lb/>
Georgie, and Dim obliged with a clowny great guff — ‘Huh<lb/>
huh huh huh.’ Then we made for the station to ride the<lb/>
one stop to Center, as the middle of town was called. We<lb/>
paid our fares nice and polite and waited gentlemanly and<lb/>
quiet on the platform, old Dim fillying with the slot<lb/>
machines, his carmans being full of small malenky coin,<lb/>
and ready if need be to distribute chocbars to the poor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
31<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="32"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and starving, though there was none such about, and then<lb/>
the old espresso rapido came lumbering in and we climbed<lb/>
aboard, the train looking to be near empty. To pass the<lb/>
three-minute ride we fillied about with what they called<lb/>
the upholstery, doing some nice horrorshow tearing-out<lb/>
of the seats’ guts and old Dim chaining the okno till the<lb/>
glass cracked and sparkled in the winter air, but we were<lb/>
all feeling that bit shagged and fagged and fashed, it having<lb/>
been an evening of some energy expenditure, my brothers,<lb/>
only Dim, like the clowny animal he was, full of the joys-of<lb/>
but looking all dirtied over and too much von of sweat<lb/>
on him, which was one thing I had against old Dim.<lb/>
We got out at Center and walked slow back to the<lb/>
Korova Milkbar, all going yawwwww a malenky bit and<lb/>
exhibiting to moon and star and lamplight our back fill-<lb/>
ings, because we were still only growing malchicks and<lb/>
had school in the daytime, and when we got into the<lb/>
Korova we found it fuller than when we'd left earlier on.<lb/>
But the chelloveck that had been burbling away, in the<lb/>
land, on white and synthemesc or whatever, was still on<lb/>
at it, going: “Urchins of deadcast in the way-ho-hay glill<lb/>
platonic tide weatherborn.’ It was probable that this was<lb/>
his third or fourth lot that evening, for he had that pale<lb/>
inhuman look, like he’d become a thing, and like his litso<lb/>
was really a piece of chalk carved. Really, if he wanted to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of the private cubies at the back and not stayed in the big<lb/>
mesto, because here some of the malchickies would filly<lb/>
about with him a malenky bit, though not too much<lb/>
because there were powerful bruiseboys hidden away in<lb/>
the old Korova who could stop any riot. Anyway, Dim<lb/>
squeezed in next to this veck and, with his big clown’s<lb/>
yawp that showed his hanging grape, he stabbed this veck’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
32<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
foot with his own large filthy sabog. But the veck, my<lb/>
brothers, heard nought, being now all above the body.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tt was nadsats mostly milking and coking and fillying<lb/>
around (nadsats were what we used to call the teens), but<lb/>
there were a few of the more starry ones, vecks and cheenas<lb/>
alike (but not of the boorjoyce, never them) laughing and<lb/>
govoreeting at the bar. You could tell from their barberings<lb/>
and loose platties (big string sweaters mostly) that they'd<lb/>
been on rehearsal at the TV studios round the corner. The<lb/>
devotchkas among them had these very lively litsos and<lb/>
wide big rots, very red, showing a lot of teeth, and smecking<lb/>
away and not caring about the wicked world one whit.<lb/>
And then the disc on the stereo twanged off and out (it<lb/>
was Jonny Zhivago, a Russky koshka, singing ‘Only Every<lb/>
Other Day’), and in the like interval, the short silence<lb/>
before the next one came on, one of these devotchkas —<lb/>
very fair and with a big smiling red rot and in her late<lb/>
thirties I'd say — suddenly came with a burst of singing,<lb/>
only a bar and a half and as though she was like giving<lb/>
an example of something they'd all been govoreeting about,<lb/>
and it was like for a moment, O my brothers, some great<lb/>
bird had flown into the milkbar, and I felt all the little<lb/>
malenky hairs on my plott standing endwise and the shivers<lb/>
crawling up like slow malenky lizards and then down again.<lb/>
Because I knew what she sang. It was from an opera by<lb/>
Friedrich Gitterfenster called Das Bettzeug, and it was the<lb/>
bit where she’s snuffing it with her throat cut, and the<lb/>
slovos are “Better like this maybe’. Anyway, I shivered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But old Dim, as soon as he'd slooshied this dollop of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
pronging twice at the air followed by a clowny guffaw. I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
33<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="33"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
felt myself all of a fever and like drowning in redhot blood,<lb/>
slooshying and viddying Dim’s vulgarity, and I said:<lb/>
‘Bastard. Filthy drooling mannerless bastard.’ Then I leaned<lb/>
across Georgie, who was between me and horrible Dim,<lb/>
and fisted Dim skorry on the rot. Dim looked very<lb/>
surprised, his rot open, wiping the krovvy off of his goober<lb/>
with his rook and in turn looking surprised at the red<lb/>
flowing krovvy and at me. “What for did you do that for?<lb/>
he said in his ignorant way. Not many viddied what I’d<lb/>
done, and those that viddied cared not. The stereo was<lb/>
on again and was playing a very sick electronic guitar<lb/>
veshch. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘For being a bastard with no manners and not the dook<lb/>
of an idea how to comport yourself publicwise, O my<lb/>
brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dim put on a hound-and-horny look of evil, saying, ‘I<lb/>
don’t like you should do what you done then. And I’m<lb/>
not your brother no more and wouldn’t want to be.’ Hed<lb/>
taken a big snotty tashtook from his pocket and was<lb/>
mopping the red flow puzzled, keeping on looking at it<lb/>
frowning as if he thought that blood was for other vecks<lb/>
and not for him. It was like he was singing blood to make<lb/>
up for his vulgarity when that devotchka was singing music.<lb/>
But that devotchka was smecking away ha ha ha now with<lb/>
her droogs at the bar, her red rot working and her zoobies<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
me really Dim had done wrong to. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If you don’t like this and you wouldn’t want that, then<lb/>
you know what to do, little brother.’ Georgie said, in a<lb/>
sharp way that made me look:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. Let’s not be starting.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s clean up to Dim,’ I said. ‘Dim can’t go on all<lb/>
his jeezny being as a little child.’ And I looked sharp at<lb/>
</p>
<p>
34<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
now:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What natural right does he have to think he can give<lb/>
the orders and tolchock me whenever he likes? Yarbles is<lb/>
what I say to him, and I'd chain his glazzies out soon as<lb/>
look.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Watch that,’ I said, as quiet as I could with the stereo<lb/>
bouncing all over the walls and ceiling and the in-the-land<lb/>
veck beyond Dim getting loud now with his ‘Spark nearer,<lb/>
ultoptimate.’ I said, ‘Do watch that, O Dim, if to continue<lb/>
to be on live thou dost wish.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yarbles,’ said Dim, sneering, ‘great bolshy yarblockos<lb/>
to you. What you done then you had no right. I’ll meet<lb/>
you with chain or nozh or britva any time, not having<lb/>
you aiming tolchocks at me reasonless, it stands to reason<lb/>
I won't have it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A nozh scrap any time you say,’ I snarled back. Pete<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh now, don’t, both of you malchicks. Droogs, aren't<lb/>
we? It isnt right droogs should behave thiswise. See, there<lb/>
are some loose-lipped malchicks over there smecking at<lb/>
us, leering like. We mustn’t let ourselves down.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim,’ I said, ‘has got to learn his place. Right?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wait,” said Georgie. “What's all this about place? This<lb/>
is the first I ever hear about lewdies learning their place.’<lb/>
Pete said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If the truth is known, Alex, you shouldn’t have given<lb/>
old Dim that uncalled-for tolchock. T’'ll say it once and<lb/>
no more. I say it with all respect, but if it had been me<lb/>
youd given it to youd have to answer. I say no more.’<lb/>
And he drowned his litso in his milk-glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I could feel myself getting all razdraz inside, but I tried<lb/>
to cover it, saying calm: “There has to bea leader. Discipline<lb/>
</p>
<p>
35<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="34"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
there has to be. Right?’ None of them skazatted a word<lb/>
or nodded even. I got more razdraz inside, calmer out. ‘I,’<lb/>
I said, ‘have been in charge long now. We are all droogs,<lb/>
but somebody has to be in charge. Right? Right?’ They<lb/>
all like nodded, wary like. Dim was osooshing the last of<lb/>
the krovvy off. It was Dim who said now:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, right. Doobidoob. A bit tired, maybe, everybody<lb/>
is. Best not to say more.’ I was surprised and just that<lb/>
malenky bit poogly to sloosh Dim govoreeting that wise.<lb/>
Dim said: “Bedways is rightways now, so best we go home-<lb/>
ways. Right?’ I was very surprised. The other two nodded,<lb/>
going right right right. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You understand about the tolchock on the rot, Dim.<lb/>
It was the music, see. I get all bezoomny when any veck<lb/>
interferes with a ptitsa singing, as it might be. Like that<lb/>
then.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Best we go off homeways and get a bit of spatchka,’<lb/>
said Dim. ‘A long night for growing malchicks. Right?’<lb/>
Right right nodded the other two. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I think it best we go home now. Dim has made a real<lb/>
horrorshow suggestion. If we don’t meet daywise, O my<lb/>
brothers, well then — same time same place tomorrow?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh yes,’ said Georgie. ‘I think that can be arranged.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I might,’ said Dim, ‘be just that malenky bit late. But<lb/>
</p>
<p>
same place and near same time tomorrow surely.’ He was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
any longer now. ‘And,’ he said, ‘it’s to be hoped that there<lb/>
wont be no more of them singing ptitsas in here.’ Then<lb/>
he gave his old Dim guff, a clowny big hohohohoho. It<lb/>
seemed like he was too dim to take much offence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So off we went our several ways, me belching arrrrgh on<lb/>
the cold coke I'd peeted. I had my cut-throat britva handy<lb/>
in case any of Billyboy’s droogs should be around near the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
36<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
flatblock waiting, or for that matter any of the other bandas<lb/>
or gruppas or shaikas that from time to time were at war<lb/>
with one. Where I lived was with my dadda and mum in<lb/>
the flats of Municipal Flatblock 18A, between Kingsley<lb/>
Avenue and Wilsonsway. I got to the big main door with<lb/>
no trouble, though I did pass one young malchick sprawling<lb/>
and creeching and moaning in the gutter, all cut about<lb/>
lovely, and saw in the lamplight also streaks of blood here<lb/>
and there like signatures, my brothers, of the night’s fillying.<lb/>
And too I saw just by 18A a pair of devotchka’s neezhnies<lb/>
doubtless rudely wrenched off in the heat of the moment,<lb/>
O my brothers. And so in. In the hallway was the good<lb/>
old municipal painting on the walls — vecks and ptitsas<lb/>
very well-developed, stern in the dignity of labour, at work-<lb/>
bench and machine with not one stitch of platties on their<lb/>
well-developed plotts. But of course some of the malchicks<lb/>
living in 18A had, as was to be expected, embellished and<lb/>
decorated the said big painting with handy pencil and<lb/>
ballpoint, adding hair and stiff rods and dirty ballooning<lb/>
slovos out of the dignified rots of these nagoy (bare, that<lb/>
is) cheenas and vecks. I went to the lift, but there was no<lb/>
need to press the electric knopka to see if it was working<lb/>
or not, because it had been tolchocked real horrorshow<lb/>
this night, the metal doors all buckled, some feat of rare<lb/>
strength indeed, so I had to walk the ten floors up. I cursed<lb/>
and panted climbing, being tired in plott if not so much<lb/>
in brain. I wanted music very bad this evening, that singing<lb/>
devotchka in the Korova having perhaps started me off. I<lb/>
wanted a big feast of it before getting my passport stamped,<lb/>
my brothers, at sleep’s frontier and the stripy shest lifted<lb/>
to let me through.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I opened the door of 10-8 with my own little klootch,<lb/>
and inside our malenky quarters all was quiet, the pee and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
37<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="35"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
em both being in sleepland, and mum had laid out on<lb/>
the table my malenky bit of supper — a couple of lomticks<lb/>
of tinned spongemeat with a shive or so of kleb and butter,<lb/>
a glass of the old cold moloko. Hohoho, the old moloko,<lb/>
with no knives or synthemesc or drencrom in it. How<lb/>
wicked, my brothers, innocent milk must always seem to<lb/>
me now. Still, I drank and ate growling, being more hungry<lb/>
than I thought at first, and I got a fruitpie from the larder<lb/>
and tore chunks off it to stuff into my greedy rot. Then<lb/>
I tooth-cleaned and clicked, cleaning out the old rot with<lb/>
my yahzick or tongue, then I went into my own little<lb/>
room or den, easing off my platties as I did so. Here was<lb/>
my bed and my stereo, pride of my jeezny, and my discs<lb/>
in their cupboard, and banners and flags on the wall, these<lb/>
being like remembrances of my corrective school life since<lb/>
Iwas eleven, O my brothers, each one shining and blazoned<lb/>
with name or number: SOUTH 4; METRO CORSKOL<lb/>
BLUE DIVISION; THE BOYS OF ALPHA.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The little speakers of my stereo were all arranged round<lb/>
the room, on ceiling, walls, floor, so, lying on my bed<lb/>
slooshying the music, I was like netted and meshed in the<lb/>
orchestra. Now what I fancied first tonight was this new<lb/>
violin concerto by the American Geoffrey Plautus, played<lb/>
by Odysseus Choerilos with the Macon (Georgia)<lb/>
Philharmonic, so I slid it from where it was neatly filed<lb/>
and switched on and waited.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I<lb/>
lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on<lb/>
the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying<lb/>
the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and<lb/>
gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold<lb/>
under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-<lb/>
wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling<lb/>
</p>
<p>
38<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
through my guts and out again crunched like candy<lb/>
thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird<lb/>
of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing<lb/>
in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin<lb/>
solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like<lb/>
a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored,<lb/>
like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee<lb/>
gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. Pee and<lb/>
em in their bedroom next door had learnt now not to<lb/>
knock on the wall with complaints of what they called<lb/>
noise. I had taught them. Now they would take sleep-pills.<lb/>
Perhaps, knowing the joy I had in my night music, they<lb/>
had already taken them. As I slooshied, my glazzies tight<lb/>
shut to shut in the bliss that was better than any synthe-<lb/>
mesc Bog or God, I knew such lovely pictures. There were<lb/>
vecks and ptitsas, both young and starry, lying on the<lb/>
ground screaming for mercy, and I was smecking all over<lb/>
my rot and grinding my boot in their litsos. And there<lb/>
were devotchkas ripped and creeching against the walls<lb/>
and I plunging like a shlaga into them, and indeed when<lb/>
the music, which was one movement only, rose to the top<lb/>
of its big highest tower, then, lying there on my bed with<lb/>
glazzies tight shut and rookers behind my gulliver, I broke<lb/>
and spattered and cried aaaaaaah with the bliss of it. And<lb/>
so the lovely music glided to its glowing close.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After that I had lovely Mozart, the Jupiter, and there<lb/>
were new pictures of different litsos to be ground and<lb/>
splashed, and it was after this that I thought I would have<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
39<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="36"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'd razrezzed that night, a long time ago it seemed, in that<lb/>
cottage called HOME. The name was about a clockwork<lb/>
orange. Listening to the J. S. Bach, I began to pony better<lb/>
what that meant now, and I thought, slooshying away to<lb/>
the brown gorgeousness of the starry German master, that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would like to have tolchocked them both harder and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ripped them to ribbons on their own floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
THE next morning I woke up at oh eight<lb/>
oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still<lb/>
felt shagged and fagged and fashed and<lb/>
bashed and my glazzies were stuck together<lb/>
real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would not go to school. I thought how I would have a<lb/>
malenky bit longer in the bed, an hour or two say, and<lb/>
then get dressed nice and easy, perhaps even having a<lb/>
splosh about in the bath, and then brew a pot of real<lb/>
strong horrorshow chai and make toast for myself and<lb/>
slooshy the radio or read the gazetta, all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I<lb/>
still felt like it, itty off to the old skolliwoll and see what<lb/>
was vareeting in that great seat of gloopy useless learning,<lb/>
O my brothers. I heard my papapa grumbling and tram-<lb/>
pling and then ittying off to the dyeworks where he<lb/>
rabbited, and then my mum called in in a very respectful<lb/>
goloss as she did now I was growing up big and strong:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s gone eight, son. You don’t want to be late again.’<lb/>
So I called back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A bit of a pain in my gulliver. Leave us be and I’ll try<lb/>
to sleep it off and then I'll be right as dodgers for this<lb/>
after.’ I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘TH put your breakfast in the oven then, son. I’ve got<lb/>
to be off myself now.’ Which was true, there being this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="37"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
law for everybody not a child nor with child nor ill to go<lb/>
out rabbiting. My mum worked at one of the Statemarts,<lb/>
as they called them, filling up the shelves with tinned soup<lb/>
and beans and all that cal. So I slooshied her clank a plate<lb/>
in the gas-oven like and then she was putting her shoes<lb/>
on and then getting her coat from behind the door and<lb/>
then sighing again, then she said: ‘I’m off now, son.’ But<lb/>
I let on to be back in sleepland and then I did doze off<lb/>
real horrorshow, and I had a queer and very real like sneety,<lb/>
dreaming for some reason of my droog Georgie. In this<lb/>
sneety he'd got like very much older and very sharp and<lb/>
hard and was govoreeting about discipline and obedience<lb/>
and how all the malchicks under his control had to jump<lb/>
hard at it and throw up the old salute like being in the<lb/>
army, and there was me in line like the rest saying yes sir<lb/>
and no sir, and then I viddied clear that Georgie had these<lb/>
stars on his pletchoes and he was like a general. And then<lb/>
he brought in old Dim with a whip, and Dim was a lot<lb/>
more starry and grey and had a few zoobies missing as<lb/>
you could see when he let out a smeck, viddying me, and<lb/>
then my droog Georgie said, pointing like at me, ‘That<lb/>
man has filth and cal all over his platties,’ and it was true.<lb/>
Then I creeched, “Don’t hit, please don’t, brothers,’ and<lb/>
started to run. And I was running in like circles and Dim<lb/>
was after me, smecking his gulliver off, cracking with the<lb/>
old whip, and each time I got a real horrorshow tolchock<lb/>
with this whip there was like a very loud electric bell<lb/>
ringringringing, and this bell was like a sort of a pain too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then I woke up real skorry, my heart going bap bap<lb/>
bap, and of course there was really a bell going brrrrr, and<lb/>
it was our front-door bell. I let on that nobody was at<lb/>
home, but this brrrrr still ittied on, and then I heard a<lb/>
goloss shouting through the door, ‘Come on then, get out<lb/>
</p>
<p>
42<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
over this over-gown. Then I put my nogas into very comfy<lb/>
woolly toofles, combed my luscious glory, and was ready<lb/>
for P. R. Deltoid. When I opened up he came shambling<lb/>
in looking shagged, a battered old shlapa on his gulliver,<lb/>
his raincoat filthy. ‘Ah, Alex boy,’ he said to me. ‘I met<lb/>
your mother, yes. She said something about a pain some-<lb/>
where. Hence not at school, yes.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A rather intolerable pain in the head, brother, sir,’ I<lb/>
said in my gentleman’s goloss. ‘I think it should clear by<lb/>
this afternoon.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Or certainly by this evening, yes,’ said P. R. Deltoid.<lb/>
The evening is the great time, isn’t it, Alex boy? Sit,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘sit, sit,’ as though this was his domy and me his<lb/>
guest. And he sat in this starry rocking-chair of my dad’s<lb/>
and began rocking, as if that was all he'd come for. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A cup of the old chai, sir? Tea, I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No time,’ he said. And he rocked, giving me the old<lb/>
glint under frowning brows, as if with all the time in the<lb/>
world. “No time, yes,’ he said, gloopy. So I put the kettle<lb/>
on. Then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To what do I owe the extreme pleasure? Is anything<lb/>
wrong, sir?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wrong?’ he said, very skorry and sly, sort of hunched<lb/>
looking at me but still rocking away. Then he caught sight<lb/>
of an advert in the gazetta, which was on the table — a<lb/>
lovely smecking young ptitsa with her groodies hanging<lb/>
</p>
<p>
43<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="38"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
out to advertise, my brothers, the Glories of the Jugoslav<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
shouldn't, yes?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Just a manner of speech,’ I said, ‘sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said P. R. Deltoid, ‘it’s just a manner of speech<lb/>
from me to you that you watch out, little Alex, because<lb/>
next time, as you very well know, it’s not going to be the<lb/>
corrective school any more. Next time it’s going to be the<lb/>
barry place and all my work ruined. If you have no consid-<lb/>
eration for your horrible self you might at least have some<lb/>
for me, who have sweated over you. A big black mark, I<lb/>
tell you in confidence, for every one we don’t reclaim, a<lb/>
confession of failure for every one of you that ends up in<lb/>
the stripy hole.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T've been doing nothing I shouldn't, sir,’ I said. “The<lb/>
millicents have nothing on me, brother, sir | mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Cut out this clever talk about millicents,’ said P. R.<lb/>
Deltoid very weary, but still rocking. ‘Just because the<lb/>
police have not picked you up lately doesn’t, as you very<lb/>
well know, mean you've not been up to some nastiness.<lb/>
There was a bit of a fight last night, wasn’t there? There<lb/>
was a bit of shuffling with nozhes and bike-chains and<lb/>
the like. One of a certain fat boy’s friends was ambu-<lb/>
lanced off late from near the Power Plant and hospital-<lb/>
ised, cut about very unpleasantly, yes. Your name was<lb/>
mentioned. The word has got through to me by the<lb/>
usual channels. Certain friends of yours were named<lb/>
also. There seems to have been a fair amount of assorted<lb/>
nastiness last night. Oh, nobody can prove anything<lb/>
about anybody, as usual. But I’m warning you, little<lb/>
Alex, being a good friend to you as always, the one man<lb/>
</p>
<p>
44<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in this sore and sick community who wants to save you<lb/>
from yourself.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I appreciate all that, sir,’ I said, ‘very sincerely.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, you do, don’t you?’ he sort of sneered. ‘Just watch<lb/>
it, that’s all, yes. We know more than you think, little<lb/>
Alex.’ Then he said, in a goloss of great suffering, but still<lb/>
rocking away, ‘What gets into you all? We study the<lb/>
problem and we've been studying it for damn well near a<lb/>
century, yes, but we get no further with our studies. You've<lb/>
got a good home here, good loving parents, you've got<lb/>
not too bad of a brain. Is it some devil that crawls inside<lb/>
you?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody’s got anything on me, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ve been<lb/>
out of the rookers of the millicents for a long time now.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That’s just what worries me,’ sighed P. R. Deltoid. ‘A<lb/>
bit too long of a time to be healthy. Youre about due now<lb/>
by my reckoning. That’s why ’'m warning you, little Alex,<lb/>
to keep your handsome young proboscis out of the dirt,<lb/>
yes. Do I make myself clear?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘As an unmuddied lake, sir,’ I said. “Clear as an azure<lb/>
sky of deepest summer. You can rely on me, sit.’ And I<lb/>
gave him a nice zooby smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when he'd ookadeeted and I was making this very<lb/>
strong pot of chai, I grinned to myself over this veshch<lb/>
that P. R. Deltoid and his droogs worried about. All right,<lb/>
I do bad, what with crasting and tolchocks and carves<lb/>
with the britva and the old in-out-in-out, and if I get<lb/>
loveted, well, too bad for me, O my little brothers, and<lb/>
you can’t run a country with every chelloveck comporting<lb/>
himself in my manner of the night, So if I get loveted and<lb/>
it’s three months in this mesto and another six in that,<lb/>
and then, as P. R. Deltoid so kindly warns, next time, in<lb/>
spite of the great tenderness of my summers, brothers, it’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
45<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="39"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the great unearthly zoo itself, well, I say, “Fair, but a pity,<lb/>
my lords, because I just cannot bear to be shut in. My<lb/>
endeavour shall be, in such future as stretches out its snowy<lb/>
and lilywhite arms to me before the nozh overtakes or the<lb/>
blood spatters its final chorus in twisted metal and smashed<lb/>
glass on the highroad, to not get loveted again.’ Which is<lb/>
fair speeching. But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails<lb/>
over what is the cause of badness is what turns me into a<lb/>
fine laughing malchick. They don’t go into what is the<lb/>
cause of goodness, so why of the other shop? If lewdies are<lb/>
good that’s because they like it, and I wouldn't ever inter-<lb/>
fere with their pleasures, and so of the other shop. And I<lb/>
was patronising the other shop. More, badness is of the<lb/>
self, the one, the you or me on our oddy knockies, and<lb/>
that self is made by old Bog or God and is his great pride<lb/>
and radosty. But the not-self cannot have the bad, meaning<lb/>
they of the government and the judges and the schools<lb/>
cannot allow the bad because they cannot allow the self.<lb/>
And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of<lb/>
brave malenky selves fighting these big machines? I am<lb/>
serious with you, brothers, over this. But what I do I do<lb/>
because I like to do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So now, this smiling winter morning. I drank this very<lb/>
strong chai with moloko and spoon after spoon after spoon<lb/>
of sugar, me having a sladky tooth, and I dragged out of<lb/>
the oven the breakfast my poor old mum had cooked for<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
toast and ate egg and toast and jam, smacking away at it<lb/>
while I read the gazetta. The gazetta was the usual about<lb/>
ultra-violence and bank robberies and strikes and foot-<lb/>
ballers making everybody paralytic with fright by threat-<lb/>
ening to not play next Saturday if they did not get higher<lb/>
wages, naughty malchickiwicks as they were. Also there<lb/>
</p>
<p>
46<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
were more space-trips and bigger stereo TV screens and<lb/>
offers of free packets of soapflakes in exchange for the<lb/>
labels on soup-tins, amazing offer for one week only, which<lb/>
made me smeck. And there was a bolshy big article on<lb/>
Modern Youth (meaning me, so I gave the old bow, grin-<lb/>
ning like bezoomny) by some very clever bald chelloveck.<lb/>
I read this with care, my brothers, slurping away at the<lb/>
old chai, cup after tass after chasha, crunching my lomticks<lb/>
of black toast dipped in jammiwam and eggiweg. This<lb/>
learned veck said the usual veshches, about no parental<lb/>
discipline, as he called it, and the shortage of real horror-<lb/>
show teachers who would lambast bloody beggary out of<lb/>
their innocent poops and make them go boohoohoo for<lb/>
mercy. All this was gloopy and made me smeck, but it<lb/>
was like nice to go on knowing that one was making the<lb/>
news all the time, O my brothers. Every day there was<lb/>
something about Modern Youth, but the best veshch they<lb/>
ever had in the old gazetta was by some starry pop in a<lb/>
doggy collar who said that in his considered opinion and<lb/>
he was govoreeting as a man of Bog IT WAS THE DEVIL<lb/>
THAT WAS ABROAD and was like ferreting his way into<lb/>
like young innocent flesh, and it was the adult world that<lb/>
could take the responsibility for this with their wars and<lb/>
bombs and nonsense. So that was all right. So he knew<lb/>
what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young innocent<lb/>
malchicks could take no blame. Right right right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I’d gone erk erk a couple of razzes on my full<lb/>
innocent stomach, I started to get out the day platties<lb/>
from my wardrobe, turning the radio on. There was music<lb/>
playing, a very nice malenky string quartet, my brothers,<lb/>
by Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have<lb/>
a smeck, though, thinking of what I'd viddied once in one<lb/>
of these like articles on Modern Youth, about how Modern<lb/>
</p>
<p>
47<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="40"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation Of The<lb/>
Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and<lb/>
Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and<lb/>
make Modern Youth more Civilised. Civilised my syph-<lb/>
ilised yarbles. Music always sort of sharpened me up, O<lb/>
my brothers, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready<lb/>
to make with the old donner and blitzen and have vecks<lb/>
and ptitsas creeching away in my ha ha power. And when<lb/>
I'd cheested up my litso and rookers a bit and done dressing<lb/>
(my day platties were like student-wear: the old blue panta-<lb/>
lonies with sweater with A for Alex) I thought here at least<lb/>
was time to itty off to the disc-bootick (and cutter too,<lb/>
my pockets being full of pretty polly) to see about this<lb/>
long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven Number<lb/>
Nine (the Choral Symphony, that is), recorded on<lb/>
Masterstroke by the Esh Sham Sinfonia under L. Muhaiwizr.<lb/>
So out I went, brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The day was very different from the night. The night<lb/>
belonged to me and my droogs and all the rest of the<lb/>
nadsats, and the starry boorjoyce lurked indoors drinking<lb/>
in the gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry<lb/>
ones, and there always seemed to be more rozzes or milli-<lb/>
cents about during the day, too. I got the autobus from<lb/>
the corner and rode to Center, and then I walked back to<lb/>
Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick I favoured<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
gloopy name of MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow<lb/>
mesto and skorry, most times, at getting the new record-<lb/>
ings. I walked in and the only other customers were two<lb/>
young ptitsas sucking away at ice-sticks (and this, mark,<lb/>
was dead cold winter) and sort of shuffling through the<lb/>
new popdiscs — Johnny Burnaway, Stash Kroh, The Mixers,<lb/>
Lie Quiet Awhile With Ed And Id Molotov, and all the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
48<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rest of that cal. These two ptitsas couldn’t have been more<lb/>
than ten, and they too, like me, it seemed, evidently, had<lb/>
decided to take a morning off from the old skolliwoll.<lb/>
They saw themselves, you could see, as real grown-up<lb/>
devotchkas already, what with the old hipswing when they<lb/>
saw your Faithful Narrator, brothers, and padded groodies<lb/>
and red all ploshed on their goobers. I went up to the<lb/>
counter, making with the polite zooby smile at old Andy<lb/>
behind it (always polite himself, always helpful, a real<lb/>
horrorshow type of a veck, though bald and very very<lb/>
thin). He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Aha, I know what thou wantest, I thinkest. Good news,<lb/>
good news. It have arrived.’ And with like big conductor’s<lb/>
rookers beating time he went to get it. The two young<lb/>
ptitsas started giggling, as they will at that age, and I gave<lb/>
them a like cold glazzy. Andy was back real skorry, waving<lb/>
the great shiny white sleeve of the Ninth, which had on<lb/>
it, brothers, the frowning beetled like thunderbottled litso<lb/>
of Ludwig van himself. ‘Here,’ said Andy. ‘Shall we give<lb/>
it the trial spin? But I wanted it back home on my stereo<lb/>
to slooshy on my oddy knocky, greedy as hell. I fumbled<lb/>
out the deng to pay and one of the little ptitsas said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who you getten, bratty? What bigey, what only? These<lb/>
young devotchkas had their own like way of govoreeting.<lb/>
“The Heaven Seventeen? Luke Sterne? Goggly Gogol?” And<lb/>
both giggled, rocking and hippy. Then an idea hit me and<lb/>
made me near fall over with the anguish and ecstasy of it,<lb/>
O my brothers, so I could not breathe for near ten seconds.<lb/>
I recovered and made with my new-clean zoobies and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What you got back home, little sisters, to play your<lb/>
fuzzy warbles on?’ Because I could viddy the discs they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
49<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="41"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of pushed their lower lips out at that. ‘Come with uncle,’<lb/>
I said, ‘and hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil<lb/>
trombones. You are invited.’ And I like bowed. They<lb/>
giggled again and one said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, but we're so hungry. Oh, but we could so eat.’ The<lb/>
other said, “Yah, she can say that, can’t she just.’ So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eat with uncle. Name your place.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then they viddied themselves as real sophistoes, which<lb/>
was like pathetic, and started talking in big-lady golosses<lb/>
about the Ritz and the Bristol and the Hilton and II<lb/>
Restorante Granturco. But I stopped that with ‘Follow<lb/>
uncle,’ and I led them to the Pasta Parlour just round the<lb/>
corner and let them fill their innocent young litsos on<lb/>
spaghetti and cream-puffs and banana-splits and hot choc-<lb/>
sauce, till I near sicked with the sight of it, I, brothers,<lb/>
lunching but frugally off a cold ham-slice and a growling<lb/>
dollop of chilli. These two young ptitsas were much alike,<lb/>
though not sisters. They had the same ideas or lack of,<lb/>
and the same colour hair — a like dyed strawy. Well, they<lb/>
would grow up real today. Today I would make a day of<lb/>
it. No school this afterlunch, but education certainly, Alex<lb/>
as teacher. Their names, they said, were Marty and Sonietta,<lb/>
bezoomny enough and in the heighth of their childish<lb/>
fashion, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Righty right, Marty and Sonietta. Time for the big spin.<lb/>
Come.’ When we were outside on the cold street they<lb/>
thought they would not go by autobus, oh no, but by<lb/>
taxi, so I gave them the humour, though with a real<lb/>
horrorshow in-grin, and I called a taxi from the rank near<lb/>
Center. The driver, a starry whiskery veck in very stained<lb/>
platties, said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No tearing up, now. No nonsense with them seats. Just<lb/>
re-upholstered they are.’ I quieted his gloopy fears and off<lb/>
</p>
<p>
50<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
we spun to Municipal Flatblock 18A, these two bold little<lb/>
ptitsas giggling and whispering. So, to cut all short, we<lb/>
arrived, O my brothers, and I led the way up to 10-8, and<lb/>
they panted and smecked away the way up, and then they<lb/>
were thirsty, they said, so I unlocked the treasure-chest in<lb/>
my room and gave these ten-year-young devotchkas a real<lb/>
horrorshow Scotchman apiece, though well filled with<lb/>
sneezy pins-and-needles soda. They sat on my bed (yet<lb/>
unmade) and leg-swung, smecking and peeting their high-<lb/>
balls, while I spun their like pathetic malenky discs through<lb/>
my stereo. Like peeting some sweet scented kid’s drink,<lb/>
that was, in like very beautiful and lovely and costly gold<lb/>
goblets. But they went oh oh oh and said, ‘Swoony and<lb/>
‘Hilly’ and other weird slovos that were the heighth of<lb/>
fashion in that youth-group. While I spun this cal for<lb/>
them I encouraged them to drink up and have another,<lb/>
and they were nothing loath, O my brothers. So by the<lb/>
time their pathetic pop-discs had been twice spun each<lb/>
(there were two: ‘Honey Nose’, sung by Ike Yard, and<lb/>
‘Night After Day After Night’, moaned by two horrible<lb/>
yarbleless like eunuchs whose names I forget) they were<lb/>
getting near the pitch of like young ptitsa’s hysterics, what<lb/>
with jumping all over my bed and me in the room with<lb/>
them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was actually done that afternoon there is no need<lb/>
to describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all. Those<lb/>
two were unplatted and smecking fit to crack in no time<lb/>
at all, and they thought it the bolshiest fun to viddy old<lb/>
Uncle Alex standing there all nagoy and pan-handled,<lb/>
squirting the hypodermic like some bare doctor, then<lb/>
giving myself the old jab of growling jungle-cat secretion<lb/>
in the rooker. Then I pulled the lovely Ninth out of its<lb/>
sleeve, so that Ludwig van was now nagoy too, and I set<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="42"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the needle hissing on to the last movement, which was all<lb/>
bliss. There it was then, the bass strings like govoreeting<lb/>
away from under my bed at the rest of the orchestra, and<lb/>
then the male human goloss coming in and telling them<lb/>
all to be joyful, and then the lovely blissful tune all about<lb/>
Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven, and then I felt<lb/>
the old tigers leap in me and then I leapt on these two<lb/>
young ptitsas. This time they thought nothing fun and<lb/>
stopped creeching with high mirth, and had to submit to<lb/>
the strange and weird desires of Alexander the Large which,<lb/>
what with the Ninth and the hypo jab, were choodessny<lb/>
and zammechat and very demanding, O my brothers. But<lb/>
they were both very very drunken and could hardly feel<lb/>
very much.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When the last movement had gone round for the second<lb/>
time with all the banging and creeching about Joy Joy Joy<lb/>
Joy, then these two young ptitsas were not acting the big<lb/>
lady sophisto no more. They were like waking up to what<lb/>
was being done to their malenky persons and saying that<lb/>
they wanted to go home and like I was a wild beast. They<lb/>
looked like they had been in some big bitva, as indeed they<lb/>
had, and were all bruised and pouty. Well, if they would<lb/>
not go to school they must still have their education. And<lb/>
education they had had. They were creeching and going<lb/>
ow ow ow as they put their platties on, and they were like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
dirty and nagoy and fair shagged and fagged on the bed.<lb/>
This young Sonietta was creeching: ‘Beast and hateful<lb/>
animal. Filthy horror.’ So I let them get their things together<lb/>
and get out, which they did, talking about how the rozzes<lb/>
should be got on to me and all that cal. Then they were<lb/>
going down the stairs and I dropped off to sleep, still with<lb/>
the old Joy Joy Joy Joy crashing and howling away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
52<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wauar happened, though, was that I woke<lb/>
5 up late (near seven-thirty by my watch) and,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as it turned out, that was not so clever. You<lb/>
can viddy that everything in this wicked<lb/>
world counts. You can pony that one thing<lb/>
always leads to another. Right right right. My stereo was no<lb/>
longer on about Joy and I Embrace Ye O Ye Millions, so<lb/>
some veck had dealt it the off, and that would be either pee<lb/>
or em, both of them now being quite clear to the slooshying<lb/>
in the living-room and, from the clink clink of plates and<lb/>
slurp slurp of peeting tea from cups, at their tired meal after<lb/>
the day’s rabbiting in factory the one, store the other. The<lb/>
poor old. The pitiable starry. 1 put on my over-gown and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
looked out, in guise of loving only son, to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Hi hi hi, there. A lot better after the day’s rest. Ready<lb/>
now for evening work to earn that little bit.’ For that’s<lb/>
what they said they believed I did these days. ‘Yum yum,<lb/>
mum. Any of that for me?’ It was like some frozen pie<lb/>
that she'd unfroze and then warmed up and it looked not<lb/>
so very appetitish, but I had to say what I said. Dad looked<lb/>
at me with a not-so-pleased suspicious like look but said<lb/>
nothing, knowing he dared not, and mum gave me a tired<lb/>
like little smeck, to thee fruit of my womb, my only son<lb/>
sort of. I danced to the bathroom and had a real skorry<lb/>
cheest all over, feeling dirty and gluey, then back to my<lb/>
</p>
<p>
53<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="43"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
den for the evening’s platties. Then, shining, combed,<lb/>
brushed and gorgeous, I sat to my lomtick of pie. Papapa<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Not that I want to pry, son, but where exactly is it you<lb/>
go to work of evenings?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I chewed, ‘it’s mostly odd things, helping like.<lb/>
Here and there, as it might be.’ I gave him a straight dirty<lb/>
glazzy, as to say to mind his own and I’d mind mine. ‘T<lb/>
never ask for money, do I? Not money for clothes or for<lb/>
pleasures? All right, then, why ask?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My dad was like humble mumble chumble. ‘Sorry, son,’<lb/>
he said. ‘But I get worried sometimes. Sometimes I have<lb/>
dreams. You can laugh if you like, but there’s a lot in<lb/>
dreams. Last night I had this dream with you in it and I<lb/>
didn’t like it one bit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh?’ He had gotten me interessovatted now, dreaming<lb/>
of me like that. I had like a feeling I had had a dream,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
too, but I could not remember proper what. ‘Yes?’ I said,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘It was vivid,’ said my dad. ‘I saw you lying on the street<lb/>
and you had been beaten by other boys. These boys were<lb/>
like the boys you used to go around with before you were<lb/>
sent to that last Corrective School.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh?’ I had an in-grin at that, papapa believing I had<lb/>
real reformed or believing he believed. And then I remem-<lb/>
bered my own dream, which was a dream of that morning,<lb/>
of Georgie giving his general’s orders and old Dim<lb/>
smecking around toothless as he wielded the whip. But<lb/>
dreams go by opposites I was once told. ‘Never worry<lb/>
about thine only son and heir, O my father,’ I said. ‘Fear<lb/>
not. He canst take care of himself, verily.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And,’ said my dad, ‘you were like helpless in your blood<lb/>
and you couldn't fight back.’ That was real opposites, so I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
54<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had another quiet malenky grin within and then I took all<lb/>
the deng out of my carmans and tinkled it on the saucy<lb/>
tablecloth. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Here, dad, it’s not much. It’s what I earned last night.<lb/>
But perhaps for the odd peet of Scotchman in the snug<lb/>
somewhere for you and mum.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, son,’ he said. ‘But we don’t go out much now.<lb/>
We darent go out much, the streets being what they are.<lb/>
Young hooligans and so on. Still, thanks. I'll bring her home<lb/>
a bottle of something tomorrow.’ And he scooped this ill-<lb/>
gotten pretty into his trouser carmans, mum being at the<lb/>
cheesting of the dishes in the kitchen. And I went out with<lb/>
loving smiles all round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I got to the bottom of the stairs of the flatblock<lb/>
I was somewhat surprised. I was more than that. I opened<lb/>
my rot like wide in the old stony gapes. They had come<lb/>
to meet me. They were waiting by the all scrawled over<lb/>
municipal wall painting of the nagoy dignity of labour,<lb/>
bare vecks and cheenas stern at the wheels of industry, like<lb/>
I said, with all this dirt pencilled from their rots by naughty<lb/>
malchicks. Dim had a big thick like stick of black grease-<lb/>
paint and was tracing filthy slovos real big over our munic-<lb/>
ipal painting and doing the old Dim guff — wuh huh huh<lb/>
~ while he did it. But he turned round when Georgie and<lb/>
Pete gave me the well hello, showing off their shining<lb/>
droogy zoobies, and he horned out, ‘He are here, he have<lb/>
arrived, hooray,’ and did a clumsy turnitoe bit of dancing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We got worried,’ said Georgie. “There we were, a-waiting<lb/>
and peeting away at the old knify moloko, and you had<lb/>
not turned up. So then Pete here thought how you might<lb/>
have been like offended by some veshch or other, so round<lb/>
we come to your abode. That’s right, Pete, right?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, yes, right,’ said Pete.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
55<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="44"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Appy polly loggies,’ I said, careful. ‘I had something of<lb/>
a pain in the gulliver so had to sleep. I was not wakened<lb/>
when I gave orders for wakening. Still, here we all are,<lb/>
ready for what the old nochy offers, yes?’ I seemed to have<lb/>
picked up that yes? from P. R. Deltoid, my Post-Corrective<lb/>
Adviser. Very strange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sorry about the pain,’ said Georgie, like very concerned.<lb/>
‘Using the gulliver too much like, maybe. Giving orders<lb/>
and discipline and such, perhaps. Sure the pain is gone?<lb/>
Sure you'll not be happier going back to the bed?’ And<lb/>
they all had a bit of a malenky grin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s get things nice and sparkling clear.<lb/>
This sarcasm, if I may call it such, does not become you,<lb/>
O my little friends. Perhaps you have been having a bit of<lb/>
a quiet govoreet behind my back, making your own little<lb/>
jokes and such-like. As I am your droog and leader, surely<lb/>
I am entitled to know what goes on, eh? Now then, Dim,<lb/>
what does that great big horsy gape of a grin portend?’ For<lb/>
Dim had his rot open in a sort of bezoomny soundless<lb/>
smeck. Georgie got in very skorry with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, no more picking on Dim, brother. That's part<lb/>
of the new way.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘New way?’ I said. “What's this about a new way? There’s<lb/>
been some very large talk behind my sleeping back and<lb/>
no error. Let me slooshy more.’ And I sort of folded my<lb/>
rookers and leaned comfortable to listen against the broken<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
56<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
who has ideas. What ideas has he had?’ And he kept his<lb/>
very bold glazzies turned full on me. ‘It’s all the small<lb/>
stuff, malenky veshches like last night. We’re growing up,<lb/>
brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘More,’ I said, not moving. ‘Let me slooshy more.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said Georgie, ‘if you must have it, have it then.<lb/>
We itty round, shop-crasting and the like, coming out<lb/>
with a pitiful rookerful of cutter each. And there’s Will<lb/>
the English in the Muscleman coffee mesto saying he can<lb/>
fence anything that any malchick cares to try to crast. The<lb/>
shiny stuff, the ice,’ he said, still with these like cold<lb/>
glazzies on me. “The big big big money is available is what<lb/>
Will the English says.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So,’ I said, very comfortable out but real razdraz within.<lb/>
‘Since when have you been consorting and comporting<lb/>
with Will the English?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now and again,’ said Georgie, ‘I get around all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky. Like last Sabbath for instance. I can live my<lb/>
own jeezny, droogie, right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t really care for any of this, my brothers. ‘And<lb/>
what will you do,’ I said, ‘with the big big big deng or<lb/>
money as you so highfaluting call it? Have you not every<lb/>
veshch you need? If you need an auto you pluck it from<lb/>
the trees. If you need pretty polly you take it. Yes? Why<lb/>
this sudden shilarny for being the big bloated capitalist?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ said Georgie, ‘you think and govoreet sometimes<lb/>
like a little child.” Dim went huh huh huh at that.<lb/>
‘Tonight,’ said Georgie, ‘we pull a mansize crast.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So my dream had told the truth, then. Georgie the<lb/>
general saying what we should do and what not do, Dim<lb/>
with the whip as mindless grinning bulldog. But I played<lb/>
with great care, the greatest, saying, smiling: “Good. Real<lb/>
horrorshow. Initiative comes to them as wait. I have taught<lb/>
</p>
<p>
57<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="45"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
sharpen us up, boy, but you especially, we having the start<lb/>
of you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have govoreeted my thoughts for me,’ I smiled<lb/>
away. ‘I was about to suggest the dear old Korova. Good<lb/>
good good. Lead, little Georgie.’ And I made like a deep<lb/>
bow, smiling like bezoomny but thinking all the time. But<lb/>
when we got into the street I viddied that thinking is for<lb/>
the gloopy ones and that the oomny ones use like inspira-<lb/>
tion and what Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that<lb/>
came to my aid. There was an auto ittying by and it had<lb/>
its radio on, and I could just slooshy a bar or so of Ludwig<lb/>
van (it was the Violin Concerto, last movement), and I<lb/>
viddied right at once what to do. I said, in like a thick<lb/>
deep goloss, ‘Right, Georgie, now,’ and I whished out my<lb/>
cut-throat britva. Georgie said, ‘Uh? but he was skorry<lb/>
enough with his nozh, the blade coming sleesh out of the<lb/>
handle, and we were on to each other. Old Dim said, “Oh,<lb/>
no, not right that isn’t,’ and made to uncoil the chain<lb/>
around his tally, but Pete said, putting his rooker firm on<lb/>
old Dim, ‘Leave them. It’s right like that.’ So then Georgie<lb/>
and Your Humble did the old quiet cat-stalk, looking for<lb/>
openings, knowing each other’s style a bit too horrorshow<lb/>
really, Georgie now and then going lurch lurch with his<lb/>
shining nozh but not no wise connecting. And all the time<lb/>
lewdies passed by and viddied all this but minded their<lb/>
own, it being perhaps a common street-sight. But then I<lb/>
counted odin dva tree and went ak ak ak with the britva,<lb/>
though not at litso or glazzies but at Georgie’s nozh-holding<lb/>
rooker and, my little brothers, he dropped. He did. He<lb/>
</p>
<p>
58<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
dropped his nozh with a tinkle tankle on the hard winter<lb/>
sidewalk. I had just ticklewickled his fingers with my britva,<lb/>
and there he was looking at the malenky dribble of krovvy<lb/>
that was redding out in the lamplight. ‘Now,’ I said, and<lb/>
it was me that was starting, because Pete had given old<lb/>
Dim the soviet not to uncoil the oozy from round his tally<lb/>
and Dim had taken it, ‘now, Dim, let’s thou and me have<lb/>
all this now, shall us?’ Dim went, ‘Aaaaaaarhgh,’ like some<lb/>
bolshy bezoomny animal, and snaked out the chain from<lb/>
his waist real horrorshow and skorry, so you had to admire.<lb/>
Now the right style for me here was to keep low like in<lb/>
frog-dancing to protect litso and glazzies, and this I did,<lb/>
brothers, so that poor old Dim was a malenky bit surprised,<lb/>
him being accustomed to the straight face-on lash lash lash.<lb/>
Now I will say that he whished me horrible on the back<lb/>
so that it stung like bezoomny, but that pain told me to<lb/>
dig in skorry once and for all and be done with old Dim.<lb/>
So I swished with the britva at his left noga in its very<lb/>
tight tight and I slashed two inches of cloth and drew a<lb/>
malenky drop of krovvy to make Dim real bezoomny. Then<lb/>
while he went hauwwww hauwww hauwww like a doggie<lb/>
I tried the same style as for Georgie, banking all on one<lb/>
move — up, cross, cut — and I felt the britva go just deep<lb/>
enough in the meat of old Dim’s wrist and he dropped his<lb/>
snaking oozy yelping like a little child. Then he tried to<lb/>
drink in all the blood from his wrist and howl at the same<lb/>
time, and there was too much krovvy to drink and he went<lb/>
bubble bubble bubble, the red like fountaining out lovely,<lb/>
but not for very long. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, my droogies, now we should know. Yes, Pete?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I never said anything,’ said Pete. ‘I never govoreeted<lb/>
one slovo. Look, old Dim’s bleeding to death.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Never,’ I said. “One can die but once. Dim died before<lb/>
</p>
<p>
9<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="46"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he was born. That red red krovvy will soon stop.’ Because<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
a clean tashtook from my carman to wrap around poor<lb/>
old dying Dim’s rooker, howling and moaning as he was,<lb/>
and the krovvy stopped like I said it would, O my brothers.<lb/>
So they knew now who was master and leader, sheep,<lb/>
thought I.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It did not take long to quieten these two wounded<lb/>
soldiers down in the snug of the Duke of New York, what<lb/>
with large brandies (bought with their own cutter, me<lb/>
having given all to my dad) and a wipe with tashtooks<lb/>
dipped in the water-jug. The old ptitsas we'd been so<lb/>
horrorshow to last night were there again, going, “Thanks,<lb/>
lads’ and “God bless you, boys’ like they couldn’t stop,<lb/>
though we had not repeated the old sammy act with them.<lb/>
But Pete said, “What’s it to be, girls?’ and bought black<lb/>
and suds for them, him seeming to have a fair amount of<lb/>
pretty polly in his carmans, so they were on louder than<lb/>
ever with their “God bless and keep you all, lads’ and “We'd<lb/>
never split on you, boys’ and “The best lads breathing,<lb/>
that’s what you are.’ At last I said to Georgie:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now we're back to where we were, yes? Just like before<lb/>
and all forgotten, right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right right right,’ said Georgie. But old Dim still looked<lb/>
a bit dazed and he even said, ‘I could have got that big<lb/>
bastard, see, with my oozy, only some veck got in the way,’<lb/>
as though he'd been dratsing not with me but with some<lb/>
other malchick. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, Georgieboy, what did you have in mind?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,,’ said Georgie, ‘not tonight. Not this nochy, please.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're a big strong chelloveck,’ I said, ‘like us all. We're<lb/>
not little children, are we, Georgieboy? What, then, didst<lb/>
thou in thy mind have?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I could have chained his glazzies real horrorshow,’ said<lb/>
Dim, and the old baboochkas were still on with their<lb/>
“Thanks, lads’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It was this house, see,’ said Georgie. “The one with the<lb/>
two lamps outside. The one with the gloopy name, like.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What gloopy name?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“The Mansion or the Manse or some such piece of gloop.<lb/>
Where this very starry ptitsa lives with her cats and all<lb/>
these very starry valuable veshches.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Such as?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Gold and silver and like jewels. It was Will the English<lb/>
who like said.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I viddy,’ I said. ‘I viddy horrorshow.’ I knew where he<lb/>
meant — Oldtown, just beyond Victoria Flatblock. Well,<lb/>
the real horrorshow leader knows always when like to give<lb/>
and show generous to his like unders. “Very good, Georgie,’<lb/>
I said. ‘A good thought, and one to be followed. Let us<lb/>
at once itty.’ And as we were going out the old baboochkas<lb/>
said, “We'll say nothing, lads. Been here all the time you<lb/>
have, boys.’ So I said, ‘Good old girls. Back to buy more<lb/>
in ten minutes.’ And so I led my three droogs out to my<lb/>
doom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="47"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just past the Duke of New York going<lb/>
east was offices and then there was<lb/>
the starry beat-up biblio and then was the<lb/>
bolshy flatblock called Victoria Flatblock<lb/>
after some victory or other, and then you<lb/>
came to the like starry type houses of the town in what<lb/>
was called Oldtown. You got some of the real horrorshow<lb/>
ancient domies here, my brothers, with starry lewdies living<lb/>
in them, thin old barking like colonels with sticks and old<lb/>
ptitsas who were widows and deaf starry damas with cats<lb/>
who, my brothers, had felt not the touch of any chelloveck<lb/>
in the whole of their pure like jeeznies. And here, true,<lb/>
there were starry veshches that would fetch their share of<lb/>
cutter on the tourist market — like pictures and jewels and<lb/>
other starry pre-plastic cal of that type. So we came nice<lb/>
and quiet to this domy called the Manse, and there were<lb/>
globe lights outside on iron stalks, like guarding the front<lb/>
door on each side, and there was a light like dim on in<lb/>
one of the rooms on the ground level, and we went to a<lb/>
nice patch of street dark to watch through the window<lb/>
what was ittying on. This window had iron bars in front<lb/>
of it, like the house was a prison, but we could viddy nice<lb/>
and clear what was ittying on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was ittying on was that this starry ptitsa, very<lb/>
grey in the voloss and with a very liny like litso, was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
63<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="48"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pouring the old moloko from a milk-bottle into saucers<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
could tell there were plenty of mewing kots and koshkas<lb/>
writhing about down there. And we could viddy one or<lb/>
two, great fat scoteenas, jumping up on to the table with<lb/>
their rots open going mare mare mare. And you could<lb/>
viddy this old baboochka talking back to them, govoreeting<lb/>
in like scoldy language to her pussies. In the room you<lb/>
could viddy a lot of old pictures on the walls and starry<lb/>
very elaborate clocks, also some like vases and ornaments<lb/>
that looked starry and dorogoy. Georgie whispered, ‘Real<lb/>
horrorshow deng to be gotten for them, brothers. Will the<lb/>
English is real anxious.’ Pete said, ‘How in?’ Now it was<lb/>
up to me, and skorry, before Georgie started telling us<lb/>
how. ‘First veshch,’ I whispered, ‘is to try the regular way,<lb/>
the front. I will go very polite and say that one of my<lb/>
droogs has had a like funny fainting turn on the street.<lb/>
Georgie can be ready to show, when she opens, thatwise.<lb/>
Then to ask for water or to phone the doc. Then in easy.’<lb/>
Georgie said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘She may not open.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We'll try it, yes?’ And he sort of shrugged his pletchoes,<lb/>
making with a frog’s rot. So I said to Pete and old Dim,<lb/>
“You two droogies get either side of the door. Right?” They<lb/>
nodded in the dark right right right. ‘So,’ I said to Georgie,<lb/>
and I made bold straight for the front door. There was a<lb/>
bellpush and I pushed, and brrrrrr brrrrrr sounded down<lb/>
the hall inside. A like sense of slooshying followed, as<lb/>
though the ptitsa and her koshkas all had their ears back<lb/>
at the brrrerr brrrrrr, wondering. So I pushed the old<lb/>
zvonock a malenky bit more urgent. I then bent down to<lb/>
the letter-slit and called through in a refined like goloss,<lb/>
‘Help, madam, please. My friend has just had a funny turn<lb/>
</p>
<p>
64<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
on the street. Let me phone a doctor, please.’ Then I could<lb/>
viddy a light being put on in the hall, and then I could<lb/>
hear the old baboochka’s nogas going flip flap in flipflap<lb/>
slippers to nearer the front door, and I got the idea, I don’t<lb/>
know why, that she had a big fat pussycat under each arm.<lb/>
Then she called out in a very surprising deep like goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Go away. Go away or I shoot.’ Georgie heard that and<lb/>
wanted to giggle. I said, with like suffering and urgency<lb/>
in my gentleman's goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, please help, madam. My friend’s very ill.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Go away,’ she called. “I know your dirty tricks, making<lb/>
me open the door and then buy things I don’t want. Go<lb/>
away, I tell you.’ That was real lovely innocence, that was.<lb/>
‘Go away,’ she said again, ‘or V’ll set my cats on to you.’<lb/>
A malenky bit bezoomny she was, you could tell that,<lb/>
through spending her jeezny all on her oddy knocky. Then<lb/>
I looked up and I viddied that there was a sash-window<lb/>
above the front door and that it would be a lot more<lb/>
skorry to just do the old pletcho climb and get in that<lb/>
way. Else there'd be this argument all the long nochy. So<lb/>
I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Very well, madam. If you won't help I must take my<lb/>
suffering friend elsewhere.’ And I winked my droogies all<lb/>
away quiet, only me crying out, ‘All right, old friend, you<lb/>
will surely meet some good samaritan some place other.<lb/>
This old lady perhaps cannot be blamed for being suspi-<lb/>
cious with so many scoundrels and rogues of the night<lb/>
about. No, indeed not.’ Then we waited again in the dark<lb/>
and I whispered, ‘Right. Return to door. Me stand on<lb/>
Dims pletchoes. Open that window and me enter, droogies.<lb/>
Then to shut up that old ptitsa and open up for all. No<lb/>
trouble.’ For I was like showing who was leader and the<lb/>
chelloveck with the ideas. ‘See,’ I said. ‘Real horrorshow<lb/>
</p>
<p>
65<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="49"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bit of stonework over that door, a nice hold for my nogas.’<lb/>
They viddied all that, admiring perhaps I thought, and<lb/>
said and nodded Right right right in the dark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So back tiptoe to the door. Dim was our heavy strong<lb/>
malchick and Pete and Georgie like heaved me up on to<lb/>
Dim’s bolshy manly pletchoes. All this time, O thanks to<lb/>
worldcasts on the gloopy TV and, more, lewdies’ night-<lb/>
fear through lack of night-police, dead lay the street. Up<lb/>
there on Dim’s pletchoes I viddied that this stonework<lb/>
above the door would take my boots lovely. I kneed up,<lb/>
brothers, and there I was. The window, as I had expected,<lb/>
was closed, but I outed with my britva and cracked the<lb/>
glass of the window smart with the bony handle thereof.<lb/>
All the time below my droogies were hard breathing. So<lb/>
I put in my rooker through the crack and made the lower<lb/>
half of the window sail up open silver-smooth and lovely.<lb/>
And I was, like getting into the bath, in. And there were<lb/>
my sheep down below, their rots open as they looked up,<lb/>
O brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was in bumpy darkness, with beds and cupboards and<lb/>
bolshy heavy stoolies and piles of boxes and books about.<lb/>
But I strode manful towards the door of the room I was<lb/>
in, seeing a like crack of light under it. The door went<lb/>
squeeeeeeeeeeak and then I was on a dusty corridor with<lb/>
other doors. All this waste, brothers, meaning all these<lb/>
rooms and but one starry sharp and her pussies, but perhaps<lb/>
the kots and koshkas had like separate bedrooms, living<lb/>
on cream and fish-heads like royal queens and princes. I<lb/>
could hear the like muffled goloss of this old ptitsa down<lb/>
below saying, ‘Yes yes yes, that’s it,’ but she would be<lb/>
govoreeting to these mewing sidlers going maaaaaaah for<lb/>
more moloko. Then I saw the stairs going down to the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hall and I thought to myself that I would show these fickle<lb/>
</p>
<p>
66<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and worthless droogs of mine that I was worth the whole<lb/>
three of them and more. I would do all-on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. I would perform the old ultra-violence on the<lb/>
starry ptitsa and on her pusspots if need be, then I would<lb/>
take fair rookerfuls of what looked like real polezny stuff<lb/>
and go waltzing to the front door and open up showering<lb/>
gold and silver on my waiting droogs. They must learn<lb/>
all about leadership.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So down I ittied, slow and gentle, admiring in the stair-<lb/>
well grahzny pictures of old time — devotchkas with long<lb/>
hair and high collars, the like country with trees and horses,<lb/>
the holy bearded veck all nagoy hanging on a cross. There<lb/>
was a real musty von of pussies and pussyfish and starry<lb/>
dust in this domy, different from the flatblocks. And then<lb/>
I was downstairs and I could viddy the light in this front<lb/>
room where she had been doling moloko to the kots and<lb/>
koshkas. More, I could viddy these great over-stuffed<lb/>
scoteenas going in and out with their tails waving and like<lb/>
rubbing themselves on the door-bottom. On a like big<lb/>
wooden chest in the dark hall I could viddy a nice malenky<lb/>
statue that shone in the light of the room, so I crasted<lb/>
this for my own self, it being like of a young thin devotchka<lb/>
standing on one noga with her rookers out, and I could<lb/>
see this was made of silver. So I had this when I ittied<lb/>
into the lit-up room, saying, ‘Hi hi hi. At last we meet.<lb/>
Our brief govoreet through the letter-hole was not, shall<lb/>
we say, satisfactory, yes? Let us admit not, oh verily not,<lb/>
you stinking starry old sharp.’ And I like blinked in the<lb/>
light at this room and the old ptitsa in it. It was full of<lb/>
kots and koshkas all crawling to and fro over the carpet,<lb/>
with bits of fur floating in the lower air, and these fat<lb/>
scoteenas were all different shapes and colours, black,<lb/>
white, tabby, ginger, tortoise-shell, and of all ages, too, so<lb/>
</p>
<p>
67<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="50"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that there were kittens fillying about with each other and<lb/>
there were pussies full-grown and there were real dribbling<lb/>
starry ones very bad-tempered. Their mistress, this old<lb/>
ptitsa, looked at me fierce like a man and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How did you get in? Keep your distance, you villainous<lb/>
young toad, or I shall be forced to strike you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had a real horrorshow smeck at that, viddying that<lb/>
she had in her veiny rooker a crappy wood walking-stick<lb/>
which she raised at me threatening. So, making with my<lb/>
shiny zoobies, I ittied a bit nearer to her, taking my time,<lb/>
and on the way I saw on a like sideboard a lovely little<lb/>
veshch, the loveliest malenky veshch any malchick fond<lb/>
of music like myself could ever hope to viddy with his<lb/>
own two glazzies, for it was like the gulliver and pletchoes<lb/>
of Ludwig van himself, what they call a bust, a like stone<lb/>
veshch with stone long hair and blind glazzies and the big<lb/>
flowy cravat. I was off for that right away, saying, “Well,<lb/>
how lovely and all for me.’ But ittying towards it with my<lb/>
glazzies like full on it and my greedy rooker held out, I<lb/>
did not see the milk saucers on the floor and into one I<lb/>
went and sort of lost balance. “Whoops,” I said, trying to<lb/>
steady, but this old ptitsa had come up behind me very<lb/>
sly and with great skorriness for her age and then she went<lb/>
crack crack on my gulliver with her bit of a stick. So I<lb/>
found myself on my rookers and knees trying to get up<lb/>
and saying, ‘Naughty naughty naughty.’ And then she was<lb/>
going crack crack again, saying, “Wretched little slummy<lb/>
bed-bug, breaking into real people’s houses.’ I didn’t like<lb/>
this crack crack eegra, so I grasped hold of one end of her<lb/>
stick as it came down again and then she lost her balance<lb/>
and was trying to steady herself against the table, but then<lb/>
the table-cloth came off with a milk-jug and a milk-bottle<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
68<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
directions, then she was down on the floor grunting, going,<lb/>
‘Blast you, boy, you shall suffer.’ Now all the cats were<lb/>
getting spoogy and running and jumping in a like cat-<lb/>
panic, and some were blaming each other, hitting out<lb/>
cat-tolchocks with the old naga and ptaaaaa and grrrrr and<lb/>
kraaaaark. I got up on to my nogas, and there was this<lb/>
nasty vindictive starry forella with her wattles ashake and<lb/>
grunting as she like tried to lever herself up from the floor,<lb/>
so I gave her a malenky fair kick in the litso, and she<lb/>
didn't like that, crying, “Waaaaah,’ and you could viddy<lb/>
her veiny mottled litso going purplewurple where I’d<lb/>
landed the old noga.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I stepped back from the kick I must have like trod<lb/>
on the tail of one of these dratsing creeching pusspots,<lb/>
because I slooshied a gromky yauuuuuuuuw and found<lb/>
that like fur and teeth and claws had like fastened them-<lb/>
selves round my leg, and there I was cursing away and<lb/>
trying to shake it off holding this silver malenky statue in<lb/>
one rooker and trying to climb over this old ptitsa on the<lb/>
floor to reach lovely Ludwig van in frowning like stone.<lb/>
And then I was into another saucer brimful of creamy<lb/>
moloko and near went flying again, the whole veshch really<lb/>
a very humorous one if you could imagine it sloochatting<lb/>
to some other veck and not to Your Humble Narrator.<lb/>
And then the starry ptitsa on the floor reached over all<lb/>
the dratsing yowling pusscats and grabbed at my noga,<lb/>
still going “Waaaaah’ at me, and, my balance being a bit<lb/>
gone, I went really crash this time, on to sploshing moloko<lb/>
and skriking koshkas, and the old forella started to fist me<lb/>
on the litso, both of us being on the floor, creeching,<lb/>
‘Thrash him, beat him, pull out his finger-nails, the<lb/>
poisonous young beetle,’ addressing her pusscats only, and<lb/>
then, as if like obeying the starry old ptitsa, a couple of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
69<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="51"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
koshkas got on to me and started scratching like bezoomny.<lb/>
So then I got real bezoomny myself, brothers, and hit out<lb/>
at them, but this baboochka said, “Toad, don’t touch my<lb/>
kitties,’ and like scratched my litso. So then I creeched:<lb/>
‘You filthy old soomka,’ and upped with the little malenky<lb/>
like silver statue and cracked her a fine fair tolchock on<lb/>
the gulliver and that shut her up real horrorshow and<lb/>
lovely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now as I got up from the floor among all the crarking<lb/>
kots and koshkas what should I slooshy but the shoom of<lb/>
the old police-auto siren in the distance, and it dawned<lb/>
on me skorry that the old forella of the pusscats had been<lb/>
on the phone to the millicents when I thought she'd been<lb/>
govoreeting to the mewlers and mowlers, her having got<lb/>
her suspicions skorry on the boil when I'd rung the old<lb/>
zvonock pretending for help. So now, slooshying this fear-<lb/>
some shoom of the rozz-van, I belted for the front door<lb/>
and had a rabbiting time undoing all the locks and chains<lb/>
and bolts and other protective veshches. Then I got it<lb/>
open, and who should be on the doorstep but old Dim,<lb/>
me just being able to viddy the other two of my so-called<lb/>
droogs belting off. ‘Away,’ I creeched to Dim. “The rozzes<lb/>
are coming.’ Dim said, ‘You stay to meet them huh huh<lb/>
huh,’ and then I viddied that he had his oozy out, and<lb/>
then he upped with it and it snaked whishhhhh and he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
just closing them up in time. Then I was howling around<lb/>
trying to viddy with this howling great pain, and Dim<lb/>
said, ‘I don’t like you should do what you done, old droogy.<lb/>
Not right it wasn’t to get on to me like the way you done,<lb/>
brat.’ And then I could slooshy his bolshy lumpy boots<lb/>
beating off, him going huh huh huh into the darkmans,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and it was only about seven seconds after that I slooshied<lb/>
</p>
<p>
7O<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the millicent-van draw up with a filthy great dropping<lb/>
siren-howl, like some bezoomny animal snuffing it. I was<lb/>
howling too and like yawing about and I banged my<lb/>
gulliver smack on the hall-wall, my glazzies being tight<lb/>
shut and the juice astream from them, very agonising. So<lb/>
there I was like groping in the hallway as the millicents<lb/>
arrived. I couldn't viddy them, of course, but I could<lb/>
slooshy and damn near smell the von of the bastards, and<lb/>
soon I could feel the bastards as they got rough and did<lb/>
the old twist-arm act, carrying me out. I could also slooshy<lb/>
one millicent goloss saying from like the room I'd come<lb/>
out of with all the kots and koshkas in it, ‘She’s been<lb/>
nastily knocked but she’s breathing,’ and there was loud<lb/>
mewing all the time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A real pleasure this is,’ I heard another millicent goloss<lb/>
say as I was tolchocked very rough and skorry into the<lb/>
auto. ‘Little Alex all to our own selves.’ I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘’m blind, Bog bust and bleed you, you grahzny<lb/>
bastards.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Language, language,’ like smecked a goloss, and then<lb/>
I got a like backhand tolchock with some ringy rooker or<lb/>
other full on the rot. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Bog murder you, you vonny stinking bratchnies.<lb/>
Where are the others? Where are my stinking traitorous<lb/>
droogs? One of my cursed grahzny bratties chained me<lb/>
on the glazzies. Get them before they get away. It was<lb/>
all their idea, brothers. They like forced me to do it. I’m<lb/>
innocent, Bog butcher you.’ By this time they were all<lb/>
having like a good smeck at me with the heighth of like<lb/>
callousness, and they'd tolchocked me into the back of<lb/>
the auto, but I still kept on about these so-called droogs<lb/>
of mine and then I viddied it would be no good, because<lb/>
they'd all be back now in the snug of the Duke of New<lb/>
</p>
<p>
71<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="52"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
York forcing black and suds and double Scotchmen down<lb/>
the unprotesting gorloes of those stinking starry ptitsas<lb/>
and they saying, “Thanks, lads. God bless you, boys. Been<lb/>
here all the time you have, lads. Not been out of our<lb/>
sight you haven't.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All the time we were sirening off to the rozz-shop, me<lb/>
being wedged between two millicents and being given the<lb/>
odd thump and malenky tolchock by these smecking<lb/>
bullies. Then I found I could open up my glaz-lids a<lb/>
malenky bit and viddy like through all tears a kind of<lb/>
streamy city going by, all the lights like having run into<lb/>
one another. I could viddy now through smarting glazzies<lb/>
these two smecking millicents at the back with me and<lb/>
the thin-necked driver and the fat-necked bastard next to<lb/>
him, this one having a sarky like govoreet at me, saying,<lb/>
“Well, Alex boy, we all look forward to a pleasant evening<lb/>
together, don’t we not?’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How do you know my name, you stinking vonny bully?<lb/>
May Bog blast you to hell, grahzny bratchny as you are,<lb/>
you sod.’ So they all had a smeck at that and I had my<lb/>
ooko like twisted by one of these stinking millicents at<lb/>
the back with me. The fat-necked not-driver said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Everybody knows little Alex and his droogs. Quite a<lb/>
famous young boy our Alex has become.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's those others,’ I creeched. “Georgie and Dim and<lb/>
Pete. No droogs of mine, the bastards.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said the fat-neck, ‘you've got the evening in front<lb/>
of you to tell the whole story of the daring exploits of<lb/>
those young gentlemen and how they led poor little inno-<lb/>
cent Alex astray.’ Then there was the shoom of another<lb/>
like police siren passing this auto but going the other way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Is that for those bastards?’ I said. ‘Are they being picked<lb/>
up by you bastards?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That,’ said fat-neck, ‘is an ambulance. Doubtless for<lb/>
your old lady victim, you ghastly wretched scoundrel.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tt was all their fault,’ I creeched, blinking my smarting<lb/>
glazzies. “The bastards will be peeting away in the Duke<lb/>
of New York. Pick them up, blast you, you vonny sods.’<lb/>
And then there was more smecking and another malenky<lb/>
tolchock, O my brothers, on my poor smarting rot. And<lb/>
then we arrived at the stinking rozz-shop and they helped<lb/>
me get out of the auto with kicks and pulls and they<lb/>
tolchocked me up the steps and I knew I was going to<lb/>
get nothing like fair play from these stinking grahzny<lb/>
bratchnies, Bog blast them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="53"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tuey dragged me into this very bright-lit<lb/>
whitewashed cantora, and it had a strong<lb/>
von that was a mixture of like sick and<lb/>
lavatories and beery rots and disinfectant,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all coming from the barry places near by.<lb/>
You could hear some of the plennies in their cells cursing<lb/>
and singing and I fancied I could slooshy one belting out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I will go back to my darling, my darling,<lb/>
When you, my darling, are gone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there were the golosses of millicents telling them to<lb/>
shut it and you could even slooshy the zvook of like<lb/>
somebody being tolchocked real horrorshow and going<lb/>
owwwwwwwww, and it was like the goloss of a drunken<lb/>
starry ptitsa, not a man. With me in this cantora were<lb/>
four millicents, all having a good loud peet of chai, a big<lb/>
pot of it being on the table and they sucking and belching<lb/>
away over their dirty bolshy mugs. They didn’t offer me<lb/>
any. All that they gave me, my brothers, was a crappy<lb/>
starry mirror to look into, and indeed I was not your<lb/>
handsome young Narrator any longer but a real strack of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
75<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="54"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
said, ‘Love’s young nightmare, like.’ And then a top milli-<lb/>
cent came in with like stars on his pletchoes to show me<lb/>
he was high high high, and he viddied me and said, ‘Hm.’<lb/>
So then they started. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I won't say one single solitary slovo unless I have my<lb/>
lawyer here. I know the law, you bratchnies. Of course<lb/>
they all had a good gromky smeck at that and the stellar<lb/>
top millicent said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Righty right, boys, we'll start off by showing him that<lb/>
we know the law, too, but that knowing the law’s not<lb/>
everything.’ He had a like gentleman's goloss and spoke<lb/>
in a very weary sort of a way, and he nodded with a like<lb/>
droogy smile at one very big fat bastard. This big fat<lb/>
bastard took off his tunic and you could viddy he had a<lb/>
real big starry pot on him, then he came up to me not<lb/>
too skorry and I could get the von of the milky chai he'd<lb/>
been peeting when he opened his rot in a like very tired<lb/>
leery grin at me. He was not too well shaved for a rozz<lb/>
and you could viddy like patches of dried sweat on his<lb/>
shirt under the arms, and you could get this von of like<lb/>
earwax from him as he came close. Then he clenched his<lb/>
stinking red rooker and let me have it right in the belly,<lb/>
which was unfair, and all the other millicents smecked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
on with this weary like bored grin. I had to lean against<lb/>
the whitewashed wall so that all the white got on to my<lb/>
platties, trying to drag the old breath back and in great<lb/>
agony, and then I wanted to sick up the gluey pie I’d had<lb/>
before the start of the evening. But I couldn’t stand that<lb/>
sort of veshch, sicking all over the floor, so I held it back.<lb/>
Then I saw that this fatty bruiseboy was turning to his<lb/>
millicent droogs to have a real horrorshow smeck at what<lb/>
he'd done, so I raised my right noga and before they could<lb/>
</p>
<p>
76<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
creech at him to watch out I’d kicked him smart and lovely<lb/>
on the shin. And he creeched murder, hopping around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But after that they all had a turn, bouncing me from<lb/>
one to the other like some very weary bloody ball, O my<lb/>
brothers, and fisting me in the yarbles and the rot and the<lb/>
belly and dealing out kicks, and then at last I had to sick<lb/>
up on the floor and, like some real bezoomny veck, I even<lb/>
said, ‘Sorry, brothers, that was not the right thing at all.<lb/>
Sorry sorry sorry.’ But they handed me starry bits of gazetta<lb/>
and made me wipe it, then they made me make with the<lb/>
sawdust. And then they said, almost like dear old droogs,<lb/>
that I was to sit down and we'd all have a quiet like govo-<lb/>
reet. And then P. R. Deltoid came in to have a viddy, his<lb/>
office being in the same building, looking very tired and<lb/>
erahzny, to say, ‘So it’s happened, Alex boy, yes?’ Then he<lb/>
turned to the millicents to say, ‘Evening, inspector.<lb/>
Evening, sergeant. Evening, evening, all. Well, this is the<lb/>
end of the line for me, yes. Dear dear, this boy does look<lb/>
messy, doesn’t he? Just look at the state of him.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Violence makes violence,’ said the top millicent in a<lb/>
very holy type goloss. “He resisted his lawful arresters.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘End of the line, yes,’ said P. R. Deltoid again. He looked<lb/>
at me with very cold glazzies like I had become like a<lb/>
thing and was no more a bleeding very tired battered<lb/>
chelloveck. ‘I suppose I'll have to be in court tomorrow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It wasn’t me, brother, sir,’ I said, a malenky bit weepy.<lb/>
‘Speak up for me, sir, for I’m not so bad. I was led on by<lb/>
the treachery of the others, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sings like a linnet,’ said the top rozz, sneery. ‘Sings the<lb/>
roof off lovely, he does that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tl speak,’ said cold P. R. Deltoid. ‘Til be there<lb/>
tomorrow, don’t worry.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If you'd like to give him a bash in the chops, sir,’ said<lb/>
</p>
<p>
77<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="55"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the top millicent, ‘don’t mind us. We'll hold him down.<lb/>
He must be another great disappointment to you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
P. R. Deltoid then did something I never thought any<lb/>
man like him who was supposed to turn us baddiwads<lb/>
into real horrorshow malchicks would do, especially with<lb/>
all those rozzes around. He came a bit nearer and he spat.<lb/>
He spat. He spat full in my litso and then wiped his wet<lb/>
spitty rot with the back of his rooker. And I wiped and<lb/>
wiped and wiped my spat-on litso with my bloody<lb/>
tashtook, saying, “Thank you, sir, thank you.’ And then<lb/>
P. R. Deltoid walked out without another slovo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The millicents now got down to making this long state-<lb/>
ment for me to sign, and I thought to myself, Hell and<lb/>
blast you all, if all you bastards are on the side of the<lb/>
Good then I’m glad I belong to the other shop. ‘All right,’<lb/>
I said to them, ‘you grahzny bratchnies as you are, you<lb/>
vonny sods. Take it, take the lot. ’m not going to crawl<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
From my last corrective? Horrorshow, horrorshow, here it<lb/>
is, then.’ So I gave it to them, and I had this shorthand<lb/>
millicent, a very quiet and scared type chelloveck, no real<lb/>
rozz at all, covering page after page after page after. I gave<lb/>
them the ultra-violence, the crasting, the dratsing, the old<lb/>
in-out in-out, the lot, right up to this night’s veshch with<lb/>
the bugatty starry ptitsa with the mewing kots and koshkas.<lb/>
And I made sure my so-called droogs were in it, right up<lb/>
to the shiyah. When I'd got through the lot the shorthand<lb/>
millicent looked a bit faint, poor old veck. The top rozz<lb/>
said to him, in a kind type goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, son, you go off and get a nice cup of chai for<lb/>
yourself and then type all that filth and rottenness out<lb/>
with a clothes-peg on your nose, three copies. Then they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
78<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
can be brought to our handsome young friend here for<lb/>
signature. And you,’ he said to me, ‘can now be shown to<lb/>
your bridal suite with running water and all conveniences.<lb/>
All right,’ in this weary goloss to two of the real tough<lb/>
rozzes, ‘take him away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I was kicked and punched and bullied off to the<lb/>
cells and put in with about ten or twelve other plennies,<lb/>
a lot of them drunk. There were real oozhassny animal<lb/>
type vecks among them, one with his nose all ate away<lb/>
and his rot open like a big black hole, one that was lying<lb/>
on the floor snoring away and all like slime dribbling all<lb/>
the time out of his rot, and one that had like done all cal<lb/>
in his pantalonies. Then there were two like queer ones<lb/>
who both took a fancy to me, and one of them made a<lb/>
jump on to my back, and I had a real nasty bit of dratsing<lb/>
with him and the von on him, like of meth and cheap<lb/>
scent, made me want to sick again, only my belly was<lb/>
empty now, O my brothers. Then the other queer one<lb/>
started putting his rookers on to me, and then there was<lb/>
a snarling bit of dratsing between these two, both of them<lb/>
wanting to get at my plott. The shoom became very loud,<lb/>
so that a couple of millicents came along and cracked into<lb/>
these two with like truncheons, so that both sat quiet then,<lb/>
looking like into space, and there was the old krovvy going<lb/>
drip drip drip down the litso of one of them. There were<lb/>
bunks in this cell, but all filled. I climbed up to the top<lb/>
of one tier of bunks, there being four in a tier, and there<lb/>
was a starry drunken veck snoring away, most probably<lb/>
heaved up there to the top by the millicents. Anyway, I<lb/>
heaved him down again, him not being all that heavy, and<lb/>
he collapsed on top of a fat drunk chelloveck on the floor,<lb/>
and both woke and started creeching and punching<lb/>
pathetic at each other. So I lay down on this vonny bed,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
79<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="56"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my brothers, and went to very tired and exhausted and<lb/>
hurt sleep. But it was not really like sleep, it was like<lb/>
passing out to another better world. And in this other<lb/>
better world, O my brothers, I was in like a big field with<lb/>
all flowers and trees, and there was a like goat with a man’s<lb/>
litso playing away on a like flute. And then there rose like<lb/>
the sun Ludwig van himself with thundery litso and cravat<lb/>
and wild windy voloss, and then I heard the Ninth, last<lb/>
movement, with the slovos all a bit mixed-up, like they<lb/>
knew themselves they had to be mixed-up, this being a<lb/>
dream:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boy, thou uproarious shark of heaven,<lb/>
Slaughter of Elysium,<lb/>
Hearts on fire, aroused, enraptured,<lb/>
We will tolchock you on the rot and kick<lb/>
your grahzny vonny bum.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the tune was right, as I knew when I was being woke<lb/>
up two or ten minutes or twenty hours or days or years<lb/>
later, my watch having been taken away. There was a<lb/>
millicent like miles and miles down below and he was<lb/>
prodding at me with a long stick with a spike on the end,<lb/>
saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wake up, son. Wake up, my beauty. Wake to real<lb/>
trouble.’ I said: |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Why? Who? Where? What is it?? And the tune of the<lb/>
Joy ode in the Ninth was singing away real lovely and<lb/>
horrorshow within. The millicent said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come down and find out. There’s some real lovely news<lb/>
for you, my son.’ So I scrambled down, very stiff and sore<lb/>
and not like real awake, and this rozz, who had a strong<lb/>
von of cheese and onions on him, pushed me out of the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
80<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
filthy snoring cell, and then along corridors, and all the<lb/>
time the old tune Joy Thou Glorious Spark Of Heaven<lb/>
was sparking away within. Then we came to a very neat<lb/>
like cantora with typewriters and flowers on the desks,<lb/>
and at the like chief desk the top millicent was sitting,<lb/>
looking very serious and fixing a like very cold glazzy on<lb/>
my sleepy litso. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well. What makes, bratty? What gives, this<lb/>
fine bright middle of the nochy?’ He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T'll give you just ten seconds to wipe that stupid grin<lb/>
off of your face. Then I want you to listen.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well, what?’ I said, smecking. ‘Are you not satisfied<lb/>
with beating me near to death and having me spat upon<lb/>
and making me confess to crimes for hours on end and<lb/>
then shoving me among bezoomnies and vonny perverts<lb/>
in that grahzny cell? Have you some new torture for me,<lb/>
you bratchny?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ir'll be your own torture,’ he said, serious. ‘I hope to<lb/>
God it'll torture you to madness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then, before he told me, I knew what it was. The<lb/>
old ptitsa who had all the kots and koshkas had passed<lb/>
on to a better world in one of the city hospitals. I’d cracked<lb/>
her a bit too hard, like. Well, well, that was everything. I<lb/>
thought of all those kots and koshkas mewing for moloko<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="57"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="58"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
weepy and like tragic part of the story<lb/>
beginning, my brothers and only friends,<lb/>
in Staja (State Jail, that is) Number 84F<lb/>
You will have little desire to slooshy all the cally and<lb/>
horrible raskazz of the shock that sent my dad beating his<lb/>
bruised and krovvy rookers against unfair like Bog in His<lb/>
Heaven, and my mum squaring her rot for owwwww<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
owwwww owwwww in her mother’s grief at her only child<lb/>
and son of her bosom like letting everybody down real<lb/>
horrorshow. Then there was the starry very grim magistrate<lb/>
in the lower court govoreeting some very hard slovos<lb/>
against your Friend and Humble Narrator, after all the<lb/>
cally and grahzny slander spat forth by P. R. Deltoid and<lb/>
the rozzes, Bog blast them. Then there was being remanded<lb/>
in filthy custody among vonny perverts and prestoopnicks.<lb/>
Then there was the trial in the higher court with judges<lb/>
and a jury, and some very very nasty slovos indeed govo-<lb/>
reeted in a very like solemn way, and then Guilty and my<lb/>
mum boohoohooing when they said Fourteen Years, O<lb/>
my brothers. So here I was now, two years just to the day<lb/>
of being kicked and clanged into Staja 84F, dressed in the<lb/>
heighth of prison fashion, which was a one-piece suit of<lb/>
a very filthy like cal colour, and the number sewn on the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
85<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="59"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groody part just above the old tick-tocker and on the back<lb/>
as well, so that going and coming I was 6655321 and not<lb/>
your little droog Alex not no longer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It had not been like edifying, indeed it had not, being<lb/>
in this grahzny hellhole and like human zoo for two years,<lb/>
being kicked and tolchocked by brutal bully warders and<lb/>
meeting vonny leering like criminals, some of them real<lb/>
perverts and ready to dribble all over a luscious young<lb/>
malchick like your story-teller. And there was having to<lb/>
rabbit in the workshop at making matchboxes and itty<lb/>
round and round and round the yard for like exercise, and<lb/>
in the evenings sometimes some starry prof type veck would<lb/>
give a talk on beetles or the Milky Way or the Glorious<lb/>
Wonders of the Snowflake, and I had a good smeck at this<lb/>
last one, because it reminded me of that time of the<lb/>
tolchocking and Sheer Vandalism with that ded coming<lb/>
from the public biblio on a winter's night when my droogs<lb/>
were still not traitors and I was like happy and free. Of<lb/>
those droogs I had slooshied but one thing, and that was<lb/>
one day when my pee and em came to visit and I was told<lb/>
that Georgie was dead. Yes, dead, my brothers. Dead as a<lb/>
bit of dog-cal on the road. Georgie had led the other two<lb/>
into a like very bugatty chelloveck’s house, and there they<lb/>
had kicked and tolchocked the owner on the floor, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and then old Dim had cracked at some very precious orna-<lb/>
ments, like statues and so on, and this rich beat-up chell-<lb/>
oveck had raged like real bezoomny and gone for them all<lb/>
with a very heavy iron bar. His being all razdraz had given<lb/>
him like gigantic strength, and Dim and Pete had got out<lb/>
through the window but Georgie had tripped on the carpet<lb/>
and then bought this terrific swinging iron bar crack and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
86<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
splooge on the gulliver, and that was the end of traitorous<lb/>
Georgie. The starry murderer had got off with Self Defence,<lb/>
as was really right and proper. Georgie being killed, though<lb/>
it was more than one year after me being caught by the<lb/>
millicents, it all seemed right and proper and like Fate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was in the Wing Chapel, it being Sunday morning, and<lb/>
the prison charlie was govoreeting the Word of the Lord. It<lb/>
was my rabbit to play the starry stereo, putting on solemn<lb/>
music before and after and in the middle too when hymns<lb/>
were sung, I was at the back of the Wing Chapel (there were<lb/>
four altogether in Staja 84F) near where the warders or<lb/>
chassos were standing with their rifles and their dirty bolshy<lb/>
blue brutal jowls, and I could viddy all the plennies sitting<lb/>
down slooshying the Slovo of the Lord in their horrible cal-<lb/>
coloured prison platties, and a sort of filthy von rose from<lb/>
them, not like real unwashed, not grazzy, but like a special<lb/>
real stinking von which you only got with the criminal types,<lb/>
my brothers, a like dusty, greasy, hopeless sort of a von. And<lb/>
I was thinking that perhaps I had this von too, having become<lb/>
a real plenny myself, though still very young. So it was very<lb/>
important to me, O my brothers, to get out of this stinking<lb/>
grahzny zoo as soon as I could. And, as you will viddy if<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
most of you, or are you going to attend to the Divine<lb/>
Word and realise the punishments that await the unre-<lb/>
pentant sinner in the next world, as well as in this? A lot<lb/>
of blasted idiots you are, most of you, selling your birth-<lb/>
right for a saucer of cold porridge. The thrill of theft, of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
violence, the urge to live easy — is it worth it when we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
87<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="60"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
have undeniable proof, yes yes, incontrovertible evidence<lb/>
that hell exists? I know, I know, my friends, I have been<lb/>
informed in visions that there is a place, darker than any<lb/>
prison, hotter than any flame of human fire, where souls<lb/>
of unrepentant criminal sinners like yourselves — and don’t<lb/>
leer at me, damn you, don't laugh — like yourselves, I say,<lb/>
scream in endless and intolerable agony, their noses choked<lb/>
with the smell of filth, their mouths crammed with burning<lb/>
ordure, their skin peeling and rotting, a fireball spinning<lb/>
in their screaming guts. Yes, yes, yes, I know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At this point, brothers, a plenny somewhere or other<lb/>
near the back row let out a shoom of lip-music — ‘Prrrrrp’<lb/>
— and then the brutal chassos were on the job right away,<lb/>
rushing real skorry to what they thought was the scene of<lb/>
the shoom, then hitting out nasty and delivering tolchocks<lb/>
left and right. Then they picked out one poor trembling<lb/>
plenny, very thin and malenky and starry too, and dragged<lb/>
him off, but all the time he kept creeching, ‘It wasn’t me,<lb/>
it was him, see,’ but that made no difference. He was<lb/>
tolchocked real nasty and then dragged out of the Wing<lb/>
Chapel creeching his gulliver off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now,’ said the prison charlie, ‘listen to the Word of the<lb/>
Lord.’ Then he picked up the big book and flipped over the<lb/>
pages, keeping on wetting his fingers to do this by licking<lb/>
them splurge splurge. He was a bolshy great burly bastard<lb/>
with a very red litso, but he was very fond of myself, me<lb/>
being young and also now very interested in the big book.<lb/>
It had been arranged as part of my like further education to<lb/>
read in the book and even have music on the chapel stereo<lb/>
while I was reading, O my brothers. And that was real horror-<lb/>
show. They would like lock me in and let me slooshy holy<lb/>
music by J. S. Bach and G. E Handel, and I would read of<lb/>
these starry yahoodies tolchocking each other and then peeting<lb/>
</p>
<p>
88<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
their Hebrew vino and getting on to the bed with their wives’<lb/>
like handmaidens, real horrorshow. That kept me going,<lb/>
brothers. I didn't so much kopat the later part of the book,<lb/>
which is more like all preachy govoreeting than fighting and<lb/>
the old in-out. But one day the charles said to me, squeezing<lb/>
me like tight with his bolshy beefy rooker, ‘Ah 6655321, think<lb/>
on the divine suffering. Meditate on that, my boy.’ And all<lb/>
the time he had this rich manny von of Scotch on him, and<lb/>
then he went off to his little cantora to peet some more. So<lb/>
I read all about the scourging and the crowning with thorns<lb/>
and then the cross veshch and all that cal, and I viddied better<lb/>
that there was something in it. While the stereo played bits<lb/>
of lovely Bach I closed my glazzies and viddied myself helping<lb/>
out and even taking charge of the tolchocking and the nailing<lb/>
in, being dressed in a like toga that was the heighth of Roman<lb/>
fashion. So being in Staja 84F was not all that wasted, and<lb/>
the Governor himself was very pleased to hear that I had<lb/>
taken to like Religion, and that was where I had my hopes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This Sunday morning the charlie read out from the book<lb/>
about chellovecks who slooshied the slovo and didn’t take<lb/>
a blind bit being like a domy built on sand, and then the<lb/>
rain came splash and the old boomaboom cracked the sky<lb/>
and that was the end of that domy. But I thought only a<lb/>
very dim veck would build his domy upon sand, and a right<lb/>
lot of real sneering droogs and nasty neighbours a veck like<lb/>
that would have, them not telling him how dim he was<lb/>
doing that sort of building. Then the charles creeched,<lb/>
‘Right, you lot. We'll end with Hymn Number 435 in the<lb/>
Prisoners’ Hymnal.’ Then there was a crash and plop and<lb/>
a whish whish whish while the plennies picked up and<lb/>
dropped and lickturned the pages of their grazzy malenky<lb/>
hymnbooks, and the bully fierce warders creeched, ‘Stop<lb/>
talking there, bastards. ’'m watching you, 920537.’ Of course<lb/>
</p>
<p>
89<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="61"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had the disc ready on the stereo, and then I let the simple<lb/>
music for organ only come belting out with a growwwwo-<lb/>
wwwwowwww. [hen the plennies started to sing real horrible:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
4<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fal | *<lb/>
Bx & é Z 2 jt [ ty | l } TT | }<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SY ort [tT [TI t I ir I<lb/>
) i ‘ pT " : ‘<lb/>
Weak tea are we, new brewed, But stir- ring make all strong. We<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
| 4<lb/>
[ { f<lb/>
{ | f<lb/>
I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ppt —<lb/>
eS<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eat no an- gel's food, Our times of trial are long.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Weak tea are we, new brewed,<lb/>
But stirring make all strong.<lb/>
We eat no angel’s food,<lb/>
Our times of trial are long.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They sort of howled and wept these stupid slovos with the<lb/>
charlie like whipping them on with ‘Louder, damn you, sing<lb/>
up,’ and the warders creeching, ‘Just you wait, 7749222’ and<lb/>
‘One on the turnip coming up for you, filth.” Then it was<lb/>
all over and the charlie said, ‘May the Holy Trinity keep you<lb/>
always and make you good, amen,’ and the shamble out<lb/>
began to a nice choice bit of Symphony No. 2 by Adrian<lb/>
Schweigselber, chosen by your Humble Narrator, O my<lb/>
brothers. What a lot they were, I thought, as I stood there<lb/>
by the starry chapel stereo, viddying them all shuffle out<lb/>
going marrrrre and baaaaaa like animals and up-your-piping<lb/>
with their grahzny fingers at me, because it looked like I was<lb/>
very special favoured. When the last one had slouched out,<lb/>
his rookers hanging like an ape and the one warder left giving<lb/>
him a fair loud tolchock on the back of the gulliver, and<lb/>
when I had turned off the stereo, the charlie came up to<lb/>
me, puffing away at a cancer, still in his starry bogman’s<lb/>
platties, all lacy and white like a devotchka’s. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Thank you as always, little 6655321. And what news<lb/>
have you got for me today?’ The idea was, I knew, that<lb/>
this charlie was after becoming a very great holy chello-<lb/>
veck in the world of Prison Religion, and he wanted a<lb/>
real horrorshow testimonial from the Governor, so he<lb/>
would go and govoreet quietly to the Governor now and<lb/>
then about what dark plots were brewing among the<lb/>
plennies, and he would get a lot of this cal from me. A<lb/>
lot of it would be all like made up, but some of it would<lb/>
be true, like for instance the time it had come through<lb/>
to our cell on the waterpipes knock knock knockiknocki-<lb/>
knock knockknock that big Harriman was going to<lb/>
break. He was going to tolchock the warder at sloptime<lb/>
and get out in the warder’s platties. Then there was going<lb/>
to be a big throwing about of the horrible pishcha we<lb/>
got in the dining-hall, and I knew about that and told.<lb/>
Then the charlie passed it on and was complimented<lb/>
like by the Governor for his Public Spirit and Keen Ear.<lb/>
So this time I said, and this was not true:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, sir, it has come through on the pipes that a<lb/>
consignment of cocaine has arrived by irregular means and<lb/>
that a cell somewhere along Tier 5 is to be the centre of<lb/>
distribution.’ I made all that up as I went along, like I<lb/>
made up many of these stories, but the prison charlie was<lb/>
very grateful, saying, “Good, good, good. I shall pass that<lb/>
on to Himself,’ this being what he called the Governor.<lb/>
Then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sit, I have done my best, have I not?’ I always used my<lb/>
very polite gentleman's goloss govoreeting with those at<lb/>
the top. ‘I’ve tried, sir, haven't I?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I think,’ said the charlie, ‘that on the whole you have,<lb/>
6655321. Youve been very helpful and, I consider, shown<lb/>
a genuine desire to reform. You will, if you continue in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
9gI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="62"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
this manner, earn your remission with no trouble at all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But sir,’ I said, “how about this new thing they're talking<lb/>
about? How about this new like treatment that gets you<lb/>
out of prison in no time at all and makes sure that you<lb/>
never get back in again?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, very like wary. “Where did you hear this?<lb/>
Who's been telling you these things?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These things get around, sir, I said. “Two warders talk,<lb/>
as it might be, and somebody can’t help hearing what they<lb/>
say. And then somebody picks up a scrap of newspaper in<lb/>
the workshops and the newspaper says all about it. How<lb/>
about you putting me in for this thing, sir, if | may make<lb/>
so bold as to make the suggestion?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You could viddy him thinking about that while he puffed<lb/>
away at his cancer, wondering how much to say to me<lb/>
about what he knew about this veshch I mentioned. Then<lb/>
he said, ‘I take it youre referring to Ludovico’s Technique.’<lb/>
He was still very wary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I don’t know what it’s called, sir,’ I said. ‘All I know is<lb/>
that it gets you out quickly and makes sure that you don’t<lb/>
get in again.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That is so,’ he said, his eyebrows like all beetling while<lb/>
he looked down at me. “That is quite so, 6655321. Of<lb/>
course, it’s only in the experimental stage at the moment.<lb/>
It’s very simple but very drastic.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But it’s being used here, isn’t it, sir?” I said. ‘Those new<lb/>
like white buildings by the South Wall, sir. We've watched<lb/>
those being built, sir, when we’ve been doing our exercise.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s not been used yet,’ he said, ‘not in this prison,<lb/>
6655321. Himself has grave doubts about it. I must confess<lb/>
I share those doubts. The question is whether such a<lb/>
technique can really make a man good. Goodness comes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
92<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man.’ He<lb/>
would have gone on with a lot more of this cal, but we<lb/>
could slooshy the next lot of plennies marching clank clank<lb/>
down the iron stairs to come for their bit of Religion. He<lb/>
said, “We'll have a little chat about this some other time.<lb/>
Now youd better start the voluntary.’ So I went over to<lb/>
the starry stereo and put on J. S. Bach’s Wachet Auf Choral<lb/>
Prelude and in these grahzny vonny bastard criminals and<lb/>
perverts came shambling like a lot of broke-down apes,<lb/>
the warders or chassos like barking at them and lashing<lb/>
them. And soon the prison charlie was asking them, ‘What’s<lb/>
it going to be then, eh?’ And that’s where you came in.<lb/>
We had four of these lomticks of like Prison Religion<lb/>
that morning, but the charles said no more to me about<lb/>
this Ludovico’s Technique, whatever it was, O my brothers.<lb/>
When Id finished my rabbit with the stereo he just govo-<lb/>
reeted a few slovos of thanks and then I was privodeeted<lb/>
back to the cell on Tier 6 which was my very vonny and<lb/>
crammed home. The chasso was not really too bad of a<lb/>
veck and he did not tolchock or kick me in when hed<lb/>
opened up, he just said, “Here we are, sonny, back to the<lb/>
old waterhole.’ And there I was with my new type droogs,<lb/>
all very criminal but, Bog be praised, not given to perver-<lb/>
sions of the body. There was Zophar on his bunk, a very<lb/>
thin and brown veck who went on and on and on in his<lb/>
like cancery goloss, so that nobody bothered to slooshy.<lb/>
What he was saying now like to nobody was ‘And at that<lb/>
time you couldn't get hold of a poggy’ (whatever that was,<lb/>
brothers) ‘not if you was to hand over ten million<lb/>
archibalds, so what do I do eh, I goes down to Turkey’s<lb/>
and says I’ve got this sproog on that morrow, see, and<lb/>
what can he do?’ It was all this very old-time real criminal’s<lb/>
slang he spoke. Also there was Wall, who had only one<lb/>
</p>
<p>
93<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="63"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
glazzy, and he was tearing bits of his toe-nails off in honour<lb/>
of Sunday. Also there was Big Jew, a very fat sweaty veck<lb/>
lying flat on his bunk like dead. In addition there was<lb/>
Jojohn and The Doctor. Jojohn was very mean and keen<lb/>
and wiry and had specialised in like Sexual Assault, and<lb/>
The Doctor had pretended to be able to cure syph and<lb/>
gon and gleet but he had only injected water, also he had<lb/>
killed off two devotchkas instead, like he had promised,<lb/>
of getting rid of their unwanted loads for them. They were<lb/>
a terrible grahzny lot really, and I didn’t enjoy being with<lb/>
them, O my brothers, any more than you do now, but it<lb/>
won't be for much longer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now what I want you to know is that this cell was<lb/>
intended for only three when it was built, but there were<lb/>
six of us there, all jammed together sweaty and tight. And<lb/>
that was the state of all the cells in all the prisons in those<lb/>
days, brothers, and a dirty cally disgrace it was, there not<lb/>
being decent room for a chelloveck to stretch his limbs.<lb/>
And you will hardly believe what I say now, which is that<lb/>
on this Sunday they brosatted in another plenny. Yes, we<lb/>
had our horrible pishcha of dumplings and vonny stew and<lb/>
were smoking a quiet cancer each on our bunks when this<lb/>
veck was thrown into our midst. He was a chinny starry<lb/>
veck and it was him who started creeching complaints before<lb/>
we even had a chance to viddy the position. He tried to<lb/>
like shake the bars, creeching, ‘I demand my sodding rights,<lb/>
this one’s full up, it’s a bleeding imposition, that’s what it<lb/>
is.” But one of the chassos came back to say that he had to<lb/>
make the best of it and share a bunk with whoever would<lb/>
let him, otherwise it would have to be the floor. ‘And,’ said<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WELL, it was the letting-in of this new<lb/>
</p>
<p>
getting out of the old Staja, for he was<lb/>
such a nasty quarrelsome type of plenny,<lb/>
with a very dirty mind and filthy inten-<lb/>
tions, that trouble nachinatted that very same day. He was<lb/>
also very boastful and started to make with a very sneery<lb/>
litso at us all and a loud and proud goloss. He made out<lb/>
that he was the only real horrorshow prestoopnick in the<lb/>
whole zoo, going on that he'd done this and done the<lb/>
other and killed ten rozzes with one crack of his rooker<lb/>
and all that cal. But nobody was very impressed, O my<lb/>
brothers. So then he started on me, me being the youngest<lb/>
there, trying to say that as the youngest I ought to be the<lb/>
one to zasnoot on the floor and not him. But all the others<lb/>
were for me, creeching, “Leave him alone, you grahzny<lb/>
bratchny,’ and then he began the old whine about how<lb/>
nobody loved him. So that same nochy I woke up to find<lb/>
this horrible plenny actually lying with me on my bunk,<lb/>
which was on the bottom of the three-tier and also very<lb/>
narrow, and he was govoreeting dirty like love-slovos and<lb/>
stroke stroke stroking away. So then I got real bezoomny<lb/>
and lashed out, though I could not viddy all that horror-<lb/>
show, there being only this malenky little red light outside<lb/>
on the landing. But I knew it was this one, the vonny<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a chelloveck that was really the start of my<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
95<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="64"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bastard, and then when the trouble really got under way<lb/>
and the lights were turned on I could viddy his horrible<lb/>
litso with all krovvy dripping from his rot where I'd hit<lb/>
out with my clawing rooker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What sloochatted then, of course, was that my cell-mates<lb/>
woke up and started to join in, tolchocking a bit wild in<lb/>
the near dark, and the shoom seemed to wake up the<lb/>
whole tier, so that you could slooshy a lot of creeching<lb/>
and banging about with tin mugs on the wall, as though<lb/>
all the plennies in all the cells thought a big break was<lb/>
about to commence, O my brothers. So then the lights<lb/>
came on and the chassos came along in their shirts and<lb/>
trousers and caps, waving big sticks. We could viddy each<lb/>
other’s flushed litsos and the shaking of fisty rookers, and<lb/>
there was a lot of creeching and cursing. Then I put in<lb/>
my complaint and every chasso said it was probably Your<lb/>
Humble Narrator, brothers, that started it all anyway, me<lb/>
having no mark of a scratch on me but this horrible plenny<lb/>
dripping red red krovvy from the rot where I'd got him<lb/>
with my clawing rooker. That made me real bezoomny. I<lb/>
said I would not sleep another nochy in that cell if the<lb/>
Prison Authorities were going to allow horrible vonny<lb/>
stinking perverted prestoopnicks to leap on my plott when<lb/>
I was in no position to defend myself, being asleep. “Wait<lb/>
till the morning,’ they said. ‘Is it a private room with bath<lb/>
and television that your honour requires? Well, all that<lb/>
will be seen to in the morning. But for the present, little<lb/>
droog, get your bleeding gulliver down on your straw-filled<lb/>
podooshka and let’s have no more trouble from anyone.<lb/>
Right right right?’ Then off they went with stern warnings<lb/>
for all, then soon after the lights went out, and then I said<lb/>
I would sit up all the rest of the nochy, saying first to this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
96<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wish it. I fancy it no longer. You have made it filthy and<lb/>
cally with your horrible vonny plott lying on it already.’<lb/>
But then the others joined in. Big Jew said, still sweating<lb/>
from the bit of a bitva we'd had in the dark:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Not having that we're not, brotherth. Don’t give in to<lb/>
the thquirt.’ So this new one said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Crash your dermott, yid,’ meaning to shut up, but it<lb/>
was very insulting. So then Big Jew got ready to launch<lb/>
a tolchock. The Doctor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come on gentlemen, we don’t want any trouble, do<lb/>
we?’ in his very high-class goloss, but this new prestoopnick<lb/>
was really asking for it. You could viddy that he thought<lb/>
he was a very big bolshy veck and it was beneath his<lb/>
dignity to be sharing a cell with six and having to sleep<lb/>
on the floor till I made this gesture at him. In his sneery<lb/>
way he tried to take off The Doctor, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwww, yew wahnt noo moor trabble, is that it,<lb/>
Archiballs?? So Jojohn, mean and keen and wiry, said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If we can't have sleep let’s have some education. Our<lb/>
new friend here had better be taught a lesson.’ Although<lb/>
he like specialised in Sexual Assault he had a nice way of<lb/>
govoreeting, quiet and like precise. So the new plenny<lb/>
sneered:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Kish and kosh and koosh, you little terror.’ So then it<lb/>
all really started, but in a queer like gentle way, with<lb/>
nobody raising his goloss much. The new plenny creeched<lb/>
a malenky bit at first, but then Wall fisted his rot while<lb/>
Big Jew held him up against the bars so that he could be<lb/>
viddied in the malenky red light from the landing, and<lb/>
he just went oh oh oh. He was not a very strong type of<lb/>
veck, being very feeble in his trying to tolchock back, and<lb/>
I suppose he made up for this by being shoomny in the<lb/>
goloss and very boastful. Anyway, seeing the old krovvy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
97<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="65"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
flow red in the red light, I felt the old joy like rising up<lb/>
in my keeshkas and I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Leave him to me, go on, let me have him now, brothers.’<lb/>
So Big Jew said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yeth, yeth, boyth, that’th fair. Thlosh him then, Alekth.’<lb/>
So they all stood around while I cracked at this prestoop-<lb/>
nick in the near dark. I fisted him all over, dancing about<lb/>
with my boots on though unlaced, and then I tripped him<lb/>
and he went crash crash on to the floor. I gave him one<lb/>
real horrorshow kick on the gulliver and he went ohhhhh,<lb/>
then he sort of snorted off to like sleep, and The Doctor<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Very well, I think that will be enough of a lesson,’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
was of being in some very big orchestra, hundreds and<lb/>
hundreds strong, and the conductor was a like mixture of<lb/>
Ludwig van and G. F. Handel, looking very deaf and blind<lb/>
and weary of the world. I was with the wind instruments,<lb/>
but what I was playing was like a white pinky bassoon<lb/>
made of flesh and growing out of my plott, right in the<lb/>
middle of my belly, and when I blew into it I had to<lb/>
smeck ha ha ha very loud because it like tickled, and then<lb/>
Ludwig van G. FE. got very razdraz and bezoomny. Then<lb/>
he came right up to my litso and creeched loud in my<lb/>
ooko, and then I woke up like sweating. Of course, what<lb/>
the loud shoom really was was the prison buzzer going<lb/>
brrerr brrrrr brrrrr. It was winter morning and my glazzies<lb/>
were all cally with sleepglue, and when I opened up they<lb/>
were very sore in the electric light that had been switched<lb/>
on all over the zoo. Then I looked down and viddied this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
98<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
new prestoopnick lying on the floor, very bloody and<lb/>
bruisy and still out out out. Then I remembered about<lb/>
last night and that made me smeck a bit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when I got off the bunk and moved him with my<lb/>
bare noga, there was a feel of like stiff coldness, so I went<lb/>
over to The Doctor’s bunk and shook him, him always<lb/>
being very slow at waking up in the morning. But he was<lb/>
off his bunk skorry enough this time, and so were the<lb/>
others, except for Wall who slept like dead meat. “Very<lb/>
unfortunate,’ The Doctor said. ‘A heart attack, that’s what<lb/>
it must have been.’ Then he said, looking round at us all,<lb/>
“You really shouldn't have gone for him like that. It was<lb/>
most ill-advised really.’ Jojohn said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come come, doc, you weren’ all that backward your-<lb/>
self in giving him a sly bit of fist.’ Then Big Jew turned<lb/>
on me, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Alexth, you were too impetuouth. That latht kick wath<lb/>
a very very nathty one.’ I began to get razdraz about this<lb/>
and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who started it, eh? I only got in at the end, didn’t I?’<lb/>
I pointed at Jojohn and said, ‘It was your idea.’ Wall snored<lb/>
a bit loud, so I said, “Wake that vonny bratchny up. It<lb/>
was him that kept on at his rot while Big Jew here had<lb/>
him up against the bars.’ The Doctor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody will deny having a gentle little hit at the man,<lb/>
to teach him a lesson so to speak, but it’s apparent that<lb/>
you, my dear boy, with the forcefulness and, shall I say,<lb/>
heedlessness of youth, dealt him the coo de grass. It’s a<lb/>
great pity.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Traitors, I said “Traitors and liars,’ because I could<lb/>
viddy it was all like before, two years before, when my<lb/>
so-called droogs had left me to the brutal rookers of the<lb/>
millicents. There was no trust anywhere in the world, O<lb/>
</p>
<p>
99<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="66"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my brothers, the way I could see it. And Jojohn went and<lb/>
woke up Wall, and Wall was only too ready to swear that<lb/>
it was Your Humble Narrator that had done the real dirty<lb/>
tolchocking and brutality. When the chassos came along,<lb/>
and then the Chief Chasso, and the Governor himself, all<lb/>
these cell-droogs of mine were very shoomny with tales<lb/>
of what I'd done to oobivat this worthless pervert whose<lb/>
krovvy-covered plott lay sacklike on the floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was a very queer day, O my brothers. The dead<lb/>
plott was carried off, and then everybody in the whole<lb/>
prison had to stay locked up till further orders, and there<lb/>
was no pishcha given out, not even a mug of hot chai.<lb/>
We just all sat there, and the warders or chassos sort of<lb/>
strode up and down the tier, now and then creeching “Shut<lb/>
it or ‘Close that hole’ whenever they slooshied even a<lb/>
whisper from any of the cells. Then about eleven o'clock<lb/>
in the morning there was a sort of like stiffening and<lb/>
excitement and like the von of fear spreading from outside<lb/>
the cell, and then we could viddy the Governor and the<lb/>
Chief Chasso and some very bolshy important-looking<lb/>
chellovecks walking by real skorry, govoreeting like<lb/>
bezoomny. They seemed to walk right to the end of the<lb/>
tier, then they could be slooshied walking back again, more<lb/>
slow this time, and you could slooshy the Governor, a<lb/>
very sweaty fatty fair-haired veck, saying slovos like “But,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
the whole lot stopped at our cell and the Chief Chasso<lb/>
opened up. You could viddy who was the real important<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
real horrorshow platties on him, the most lovely suit,<lb/>
brothers, I had ever viddied, absolutely in the heighth of<lb/>
fashion. He just sort of looked right through us poor<lb/>
plennies, saying, in a very beautiful real educated goloss,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Government cannot be concerned any longer with<lb/>
outmoded penological theories. Cram criminals together<lb/>
and see what happens. You get concentrated criminality,<lb/>
crime in the midst of punishment. Soon we may be needing<lb/>
all our prison space for political offenders.’ I didn't pony<lb/>
this at all, brothers, but after all he was not govoreeting<lb/>
to me. Then he said, ‘Common criminals like this unsa-<lb/>
voury crowd’ — (that meant me, brothers, as well as the<lb/>
others, who were real prestoopnicks and treacherous with<lb/>
it) — ‘can best be dealt with on a purely curative basis. Kill<lb/>
the criminal reflex, that’s all. Full implementation in a<lb/>
year’s time. Punishment means nothing to them, you can<lb/>
see that. They enjoy their so-called punishment. They start<lb/>
murdering each other.’ And he turned his stern blue glazzies<lb/>
on me. So I said, bold:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘With respect, sir, I object very strongly to what you<lb/>
said then. I am not a common criminal, sir, and I am not<lb/>
unsavoury. The others may be unsavoury but I am not.’<lb/>
The Chief Chasso went all purple and creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You shut your bleeding hole, you. Don’t you know who<lb/>
this is?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said this big veck. Then he turned<lb/>
to the Governor and said, ‘You can use him as a trail-<lb/>
blazer. He’s young, bold, vicious. Brodsky will deal with<lb/>
him tomorrow and you can sit in and watch Brodsky. It<lb/>
works all right, don’t worry about that. This vicious young<lb/>
hoodlum will be transformed out of all recognition.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And those hard slovos, brothers, were like the beginning<lb/>
of my freedom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="67"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
TuaT very same evening I was dragged<lb/>
</p>
<p>
chassos to viddy the Governor in his holy<lb/>
of holies holy office. The Governor looked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very weary at me and said, ‘I don’t suppose<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you know who that was this morning, do you, 6655321?<lb/>
And without waiting for me to say no he said, “That was<lb/>
no less a personage than the Minister of the Interior, the<lb/>
new Minister of the Interior and what they call a very<lb/>
new broom. Well, these new ridiculous ideas have come<lb/>
at last and orders are orders, though I may say to you in<lb/>
confidence that I do not approve. I most emphatically do<lb/>
not approve. An eye for an eye, I say. If someone hits you<lb/>
you hit back, do you not? Why then should not the State,<lb/>
very severely hit by you brutal hooligans, not hit back<lb/>
also? But the new view is to say no. The new view is that<lb/>
we turn the bad into the good. All of which seems to me<lb/>
grossly unjust. Hm?’ So I said, trying to be like respectful<lb/>
and accommodating:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir’ And then the Chief Chasso, who was standing all<lb/>
ted and burly behind the Governor's chair, creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Shut your filthy hole, you scum.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said the like tired and fagged-out<lb/>
Governor. ‘You, 6655321, are to be reformed. Tomorrow<lb/>
you go to this man Brodsky. It is believed that you will<lb/>
</p>
<p>
103<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="68"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
be able to leave State Custody in a little over a fortnight.<lb/>
In a little over a fortnight you will be out again in the big<lb/>
free world, no longer a number. I suppose,’ and he snorted<lb/>
a bit here, ‘that prospect pleases you?’ I said nothing so<lb/>
the Chief Chasso creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Answer, you filthy young swine, when the Governor<lb/>
asks you a question.’ So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I’ve done my<lb/>
best here, really I have. I’m very grateful to all concerned.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Don’t be,’ like sighed the Governor. “This is not a<lb/>
reward. This is far from being a reward. Now, there is a<lb/>
form here to be signed. It says that you are willing to have<lb/>
the residue of your sentence commuted to submission to<lb/>
what is called here, ridiculous expression, Reclamation<lb/>
Treatment. Will you sign?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Most certainly I will sign,’ I said, ‘sir. And very many<lb/>
thanks.’ So I was given an ink-pencil and I signed my<lb/>
name nice and flowy. The Governor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right. That’s the lot, I think.’ The Chief Chasso said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Prison Chaplain would like a word with him, sir.’<lb/>
So I was marched out and off down the corridor towards<lb/>
the Wing Chapel, tolchocked on the back and the gulliver<lb/>
all the way by one of the chassos, but in a very like yawny<lb/>
and bored manner. And I was marched across the Wing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
to go in. The charles was sitting at his desk, smelling loud<lb/>
and clear of a fine manny von of expensive cancers and<lb/>
Scotch. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, little 6655321, be seated.’ And to the chassos, “Wait<lb/>
outside, eh?? Which they did. Then he spoke in a very<lb/>
like earnest way to me, saying: “One thing I want you to<lb/>
understand, boy, is that this is nothing to do with me.<lb/>
Were it expedient, I would protest about it, but it is not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
104<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
expedient. There is the question of my own career, there<lb/>
is the question of the weakness of my own voice when set<lb/>
against the shout of certain more powerful elements in<lb/>
the polity. Do I make myself clear?’ He didn't, brothers,<lb/>
but I nodded that he did. “Very hard ethical questions are<lb/>
involved,’ he went on. ‘You are to be made into a good<lb/>
boy, 6655321. Never again will you have the desire to<lb/>
commit acts of violence or to offend in any way whatso-<lb/>
ever against the State’s Peace. I hope you take all that in.<lb/>
I hope you are absolutely clear in your own mind about<lb/>
that.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, it will be nice to be good, sir” But I had a real<lb/>
horrorshow smeck at that inside, brothers. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tt may not be nice to be good, little 6655321. It may<lb/>
be horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I<lb/>
realise how self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall<lb/>
have many sleepless nights about this. What does God<lb/>
want? Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness?<lb/>
Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better<lb/>
than a man who has the good imposed upon him? Deep<lb/>
and hard questions, little 6655321. But all I want to say to<lb/>
you now is this: if at any time in the future you look back<lb/>
to these times and remember me, the lowest and humblest<lb/>
of all God’s servitors, do not, I pray, think evil of me in<lb/>
your heart, thinking me in any way involved in what is<lb/>
now about to happen to you. And now, talking of praying,<lb/>
I realise sadly that there will be little point in praying for<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
105<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="69"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
then he began to cry. But I didn’t really take much notice<lb/>
</p>
<p>
_ of that, brothers, only having a bit of a quiet smeck inside,<lb/>
because you could viddy that he had been peeting away<lb/>
at the old whisky, and now he took a bottle from a<lb/>
cupboard in his desk and started to pour himself a real<lb/>
horrorshow bolshy slog into a very greasy and grahzny<lb/>
glass. He downed it and then said, ‘All may be well, who<lb/>
knows? God works in a mysterious way.’ Then he began<lb/>
to sing away at a hymn in a real loud rich goloss. Then<lb/>
the door opened and the chassos came in to tolchock me<lb/>
back to my vonny cell, but the old charles still went on<lb/>
singing this hymn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, the next morning I had to say goodbye to the old<lb/>
Staja, and I felt a malenky bit sad as you always will when<lb/>
you have to leave a place you've like got used to. But I<lb/>
didn’t go very far, O my brothers. I was punched and<lb/>
kicked along to the new white building just beyond the<lb/>
yard where we used to do our bit of exercise. This was a<lb/>
very new building and it had a new cold like sizy smell<lb/>
which gave you a bit of the shivers. I stood there in the<lb/>
horrible bolshy bare hall and I got new vons, sniffing away<lb/>
there with my like very sensitive morder or sniffer. These<lb/>
were like hospital vons, and the chelloveck the chassos<lb/>
handed me over to had a white coat on, as he might be<lb/>
a hospital man. He signed for me, and one of the brutal<lb/>
chassos who had brought me said, ‘You will watch this<lb/>
one, sir. A right brutal bastard he has been and will be<lb/>
again, in spite of all his sucking up to the Prison Chaplain<lb/>
and reading the Bible.’ But this new chelloveck had<lb/>
real horrorshow blue glazzies which like smiled when he<lb/>
govoreeted. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, we don’t anticipate any trouble. We're going to be<lb/>
friends, aren't we?’ And he smiled with his glazzies and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
106<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
this one was very nice too, and I was led off to a very nice<lb/>
white clean bedroom with curtains and a bedside lamp,<lb/>
and just the one bed in it, all for Your Humble Narrator.<lb/>
So I had a real horrorshow inner smeck at that, thinking<lb/>
I was really a very lucky young malchickiwick. I was told<lb/>
to take off my horrible prison platties and I was given a<lb/>
really beautiful set of pyjamas, O my brothers, in plain<lb/>
green, the heighth of bedwear fashion. And I was given a<lb/>
nice warm dressing-gown too and lovely toofles to put my<lb/>
bare nogas in, and I thought, “Well, Alex boy, little 6655321<lb/>
as was, you have copped it lucky and no mistake. You are<lb/>
really going to enjoy it here.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After I had been given a nice chasha of real horrorshow<lb/>
coffee and some old gazettas and mags to look at while<lb/>
peeting it, this first veck in white came in, the one who<lb/>
had like signed for me, and he said: ‘Aha, there you are,’<lb/>
a silly sort of a veshch to say but it didn’t sound silly, this<lb/>
veck being so like nice. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Dr Branom.<lb/>
I'm Dr Brodsky’s assistant. With your permission, I'll just<lb/>
give you the usual brief overall examination.’ And he took<lb/>
the old stetho out of his right carman. ‘We must make<lb/>
sure youre quite fit, mustn’t we? Yes indeed, we must.’ So<lb/>
while I lay there with my pyjama top off and he did this,<lb/>
that and the other, I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What exactly is it, sir, that you're going to do?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said Dr Branom, his cold stetho going all down my<lb/>
back, ‘it’s quite simple, really. We just show you some films.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Films?’ I said. I could hardly believe my ookos, brothers,<lb/>
as you may well understand. ‘You mean,’ I said, ‘it will<lb/>
be just like going to the pictures?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
107<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="70"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“They'll be special films,’ said this Dr Branom. ‘Very<lb/>
special films. You'll be having your first session this after-<lb/>
noon. Yes,’ he said, getting up from bending over me, ‘you<lb/>
seem to be quite a fit young boy. A bit under-nourished,<lb/>
perhaps. That will be the fault of the prison food. Put<lb/>
your pyjama top back on. After every meal,’ he said, sitting<lb/>
on the edge of the bed, we shall be giving you a shot in<lb/>
the arm. That should help.’ I felt really grateful to this<lb/>
very nice Dr Branom. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Vitamins, sir, will it be?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Something like that,’ he said, smiling real horrorshow<lb/>
and friendly. ‘Just a jab in the arm after every meal.’ Then<lb/>
he went out. I lay on the bed thinking this was like real<lb/>
heaven, and I read some of the mags theyd given me —<lb/>
Worldsport, Sinny (this being a film mag) and Goal. Then<lb/>
I lay back on the bed and shut my glazzies and thought<lb/>
how nice it was going to be out there again, Alex with<lb/>
perhaps a nice easy job during the day, me being now too<lb/>
old for the old skolliwoll, and then perhaps getting a new<lb/>
like gang together for the nochy, and the first rabbit would<lb/>
be to get old Dim and Pete, if they had not been got<lb/>
already by the millicents. This time I would be very careful<lb/>
not to get loveted. They were giving another like chance,<lb/>
me having done murder and all, and it would not be like<lb/>
fair to get loveted again, after going to all this trouble to<lb/>
show me films that were going to make me a real good<lb/>
malchick. I had a real horrorshow smeck at everybody's<lb/>
like innocence, and I was smecking my gulliver off when<lb/>
they brought in my lunch on a tray. The veck who brought<lb/>
it was the one whod led me to this malenky bedroom<lb/>
when I came into the mesto, and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's nice to know somebody’s happy.’ It was really a very<lb/>
nice appetising bit of pishcha they'd laid out on the tray<lb/>
</p>
<p>
108<lb/>
</p>
<p>
— two or three lomticks of like hot roastbeef with mashed<lb/>
kartoffel and vedge, then there was also ice cream and a<lb/>
nice hot chasha of chai. And there was even a cancer to<lb/>
smoke and a matchbox with one match in. So this looked<lb/>
like it was the life, O my brothers. Then, about half an<lb/>
hour after while I was lying a bit sleepy on the bed, a<lb/>
woman nurse came in, a real nice young devotchka with<lb/>
real horrorshow groodies (I had not seen such for two<lb/>
years) and she had a tray and a hypodermic. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, the old vitamins, eh?’ And I clickclicked at her but<lb/>
she took no notice. All she did was to slam the needle<lb/>
into my left arm, and then swishhhh in went the vitamin<lb/>
stuff. Then she went out again, clack clack on her high-<lb/>
heeled nogas. Then the white-coated veck who was like a<lb/>
male nurse came in with a wheelchair. I was a malenky<lb/>
bit surprised to viddy that. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What giveth then, brother? I can walk, surely, to wher-<lb/>
ever we have to itty to.’ But he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Best I push you there.’ And indeed, O my brothers,<lb/>
when I got off the bed I found myself a malenky bit weak.<lb/>
It was the under-nourishment like Dr Branom had said,<lb/>
all that horrible prison pishcha. But the vitamins in the<lb/>
after-meal injection would put me right. No doubt at all<lb/>
about that, I thought.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="71"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHERE I was wheeled to, brothers, was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
True enough, one wall was all covered with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
silver screen, and direct opposite was a wall<lb/>
with square holes in for the projector to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
project through, and there were stereo speakers stuck all<lb/>
over the mesto. But against the right-hand one of the other<lb/>
walls was a bank of all like little meters, and in the middle<lb/>
of the floor facing the screen was like a dentist’s chair with<lb/>
all lengths of wire running from it, and I had to like crawl<lb/>
from the wheelchair to this, being given some help by<lb/>
another like male nurse veck in a white coat. Then I noticed<lb/>
that underneath the projection holes was like all frosted<lb/>
glass and I thought I viddied shadows of like people moving<lb/>
behind it and I thought I slooshied somebody cough kashl<lb/>
kashl kashl. But then all I could like notice was how weak<lb/>
I seemed to be, and I put that down to changing over from<lb/>
prison pishcha to this new rich pishcha and the vitamins<lb/>
injected into me. ‘Right,’ said the wheelchair-wheeling veck,<lb/>
‘now I'll leave you. The show will commence as soon as Dr<lb/>
Brodsky arrives. Hope you enjoy it.’ To be truthful, brothers,<lb/>
I did not really feel that I wanted to viddy any film-show<lb/>
this afternoon. I was just not in the mood. I would have<lb/>
liked much better to have a nice quiet spatchka on the bed,<lb/>
nice and quiet and all on my oddy knocky. I felt very limp.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="72"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What happened now was that one white-coated veck<lb/>
strapped my gulliver to a like head-rest, singing to himself<lb/>
all the time some vonny cally pop-song. “What’s this for?’<lb/>
I said. And this veck replied, interrupting his like song an<lb/>
instant, that it was to keep my gulliver still and make me<lb/>
look at the screen. ‘But,’ I said, I want to look at the<lb/>
screen. I’ve been brought here to viddy films and viddy<lb/>
films I shall” And then the other white-coat veck (there<lb/>
were three altogether, one of them a devotchka who was<lb/>
like sitting at the bank of meters and twiddling with knobs)<lb/>
had a bit of a smeck at that. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You never know. Oh, you never know. Trust us, friend.<lb/>
It’s better this way.’ And then I found they were strapping<lb/>
my rookers to the chair-arms and my nogas were like stuck<lb/>
to a foot-rest. It seemed a bit bezoomny to me but I let<lb/>
them get on with what they wanted to get on with. If I<lb/>
was to be a free young malchick again in a fortnight’s time<lb/>
I would put up with much in the meantime, O my<lb/>
brothers. One veshch I did not like, though, was when<lb/>
they put like clips on the skin of my forehead, so that my<lb/>
top glaz-lids were pulled up and up and up and I could<lb/>
not shut my glazzies no matter how I tried. I tried to<lb/>
smeck and said: “This must be a real horrorshow film if<lb/>
youre so keen on my viddying it.’ And one of the white-<lb/>
coat vecks said, smecking:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Horrorshow is right, friend. A real show of horrors.’<lb/>
And then I had like a cap stuck on my gulliver and I could<lb/>
viddy all wires running away from it, and they stuck a<lb/>
like suction pad on my belly and one on the old tick-<lb/>
tocker, and I could just about viddy wires running away<lb/>
from those. Then there was the shoom of a door opening<lb/>
and you could tell some very important chelloveck was<lb/>
coming in by the way the white-coated under-vecks went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all stiff. And then I viddied this Dr Brodsky. He was a<lb/>
malenky veck, very fat, with all curly hair curling all over<lb/>
his gulliver, and on his spuddy nose he had very thick<lb/>
otchkies. I could just viddy that he had a real horrorshow<lb/>
suit on, absolutely the heighth of fashion, and he had a<lb/>
like very delicate and subtle von of operating theatres<lb/>
coming from him. With him was Dr Branom, all smiling<lb/>
as though to give me confidence. ‘Everything ready?’ said<lb/>
Dr Brodsky in a very breathy goloss. Then I could slooshy<lb/>
voices saying Right right right from like a distance, then<lb/>
nearer to, then there was a quiet like humming shoom as<lb/>
though things had been switched on. And then the lights<lb/>
went out and there was Your Humble Narrator And Friend<lb/>
sitting alone in the dark, all on his frightened oddy knocky,<lb/>
not able to move nor shut his glazzies nor anything. And<lb/>
then, O my brothers, the film-show started off with some<lb/>
very gromky atmosphere music coming from the speakers,<lb/>
very fierce and full of discord. And then on the screen the<lb/>
picture came on, but there was no title and no credits.<lb/>
What came on was a street, as it might have been any<lb/>
street in any town, and it was a real dark nochy and the<lb/>
lamps were lit. It was a very good like professional piece<lb/>
of sinny, and there were none of these flickers and blobs<lb/>
you get, say, when you viddy one of these dirty films in<lb/>
somebody's house in a back street. All the time the music<lb/>
bumped out, very like sinister. And then you could viddy<lb/>
an old man coming down the street very starry, and then<lb/>
there leaped out on this starry veck two malchicks dressed<lb/>
in the heighth of fashion, as it was at this time (still thin<lb/>
trousers but no like cravat any more, more of a real tie),<lb/>
and they started to filly with him. You could slooshy his<lb/>
screams and moans, very realistic, and you could even get<lb/>
the like heavy breathing and panting of the two tolchocking<lb/>
</p>
<p>
113<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="73"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
malchicks. They made a real pudding out of this starry<lb/>
veck, going crack crack crack at him with their fisty rookers,<lb/>
tearing his platties off and then finishing up by booting<lb/>
his nagoy plott (this lay all krovvy-red in the grahzny mud<lb/>
of the gutter) and then running off very skorry. Then there<lb/>
was a close-up gulliver of this beaten-up starry veck, and<lb/>
the krovvy flowed beautiful red. It’s funny how the colours<lb/>
of the like real world only seem really real when you viddy<lb/>
them on the screen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now all the time I was watching this I was beginning<lb/>
to get very aware of a like not feeling all that well, and<lb/>
this I put down to the under-nourishment and my stomach<lb/>
not quite ready for the rich pishcha and vitamins I was<lb/>
getting here. But I tried to forget this, concentrating on<lb/>
the next film which came on at once, my brothers, without<lb/>
any break at all. This time the film like jumped right away<lb/>
on a young devotchka who was being given the old in-out<lb/>
by first one malchick then another then another then<lb/>
another, she creeching away very gromky through the<lb/>
speakers and like very pathetic and tragic music going on<lb/>
at the same time. This was real, very real, though if you<lb/>
thought about it properly you couldn't imagine lewdies<lb/>
actually agreeing to having all this done to them in a film,<lb/>
and if these films were made by the Good or the State<lb/>
you couldn’t imagine them being allowed to take these<lb/>
films without like interfering with what was going on. So<lb/>
it must have been very clever what they called cutting or<lb/>
editing or some such veshch. For it was very real. And<lb/>
when it came to the sixth or seventh malchick leering and<lb/>
smecking and then going into it and the devotchka<lb/>
creeching on the sound-track like bezoomny, then I began<lb/>
to feel sick. I had like pains all over and felt I could sick<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up and at the same time not sick up, and I began to feel<lb/>
</p>
<p>
114<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like in distress, O my brothers, being fixed rigid too on<lb/>
this chair. When this bit of film was over I could slooshy<lb/>
the goloss of this Dr Brodsky from over by the switchboard<lb/>
saying, ‘Reaction about twelve point five? Promising,<lb/>
promising.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we shot straight into another lomtick of film, and<lb/>
this time it was of just a human litso, a very like pale<lb/>
human face held still and having different nasty veshches<lb/>
done to it. I was sweating a malenky bit with the pain in<lb/>
my guts and a horrible thirst and my gulliver going throb<lb/>
throb throb, and it seemed to me that if I could not viddy<lb/>
this bit of film I would perhaps be not so sick. But I could<lb/>
not shut my glazzies, and even if I tried to move my glaz-<lb/>
balls about I still could not get like out of the line of fire<lb/>
of this picture. So I had to go on viddying what was being<lb/>
done and hearing the most ghastly creechings coming from<lb/>
this litso. I knew it could not really be real, but that made<lb/>
no difference. I was heaving away but could not sick,<lb/>
viddying first a britva cut out an eye, then slice down the<lb/>
cheek, then go rip rip rip all over, while red krovvy shot<lb/>
on to the camera lens. Then all the teeth were like wrenched<lb/>
out with a pair of pliers, and the creeching and the blood<lb/>
were terrific. Then I slooshied this very pleased goloss of<lb/>
Dr Brodsky going, “Excellent, excellent, excellent.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The next lomtick of film was of an old woman who<lb/>
kept a shop being kicked about amid very gromky laughter<lb/>
by a lot of malchicks, and these malchicks broke up the<lb/>
shop and then set fire to it. You could viddy this poor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
II5<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="74"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
disappearing in the flames, and then you could slooshy<lb/>
the most gromky and agonised and agonising screams that<lb/>
ever came from a human goloss. So this time I knew I<lb/>
had to sick up, so I creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I want to be sick. Please let me be sick. Please bring<lb/>
something for me to be sick into.’ But this Dr Brodsky<lb/>
called back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Imagination only. You've nothing to worry about. Next<lb/>
film coming up.’ That was perhaps meant to be a joke,<lb/>
for I heard a like smeck coming from the dark. And then<lb/>
I was forced to viddy a most nasty film about Japanese<lb/>
torture. It was the 1939-45 War, and there were soldiers<lb/>
being fixed to trees with nails and having fires lit under<lb/>
them and having their yarbles cut off, and you even viddied<lb/>
a gulliver being sliced off a soldier with a sword, and then<lb/>
with his head rolling about and the rot and the glazzies<lb/>
looking alive still, the plott of this soldier actually ran<lb/>
about, krovvy like a fountain out of the neck, and then<lb/>
it dropped, and all the time there was very very loud<lb/>
laughter from the Japanese. The pains I felt now in my<lb/>
belly and the headache and the thirst were terrible, and<lb/>
they all seemed to be coming out of the screen. So I<lb/>
creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I po not wish to describe, brothers, what<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to viddy that afternoon. The like minds of<lb/>
this Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom and the<lb/>
others in white coats, and remember there<lb/>
was this devotchka twiddling with the knobs and watching<lb/>
the meters, they must have been more cally and filthy than<lb/>
any prestoopnick in the Staja itself Because I did not think<lb/>
it was possible for any veck to even think of making films<lb/>
of what I was forced to viddy, all tied to this chair and my<lb/>
glazzies made to be wide open. All I could do was to creech<lb/>
very gromky for them to turn it off, turn it off, and that<lb/>
like part drowned the noise of dratsing and fillying and<lb/>
also the music that went with it all. You can imagine it<lb/>
was like a terrible relief when I'd viddied the last bit of<lb/>
film and this Dr Brodsky said, in a very yawny and bored<lb/>
like goloss, ‘I think that should be enough for Day One,<lb/>
don't you, Branom?’ And there I was with the lights<lb/>
switched on, my gulliver throbbing like a bolshy big engine<lb/>
that makes pain, and my rot all dry and cally inside, and<lb/>
feeling I could like sick up every bit of pishcha I had ever<lb/>
eaten, O my brothers, since the day I was like weaned. ‘All<lb/>
right,’ said this Dr Brodsky, ‘he can be taken back to his<lb/>
bed.’ Then he like patted me on the pletcho and said,<lb/>
‘Good, good. A very promising start,’ grinning all over his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
5 other horrible veshches I was like forced<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
117<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="75"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
litso, then he like waddled out, Dr Branom after him, but<lb/>
Dr Branom gave me a like very droogy and sympathetic<lb/>
type smile as though he had nothing to do with all this<lb/>
veshch but was like forced into it as I was.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyhow, they freed my plott from the chair and they let<lb/>
go the skin above my glazzies so that I could open and shut<lb/>
them again, and I shut them, O my brothers, with the pain<lb/>
and throb in my gulliver, and then I was like carried to the<lb/>
old wheelchair and taken back to my malenky bedroom, the<lb/>
under-veck who wheeled me singing away at some hound-<lb/>
and-horny popsong so that I like snarled, ‘Shut it, thou,’ but<lb/>
he only smecked and said: ‘Never mind, friend,’ and then<lb/>
sang louder. So I was put into the bed and still felt bolnoy<lb/>
but could not sleep, but soon I started to feel that soon |<lb/>
might start to feel that J might soon start feeling just a malenky<lb/>
bit better, and then I was brought some nice hot chai with<lb/>
plenty of moloko and sakar and, peeting that, I knew that<lb/>
that like horrible nightmare was in the past and all over. And<lb/>
then Dr Branom came in, all nice and smiling. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, by my calculations you should be starting to feel<lb/>
all right again. Yes?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir, I said, like wary. I did not quite kopat what he<lb/>
was getting at govoreeting about calculations, seeing that<lb/>
getting better from feeling bolnoy is like your own affair<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and droogy, on the bed’s edge and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dr Brodsky is pleased with you. You had a very positive<lb/>
response. Tomorrow, of course, there'll be two sessions,<lb/>
morning and afternoon, and I should imagine that you'll<lb/>
be feeling a bit limp at the end of the day. But we have<lb/>
to be hard on you, you have to be cured.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You mean I have to sit through —? You mean I have to<lb/>
look at —? Oh, no,’ I said. ‘It was horrible.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
118<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Of course it was horrible,’ smiled Dr Branom. Violence<lb/>
is a very horrible thing. That's what you're learning now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
understand why or how or what —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Life is a very wonderful thing,’ said Dr Branom in a<lb/>
very like holy goloss. “The processes of life, the make-up<lb/>
of the human organism, who can fully understand these<lb/>
miracles? Dr Brodsky is, of course, a remarkable man.<lb/>
What is happening to you now is what should happen to<lb/>
any normal healthy human organism contemplating the<lb/>
actions of the forces of evil, the workings of the principle<lb/>
of destruction. You are being made sane, you are being<lb/>
made healthy.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That I will not have, I said, ‘nor can understand at<lb/>
all. What you've been doing is to make me feel very very<lb/>
ill.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Do you feel ill now?’ he said, still with the old droogy<lb/>
smile on his litso. ‘Drinking tea, resting, having a quiet<lb/>
chat with a friend — surely you're not feeling anything but<lb/>
well?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I like listened and felt for pain and sickness in my<lb/>
gulliver and plott, in a like cautious way, but it was true,<lb/>
brothers, that I felt real horrorshow and even wanting my<lb/>
dinner. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. “You must be doing some-<lb/>
thing to me to make me feel ill.” And I sort of frowned<lb/>
about that, thinking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You felt ill this afternoon,’ he said, ‘because you're getting<lb/>
better. When we're healthy we respond to the presence of<lb/>
the hateful with fear and nausea. You're becoming healthy,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
119<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="76"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that’s all. You'll be healthier still this time tomorrow.’ Then<lb/>
he patted me on the noga and went out, and [ tried to<lb/>
puzzle the whole veshch out as best I could. What it seemed<lb/>
to me was that the wires and other veshches that were fixed<lb/>
to my plott perhaps were making me feel ill, and that it<lb/>
was all a trick really. I was still puzzling out all this and<lb/>
wondering whether I should refuse to be strapped down<lb/>
to this chair tomorrow and start a real bit of dratsing with<lb/>
them all, because I had my rights, when another chelloveck<lb/>
came in to see me. He was a like smiling starry veck who<lb/>
said he was what he called the Discharge Officer, and he<lb/>
carried a lot of bits of paper with him. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where will you go when you leave here?’ I hadn’t really<lb/>
thought about that sort of veshch at all, and it only now<lb/>
really began to dawn on me that I'd be a fine free malchick<lb/>
very soon, and then IJ viddied that would only be if I<lb/>
played it everybody's way and did not start any dratsing<lb/>
and creeching and refusing and so on. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, I shall go home. Back to my pee and em.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Your —?’ He didn’t get nadsat-talk at all, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To my parents in the dear old flatblock.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And when did you last have a visit from<lb/>
your parents?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A month,’ I said, ‘very near. They like suspended visiting-<lb/>
day for a bit because of one prestoopnick getting some<lb/>
blasting-powder smuggled in across the wires from his ptitsa.<lb/>
A real cally trick to play on the innocent, like punishing<lb/>
them as well. So it’s like near a month since I had a visit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see,’ said this veck. ‘And have your parents been<lb/>
informed of your transfer and impending release?’ That<lb/>
had a real lovely zvook that did, that slovo release. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No.’ Then I said, ‘It will be a nice surprise for them,<lb/>
that, won't it? Me just walking through the door and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
horrorshow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right,’ said the Discharge Officer veck, ‘we'll leave it at<lb/>
that. So long as you have somewhere to live. Now, there's<lb/>
the question of your having a job, isn’t there?” And he showed<lb/>
me this long list of jobs I could have, but I thought, well,<lb/>
there would be time enough for that. A nice malenky holiday<lb/>
first. I could do a crasting job soon as I got out and fill the<lb/>
old carmans with pretty polly, but I would have to be very<lb/>
careful and I would have to do the job all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. I did not trust so-called droogs any more. So I told<lb/>
this veck to leave it a bit and we would govoreet about it<lb/>
again. He said right right right, then got ready to leave. He<lb/>
showed himself to be a very queer sort of a veck, because<lb/>
what he did now was to like giggle and then say, “Would<lb/>
you like to punch me in the face before I go?’ I did not<lb/>
think I could possibly have slooshied that right, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Would you,’ he giggled, ‘like to punch me in the face<lb/>
before I go?’ I frowned like at that, very puzzled, and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘just to see how your'e getting on.’ And<lb/>
he brought his litso real near, a fat grin all over his rot.<lb/>
So I fisted up and went smack at this litso, but he pulled<lb/>
himself away real skorry, grinning still, and my rooker just<lb/>
punched air. Very puzzling, this was, and I frowned as he<lb/>
left, smecking his gulliver off. And then, my brothers, I<lb/>
felt real sick again, just like in the afternoon, just for a<lb/>
couple of minootas. It then passed off skorry, and when<lb/>
they brought my dinner in I found I had a fair appetite<lb/>
and was ready to crunch away at the roast chicken. But<lb/>
it was funny that starry chelloveck asking for a tolchock<lb/>
in the litso. And it was funny feeling sick like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="77"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was even funnier was when I went to sleep that<lb/>
night, O my brothers. I had a nightmare, and, as you<lb/>
might expect, it was of one of those bits of film I’d viddied<lb/>
in the afternoon. A dream or nightmare is really only like<lb/>
a film inside your gulliver, except that it is as though you<lb/>
could walk into it and be part of it. And this is what<lb/>
happened to me. It was a nightmare of one of the bits of<lb/>
film they showed me near the end of the afternoon like<lb/>
session, all of smecking malchicks doing the ultra-violent<lb/>
on a young ptitsa who was creeching away in her red red<lb/>
krovvy, her platties all razrezzed real horrorshow. I was in<lb/>
this fillying about, smecking away and being like the<lb/>
ringleader, dressed in the heighth of nadsat fashion. And<lb/>
then at the heighth of all this dratsing and tolchocking I<lb/>
felt like paralysed and wanting to be very sick, and all the<lb/>
other malchicks had a real gromky smeck at me. Then I<lb/>
was dratsing my way back to being awake all through my<lb/>
own krovvy, pints and quarts and gallons of it, and then<lb/>
I found myself in my bed in this room. I wanted to be<lb/>
sick, so I got out of the bed all trembly so as to go off<lb/>
down the corridor to the old vaysay. But, behold, brothers,<lb/>
the door was locked. And turning round I viddied for like<lb/>
the first raz that there were bars on the window. And so,<lb/>
as I reached for the like pot in the malenky cupboard<lb/>
beside the bed, I viddied that there would be no escaping<lb/>
from any of all this. Worse, I did not dare to go back into<lb/>
my own sleeping gulliver. I soon found I did not want to<lb/>
be sick after all, but then I was poogly of getting back<lb/>
into bed to sleep. But soon I fell smack into sleep and did<lb/>
not dream any more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘STOP it, stop it, stop it,’ I kept on creeching<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can stand no more.’ It was the next day,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
out. “Turn it off, you grahzny bastards, for<lb/>
6 brothers, and I had truly done my best<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
morning and afternoon to play it their way<lb/>
and sit like a horrorshow smiling cooperative malchick in<lb/>
the chair of torture while they flashed nasty bits of ultra-<lb/>
violence on the screen, my glazzies clipped open to viddy<lb/>
all, my plott and rookers and nogas fixed to the chair so<lb/>
I could not get away. What I was being made to viddy<lb/>
now was not really a veshch I would have thought to be<lb/>
too bad before, it being only three or four malchicks crasting<lb/>
in a shop and filling their carmans with cutter, at the same<lb/>
time fillying about with the creeching starry ptitsa running<lb/>
the shop, tolchocking her and letting the red red krovvy<lb/>
flow. But the throb and like crash crash crash crash in my<lb/>
gulliver and the wanting to sick and the terrible dry rasping<lb/>
thirstiness in my rot, all were worse than yesterday. ‘Oh,<lb/>
I’ve had enough,’ I cried. ‘It’s not fair, you vonny sods,’<lb/>
and I tried to struggle out of the chair but it was not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
123<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="78"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
viddy had been made by the Germans. It opened with<lb/>
German eagles and the Nazi flag with that like crooked<lb/>
cross that all malchicks at school love to draw, and then<lb/>
there were very haughty and nadmenny like German<lb/>
officers walking through streets that were all dust and<lb/>
bomb-holes and broken buildings. Then you were allowed<lb/>
to viddy lewdies being shot against walls, officers giving<lb/>
the orders, and also horrible nagoy plotts left lying in<lb/>
gutters, all like cages of bare ribs and white thin nogas.<lb/>
Then there were lewdies being dragged off creeching,<lb/>
though not on the sound-track, my brothers, the only<lb/>
sound being music, and being tolchocked while they were<lb/>
dragged off. Then I noticed, in all my pain and sickness,<lb/>
what music it was that like crackled and boomed on the<lb/>
sound-track, and it was Ludwig van, the last movement<lb/>
of the Fifth Symphony, and I creeched like bezoomny at<lb/>
that. “Stop! I creeched. “Stop, you grahzny disgusting sods.<lb/>
It’s a sin, that’s what it is, a filthy unforgivable sin, you<lb/>
bratchnies!’ They didn’t stop right away, because there was<lb/>
only a minute or two more to go — lewdies being beaten<lb/>
up and all blood, then more firing squads, then the old<lb/>
Nazi flag and THE END. But when the lights came on<lb/>
this Dr Brodsky and also Dr Branom were standing in<lb/>
front of me, and Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's all this about sin, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That,’ I said, very sick. “Using Ludwig van like that.<lb/>
He did no harm to anyone. Beethoven just wrote music.’<lb/>
And then I was really sick and they had to bring a bowl<lb/>
that was in the shape of like a kidney.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Music,’ said Dr Brodsky, like musing. “So you're keen<lb/>
on music. I know nothing about it myself. It’s a useful<lb/>
emotional heightener, that’s all I know. Well, well. What<lb/>
do you think about that, eh, Branom?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
124<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It can’t be helped,’ said Dr Branom. ‘Each man kills the<lb/>
thing he loves, as the poet-prisoner said. Here’s the punish-<lb/>
ment element, perhaps. The Governor ought to be pleased.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Give me a drink,’ I said, ‘for Bog’s sake.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Loosen him,’ ordered Dr Brodsky. ‘Fetch him a carafe<lb/>
of ice-cold water.’ So then these under-vecks got to work<lb/>
and soon I was peeting gallons and gallons of water and<lb/>
it was like heaven, O my brothers. Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You seem a sufficiently intelligent young man. You<lb/>
seem, too, to be not without taste. You've just got this<lb/>
violence thing, haven’t you? Violence and theft, theft being<lb/>
an aspect of violence.’ I didn’t govoreet a single slovo,<lb/>
brothers. I was still feeling sick, though getting a malenky<lb/>
bit better now. But it had been a terrible day. ‘Now, then,’<lb/>
said Dr Brodsky, ‘how do you think this is done? Tell me,<lb/>
what do you think we're doing to you?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're making me feel ill,’ I said. ‘I’m ill when I look<lb/>
at those filthy pervert films of yours. But it’s not really the<lb/>
films that’s doing it. But I feel that if you'll stop these<lb/>
films Pll stop feeling ill’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, said Dr Brodsky. ‘It’s association, the oldest<lb/>
educational method in the world. And what really causes<lb/>
you to feel ill?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These grahzny sodding veshches that come out of my<lb/>
gulliver and my plott,’ I said, ‘that’s what it is.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Quaint,’ said Dr Brodsky, like smiling, ‘the dialect of the<lb/>
tribe. Do you know anything of its provenance, Branom?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Odd bits of old rhyming slang,’ said Dr Branom, who<lb/>
did not look quite so much like a friend any more. ‘A bit<lb/>
of gipsy talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav.<lb/>
Propaganda. Subliminal penetration.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right, all right,’ said Dr Brodsky, like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
125<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="79"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
me, ‘it isn’t the wires. It’s nothing to do with what’s fastened<lb/>
to you. Those are just for measuring your reactions. What<lb/>
is it, then?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I viddied then, of course, what a bezoomny shoot I was<lb/>
not to notice that it was the hypodermic needle shots in<lb/>
the rooker. ‘Oh,’ I creeched, ‘oh, I viddy all now. A filthy<lb/>
cally vonny trick. An act of treachery, sod you, and you<lb/>
wont do it again.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tm glad you've raised your objections now,’ said Dr<lb/>
Brodsky. “Now we can be perfectly clear about it. We can<lb/>
get this stuff of Ludovico’s into your system in many<lb/>
different ways. Orally, for instance. But the subcutaneous<lb/>
method is the best. Don’t fight against it, please. There’s<lb/>
no point in your fighting. You can’t get the better of us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Grahzny bratchnies,’ I said, like snivelling. Then I said,<lb/>
‘I don’t mind about the ultra-violence and all that cal. I<lb/>
can put up with that. But it’s not fair on the music. It’s<lb/>
not fair I should feel ill when I’m slooshying lovely Ludwig<lb/>
van and G. F. Handel and others. All that shows youre<lb/>
an evil lot of bastards and I shall never forgive you, sods.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They both looked a bit like thoughtful. Then Dr<lb/>
Brodsky said: “Delimitation is always difficult. The world<lb/>
is one, life is one. The sweetest and most heavenly of<lb/>
activities partake in some measure of violence — the act of<lb/>
love, for instance; music, for instance. You must take your<lb/>
chance, boy. The choice has been all yours.’ I didn’t under-<lb/>
stand all these slovos, but now I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You needn't take it any further, sir.” I'd changed my<lb/>
tune a malenky bit in my cunning way. ‘You've proved to<lb/>
me that all this dratsing and ultra-violence and killing is<lb/>
wrong wrong and terribly wrong. I’ve learned my lesson,<lb/>
sirs. | see now what I’ve never seen before. I’m cured,<lb/>
praise God.’ And I raised my glazzies in a like holy way<lb/>
</p>
<p>
126<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to the ceiling. But both these doctors shook their gullivers<lb/>
like sadly and Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're not cured yet. There’s still a lot to be done. Only<lb/>
when your body reacts promptly and violently to violence,<lb/>
as to a snake, without further help from us, without medi-<lb/>
cation, only then —’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But, sir, sirs, I see that it’s wrong. It’s wrong because<lb/>
it’s against like society, it’s wrong because every veck on<lb/>
earth has the right to live and be happy without being<lb/>
beaten and tolchocked and knifed. I’ve learned a lot, oh<lb/>
really I have.’ But Dr Brodsky had a loud long smeck at<lb/>
that, showing all his white zoobies, and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The heresy of an age of reason,’ or some such slovos.<lb/>
‘T see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong.<lb/>
No, no, my boy, you must leave it all to us. But be cheerful<lb/>
about it. It will soon be all over. In less than a fortnight<lb/>
now youll be a free man.’ Then he patted me on the<lb/>
pletcho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Less than a fortnight, O my brothers and friends, it was<lb/>
like an age. It was like from the beginning of the world<lb/>
to the end of it. To finish the fourteen years with remis-<lb/>
sion in the Staja would have been nothing to it. Every day<lb/>
it was the same. When the devotchka with the hypodermic<lb/>
came round, though, four days after this govoreeting with<lb/>
Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom, I said, ‘Oh, no you wont,’<lb/>
and tolchocked her on the rooker, and the syringe went<lb/>
tinkle clatter on to the floor. That was like to viddy what<lb/>
they would do. What they did was to get four or five real<lb/>
bolshy white-coated bastards of under-vecks to hold me<lb/>
down on the bed, tolchocking me with grinny litsos close<lb/>
to mine, and then this nurse ptitsa said, “You wicked<lb/>
naughty little devil, you,’ while she jabbed my rooker with<lb/>
another syringe and squirted this stuff in real brutal and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
127<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="80"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nasty. And then I was wheeled off exhausted to this like<lb/>
hell sinny as before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every day, my brothers, these films were like the same,<lb/>
all kicking and tolchocking and red red krovvy dripping<lb/>
off of litsos and plotts and spattering all over the camera<lb/>
lenses. It was usually grinning and smecking malchicks in<lb/>
the heighth of nadsat fashion, or else teeheeheeing Jap<lb/>
torturers or brutal Nazi kickers and shooters. And each<lb/>
day the feeling of wanting to die with the sickness and<lb/>
gulliver pains and aches in the zoobies and horrible horrible<lb/>
thirst grew really worse. Until one morning I tried to<lb/>
defeat the bastards by crash crash crashing my gulliver<lb/>
against the wall so that I should tolchock myself uncon-<lb/>
scious, but all that happened was I felt sick with viddying<lb/>
that this kind of violence was like the violence in the films,<lb/>
so I was just exhausted and was given the injection and<lb/>
was wheeled off like before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then there came a morning where I woke up and<lb/>
had my breakfast of eggs and toast and jam and very hot<lb/>
milky chai, and then I thought: It can’t be much longer<lb/>
now. Now must be very near the end of the time. I have<lb/>
suffered to the heighths and cannot suffer any more. And<lb/>
I waited and waited, brothers, for this nurse ptitsa to bring<lb/>
in the syringe, but she did not come. And then the white-<lb/>
coated under-veck came and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Today, old friend, we are letting you walk.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Walk?’ I said. “Where?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To the usual place,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, look not so<lb/>
astonished. You are to walk to the films, me with you of<lb/>
course. You are no longer to be carried in a wheelchair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ I said, “how about my horrible morning injection?<lb/>
For I was really surprised at this, brothers, they being so<lb/>
keen on pushing this Ludovico veshch into me, as they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
128<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
said. ‘Don’t I get that horrible sicky stuff rammed into<lb/>
my poor suffering rooker any more?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All over,’ like smecked this veck. ‘For ever and ever<lb/>
amen. You're on your own now, boy. Walking and all to<lb/>
the chamber of horrors. But you're still to be strapped<lb/>
down and made to see. Come on then, my little tiger.’<lb/>
And I had to put my over-gown and toofles on and walk<lb/>
down the corridor to the like sinny mesto.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now this time, O my brothers, I was not only very sick<lb/>
but very puzzled. There it was again, all the old ultra-<lb/>
violence and vecks with their gullivers smashed and torn<lb/>
krovvy-dripping ptitsas creeching for mercy, the like private<lb/>
and individual fillying and nastiness. Then there were the<lb/>
prison-camps and the Jews and the grey like foreign streets<lb/>
full of tanks and uniforms and vecks going down in with-<lb/>
ering rifle-fire, this being the public side of it. And this<lb/>
time I could blame nothing for me feeling sick and thirsty<lb/>
and full of aches except what I was forced to viddy, my<lb/>
glazzies still being clipped open and my nogas and plott<lb/>
fixed to the chair but this set of wires and other veshches<lb/>
no longer coming out of my plott and gulliver. So what<lb/>
could it be but the films I was viddying that were doing<lb/>
this to me? Except, of course, brothers, that this Ludovico<lb/>
stuff was like a vaccination and there it was cruising about<lb/>
in my krovvy, so that I would be sick always for ever and<lb/>
ever amen whenever I viddied any of this ultra-violence.<lb/>
So now I squared my rot and went boo hoo hoo, and the<lb/>
tears like blotted out what I was forced to viddy in like<lb/>
all blessed runny silvery dewdrops. But these white-coat<lb/>
bratchnies were skorry with their tashtooks to wipe the<lb/>
tears away, saying, “There, there, wazzums all weepy-weepy<lb/>
den?’ And there it was again all clear before my glazzies,<lb/>
these Germans prodding like beseeching and weeping Jews<lb/>
</p>
<p>
129<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="81"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
hoo hoo I had to go again, and along they came to wipe<lb/>
the tears off, very skorry, so I should not miss one solitary<lb/>
veshch of what they were showing. It was a terrible and<lb/>
horrible day, O my brothers and only friends.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was lying on the bed all alone that nochy after my<lb/>
dinner of fat thick mutton stew and fruit pie and ice<lb/>
cream, and I thought to myself: Hell hell hell, there might<lb/>
be a chance for me if I get out now. I had no weapon,<lb/>
though. I was allowed no britva here, and I had been<lb/>
shaved every other day by a fat bald-headed veck who<lb/>
came to my bed before breakfast, two white-coated bratch-<lb/>
nies standing by to viddy I was a good non-violent<lb/>
malchick. The nails on my rookers had been scissored and<lb/>
filed real short so I could not scratch. But I was still skorry<lb/>
on the attack, though they had weakened me down,<lb/>
brothers, to a like shadow of what I had been in the old<lb/>
free days. So now I got off the bed and went to the locked<lb/>
door and began to fist it real horrorshow and hard,<lb/>
creeching at the same time, ‘Oh, help help. I’m sick, I’m<lb/>
dying. Doctor doctor doctor, quick. Please. Oh, I’ll die, I<lb/>
know I shall. Help.’ My gorlo was real dry and sore before<lb/>
anyone came. Then I heard nogas coming down the<lb/>
corridor and a like grumbling goloss, and then I recognised<lb/>
the goloss of the white-coated veck who brought my<lb/>
pishcha and like escorted me to my daily doom. He like<lb/>
grumbled:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is it? What goes on? What's your little nasty game<lb/>
in there?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, I’m dying,’ I like moaned. ‘Oh, I have a ghastly<lb/>
pain in my side. Appendicitis, it is. Ooooooh.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Appendy shitehouse,’ grumbled this veck, and then to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
130<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my joy, brothers, I could slooshy the like clank of keys.<lb/>
‘If you're trying it, little friend, my friends and me will<lb/>
beat and kick you all through the night.’ Then he opened<lb/>
up and brought in like the sweet air of the promise of my<lb/>
freedom. Now I was like behind the door when he pushed<lb/>
it open, and I could viddy him in the corridor light looking<lb/>
round for me puzzled. Then I raised my two fisties to<lb/>
tolchock him on the neck nasty, and then, I swear, as I<lb/>
sort of viddied him in advance lying moaning or out out<lb/>
out and felt the like joy rise in my guts, it was then that<lb/>
this sickness rose in me as it might be a wave and I felt<lb/>
a horrible fear as if I was really going to die. I like tottered<lb/>
over to the bed going urgh urgh urgh, and the veck, who<lb/>
was not in his white coat but an over-gown, viddied clear<lb/>
enough what I had had in my mind for he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well, everything’s a lesson, isn’t it? Learning all the<lb/>
time, as you could say. Come on, little friend, get up from<lb/>
that bed and hit me. I want you to, yes, really. A real good<lb/>
crack across the jaw. Oh, I’m dying for it, really I am.’<lb/>
But all I could do, brothers, was to just lay there sobbing<lb/>
boo hoo hoo. ‘Scum,’ like sneered this veck now. ‘Filth.’<lb/>
And he pulled me up by like the scruff of my pyjama-top,<lb/>
me being very weak and limp, and he raised and swung<lb/>
his right rooker so that I got a fair old tolchock clean on<lb/>
the litso. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is for getting me out of my bed,<lb/>
you young dirt.’ And he wiped his rookers against each<lb/>
other swish swish and went out. Crunch crunch went the<lb/>
key in the lock.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And what, brothers, I had to escape into sleep from<lb/>
then was the horrible and wrong feeling that it was better<lb/>
to get the hit than give it. If that veck had stayed I might<lb/>
even have like presented the other cheek.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="82"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I coutp not believe, brothers, what I was<lb/>
told. It seemed that I had been in that<lb/>
vonny mesto for near ever and would be<lb/>
there for near ever more. But it had always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
been a fortnight and now they said the<lb/>
fortnight was near up. They said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Tomorrow, little friend, out out out.’ And they made<lb/>
with the old thumb, like pointing to freedom. And then<lb/>
the white-coated veck who had tolchocked me and who<lb/>
had still brought me my trays of pishcha and like escorted<lb/>
me to my everyday torture said: ‘But you still have one<lb/>
really big day in front of you. It’s to be your passing-out<lb/>
day.’ And he had a leery smeck at that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I expected this morning that I would be ittying as usual<lb/>
to the sinny mesto in my pyjamas and toofles and over-<lb/>
gown. But no. This morning I was given my shirt and<lb/>
underveshches and my platties of the night and my horror-<lb/>
show kick-boots, all lovely and washed or ironed or<lb/>
polished. And I was even given my cut-throat britva that<lb/>
I had used in those old happy days for fillying and dratsing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
were changes there. Curtains had been drawn in front of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
133<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="83"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the sinny screen and the frosted glass under the projection<lb/>
holes was no longer there, it having perhaps been pushed<lb/>
up or folded to the sides like blind or shutters. And where<lb/>
there had been just the noise of coughing kashl kashl kashl<lb/>
and like shadows of lewdies was now a real audience, and<lb/>
in this audience there were litsos I knew. There was the<lb/>
Staja Governor and the holy man, the charlie or charles<lb/>
as he was called, and the Chief Chasso and this very<lb/>
important and well-dressed chelloveck who was the<lb/>
Minister of the Interior or Inferior. All the rest I did not<lb/>
know. Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom were there, although<lb/>
not now white-coated, instead they were dressed as doctors<lb/>
would dress who were big enough to want to dress in the<lb/>
heighth of fashion. Dr Branom just stood, but Dr Brodsky<lb/>
stood and govoreeted in a like learned manner to all the<lb/>
lewdies assembled. When he viddied me coming in he<lb/>
said, ‘Aha. At this stage, gentlemen, we introduce the<lb/>
subject himself. He is, as you will perceive, fit and well-<lb/>
nourished. He comes straight from a night's sleep and a<lb/>
good breakfast, undrugged, unhypnotised. Tomorrow we<lb/>
send him with confidence out into the world again, as<lb/>
decent a lad as you would meet on a May moning, unvi-<lb/>
cious, unviolent, if anything — as you will observe — inclined<lb/>
to the kindly word and the helpful act. What a change is<lb/>
here, gentlemen, from the wretched hoodlum the State<lb/>
committed to unprofitable punishment some two years<lb/>
ago, unchanged after two years. Unchanged, do I say? Not<lb/>
quite. Prison taught him the false smile, the rubbed hands<lb/>
of hypocrisy, the fawning greased obsequious leer. Other<lb/>
vices it taught him, as well as confirming him in those he<lb/>
had long practised before. But, gentlemen, enough of<lb/>
words. Actions speak louder than. Action now. Observe,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was a bit dazed by all this govoreeting and I was trying<lb/>
to grasp in my mind that like all this was about me. Then<lb/>
all the lights went out and then there came on two like<lb/>
spotlights shining from the projection-squares, and one of<lb/>
them was full on Your Humble and Suffering Narrator.<lb/>
And into the other spotlight there walked a bolshy big<lb/>
chelloveck I had never viddied before. He had a lardy like<lb/>
litso and a moustache and like strips of hair pasted over<lb/>
his near-bald gulliver. He was about thirty or forty or fifty,<lb/>
some old age like that, starry. He ittied up to me and the<lb/>
spotlight ittied with him, and soon the two spotlights had<lb/>
made like one big pool. He said to me, very sneery, “Hello,<lb/>
heap of dirt. Pooh, you don’t wash much, judging from<lb/>
the horrible smell.’ Then, as if he was like dancing, he<lb/>
stamped on my nogas, left, right, then he gave me a finger-<lb/>
nail flick on the nose that hurt like bezoomny and brought<lb/>
the old tears to my glazzies, then he twisted at my left<lb/>
ooko like it was a radio dial. I could slooshy titters and a<lb/>
couple of real horrorshow hawhawhaws coming from like<lb/>
the audience. My nose and nogas and earhole stung and<lb/>
pained like bezoomny, so | said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What do you do that to me for? I’ve never done any<lb/>
wrong to you, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ this veck said, ‘I do this’ — flickflicked nose again<lb/>
— ‘and that? — twisted smarting earhole — ‘and the other’<lb/>
— stamped nasty on right noga — ‘because I don't care for<lb/>
your horrible type. And if you want to do anything about<lb/>
it, start, start, please do.’ Now I knew that I’d have to be<lb/>
real skorry and get my cut-throat britva out before this<lb/>
horrible killing sickness whooshed up and turned the like<lb/>
joy of battle into feeling I was going to snuff it. But, O<lb/>
brothers, as my rooker reached for the britva in my inside<lb/>
carman I got this like picture in my mind’s glazzy of this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
135<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="84"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
insulting chelloveck howling for mercy with the red red<lb/>
krovvy all streaming out of his rot, and hot after this<lb/>
picture the sickness and dryness and pains were rushing<lb/>
to overtake, and I viddied that I’d have to change the way<lb/>
I felt about this rotten veck very very skorry indeed, so |<lb/>
felt in my carmans for cigarettes or for pretty polly, and,<lb/>
O my brothers, there was not either of these veshches. I<lb/>
said, like all howly and blubbery:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Td like to give you a cigarette, brother, but I don’t seem<lb/>
to have any.’ This veck went:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wah wah. Boohoohoo. Cry, baby.’ Then he flickflick-<lb/>
flicked with his bolshy horny nail at my nose again, and<lb/>
I could slooshy very loud smecks of like mirth coming<lb/>
from the dark audience. I said, real desperate, trying to<lb/>
be nice to this insulting and hurtful veck to stop the pains<lb/>
and sickness coming up:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Please let me do something for you, please.’ And I felt<lb/>
in my carmans but could find only my cut-throat britva,<lb/>
so I took this out and handed it to him and said, “Please<lb/>
take this, please. A little present. Please have it.’ But he<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Keep your stinking bribes to yourself. You can’t get<lb/>
round me that way.’ And he banged at my rooker and my<lb/>
cut-throat britva fell on the floor. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Please, I must do something. Shall I clean your boots?<lb/>
Look, [ll get down and lick them.’ And, my brothers,<lb/>
believe it or kiss my sharries, I got down on my knees and<lb/>
pushed my red yahzick out a mile and a half to lick his<lb/>
grahzny vonny boots. But all this veck did was to kick me<lb/>
not too hard on the rot. So then it seemed to me that it<lb/>
would not bring on the sickness and pain if I just gripped<lb/>
his ankles with my rookers tight round them and brought<lb/>
this grahzny bratchny down to the floor. So I did this and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
136<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he got a real bolshy surprise, coming down crack amid<lb/>
loud laughter from the vonny audience. But viddying him<lb/>
on the floor I could feel the whole horrible feeling coming<lb/>
over me, so I gave him my rooker to lift him up skorry<lb/>
and up he came. Then just as he was going to give me a<lb/>
real nasty and earnest tolchock on the litso Dr Brodsky<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, that will do very well.’ Then this horrible veck<lb/>
sort of bowed and danced off like an actor while the lights<lb/>
came up on me blinking and with my rot square for<lb/>
howling. Dr Brodsky said to the audience: “Our subject<lb/>
is, you see, impelled towards the good by, paradoxically,<lb/>
being impelled towards evil. The intention to act violently<lb/>
is accompanied by strong feelings of physical distress. ‘To<lb/>
counter these the subject has to switch to a diametrically<lb/>
opposed attitude. Any questions?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Choice,’ rumbled a rich deep goloss. I viddied it<lb/>
belonged to the prison charlie. “He has no real choice, has<lb/>
he? Self-interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that<lb/>
grotesque act of self-abasement. Its insincerity was clearly<lb/>
to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to<lb/>
be a creature capable of moral choice.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These are subtleties,’ like smiled Dr Brodsky. “We are<lb/>
not concerned with motive, with the higher ethics. We<lb/>
are concerned only with cutting down crime —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And,’ chipped in this bolshy well-dressed Minister, ‘with<lb/>
relieving the ghastly congestion in our prisons.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Hear hear,’ said somebody.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There was a lot of govoreeting and arguing then and<lb/>
I just stood there, brothers, like completely ignored by all<lb/>
these ignorant bratchnies, so I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Me, me, me. How about me? Where do I come into<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all this? Am I like just some animal or dog?’ And that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
137<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="85"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
started them off govoreeting real loud and throwing slovos<lb/>
at me. So I creeched louder still, creeching: ‘Am I just to<lb/>
be like a clockwork orange?’ I didn’t know what made me<lb/>
use those slovos, brothers, which just came like without<lb/>
asking into my gulliver. And that shut all those vecks up<lb/>
for some reason for a minoota or two. Then one very thin<lb/>
starry professor type chelloveck stood up, his neck like all<lb/>
cables carrying like power from his gulliver to his plott,<lb/>
and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have no cause to grumble, boy. You made your<lb/>
choice and all this is a consequence of your choice.<lb/>
Whatever now ensues is what you yourself have chosen.’<lb/>
And the prison charlie creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, if only I could believe that.’ And you could viddy<lb/>
the Governor give him a look like meaning that he would<lb/>
not climb so high in like Prison Religion as he thought<lb/>
he would. Then loud arguing started again, and then I<lb/>
could slooshy the slovo Love being thrown around, the<lb/>
prison charles himself creeching as loud as any about<lb/>
Perfect Love Casteth Out Fear and all that cal. And now<lb/>
Dr Brodsky said, smiling all over his litso:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I am glad, gentlemen, this question of Love has been<lb/>
raised. Now we shall see in action a manner of Love that<lb/>
was thought to be dead with the Middle Ages.’ And then<lb/>
the lights went down and the spotlights came on again,<lb/>
one on your poor and suffering Friend and Narrator, and<lb/>
into the other there like rolled or sidled the most lovely<lb/>
young devotchka you could ever hope in all your jeezny,<lb/>
O my brothers, to viddy. That is to say, she had real<lb/>
horrorshow groodies all of which you could like viddy,<lb/>
she having on platties which came down down down off<lb/>
her pletchoes. And her nogas were like Bog in His Heaven,<lb/>
and she walked like to make you groan in your keeshkas,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
138<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and yet her litso was a sweet smiling young like innocent<lb/>
litso. She came up towards me with the light like it was<lb/>
the like light of heavenly grace and all that cal coming<lb/>
with her, and the first thing that flashed into my gulliver<lb/>
was that I would like to have her right down there on the<lb/>
floor with the old in-out real savage, but skorry as a shot<lb/>
came the sickness, like a like detective that had been<lb/>
watching round a corner and now followed to make his<lb/>
grahzny arrest. And now the von of lovely perfume that<lb/>
came off her made me want to think of starting to like<lb/>
heave in my keeshkas, so I knew I had to think of some<lb/>
new like way of thinking about her before all the pain<lb/>
and thirstiness and horrible sickness came over me real<lb/>
horrorshow and proper. So I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘O most beautiful and beauteous of devotchkas, I throw<lb/>
like my heart at your feet for you to like trample all over.<lb/>
If I had a rose I would give it to you. If it was all rainy<lb/>
and cally now on the ground you could have my platties<lb/>
to walk on so as not to cover your dainty nogas with filth<lb/>
and cal.’ And as I was saying all this, O my brothers, I<lb/>
could feel the sickness like slinking back. “Let me,’ I<lb/>
creeched out, ‘worship you and be like your helper and<lb/>
protector from the wicked like world.’ Then I thought of<lb/>
the right slovo and felt better for it, saying, “Let me be<lb/>
like your true knight,’ and down I went again on the old<lb/>
knees, bowing and like scraping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then I felt real shooty and dim, it having been like<lb/>
an act again, for this devotchka smiled and bowed to the<lb/>
audience and like danced off, the lights coming up to a<lb/>
bit of applause. And the glazzies of some of these starry<lb/>
vecks in the audience were like popping out at this young<lb/>
devotchka with dirty and like unholy desire, O my<lb/>
brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="86"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He will be your true Christian,’ Dr Brodsky was<lb/>
creeching out, ‘ready to turn the other cheek, ready to be<lb/>
crucified rather than crucify, sick to the very heart at the<lb/>
thought even of killing a fly.’ And that was right, brothers,<lb/>
because when he said that I thought of killing a fly and<lb/>
felt just that tiny bit sick, but I pushed the sickness and<lb/>
pain back by thinking of the fly being fed with bits of<lb/>
sugar and looked after like a bleeding pet and all that cal.<lb/>
‘Reclamation,’ he creeched. ‘Joy before the Angels of God.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The point is,’ this Minister of the Inferior was saying<lb/>
real gromky, ‘that it works.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ the prison charlie said, like sighing, ‘it works all<lb/>
“right, God help the lot of us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="87"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“WHAT’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That, my brothers, was me asking myself<lb/>
the next morning, standing outside this<lb/>
white building that was like tacked on to<lb/>
the old Staja, in my platties of the night<lb/>
of two years back in the grey light of dawn, with a malenky<lb/>
bit of a bag with my few personal veshches in and a bit<lb/>
of cutter kindly donated by the vonny Authorities to like<lb/>
start me off in my new life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The rest of the day before had been very tiring, what<lb/>
with interviews to go on tape for the telenews and photo-<lb/>
eraphs being took flash flash flash and more like demon-<lb/>
strations of me folding up in the face of ultra-violence and<lb/>
all that embarassing cal. And then I had like fallen into<lb/>
the bed and then, as it looked to me, been wakened up<lb/>
to be told to get off out, to itty off home, they did not<lb/>
want to viddy Your Humble Narrator never not no more,<lb/>
O my brothers. So there I was, very very early in the<lb/>
morning, with just this bit of pretty polly in my left<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
143<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="88"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the town, but there were malenky workers’ caffs all around<lb/>
and I soon found one of those, my brothers. It was very<lb/>
cally and vonny, with one bulb in the ceiling with fly-dirt<lb/>
like obscuring its bit of light, and there were early rabbiters<lb/>
slurping away at chai and horrible-looking sausages and<lb/>
slices of kleb which they like wolfed, going wolf wolf wolf<lb/>
and then creeching for more. They were served by a very<lb/>
cally devotchka but with very bolshy groodies on her, and<lb/>
some of the eating vecks tried to grab her, going haw haw<lb/>
haw while she went he he he, and the sight of them near<lb/>
made me want to sick, brothers. But I asked for some<lb/>
toast and jam and chai very politely and with my gentle-<lb/>
man’s goloss, then I sat in a dark corner to eat and peet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While I was doing this, a malenky like dwarf of veck<lb/>
ittied in, selling the morning’s gazettas, a twisted and<lb/>
grahzny prestoopnick type with thick glasses on with steel<lb/>
rims, his platties like the colour of a very starry decaying<lb/>
currant pudding. I kupetted a gazetta, my idea being to<lb/>
get ready for plunging back into normal jeezny again by<lb/>
viddying what was ittying on in the world. This gazetta I<lb/>
had seemed to be like a Government gazetta, for the only<lb/>
news that was on the front page was about the need for<lb/>
every veck to make sure he put the Government back in<lb/>
again on the next General Election, which seemed to be<lb/>
about two or three weeks off. There were very boastful<lb/>
slovos about what the Government had done, brothers, in<lb/>
the last year or so, what with increased exports and a real<lb/>
horrorshow foreign policy and improved social services<lb/>
and all that cal. But what the Government was really most<lb/>
boastful about was the way in which they reckoned the<lb/>
streets had been made safer for all peace-loving night-<lb/>
walking lewdies in the last six months, what with better<lb/>
pay for the police and the police getting like tougher with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
144<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
young hooligans and perverts and burglars and all that<lb/>
cal. Which interessovatted Your Humble Narrator some<lb/>
deal. And on the second page of the gazetta there was a<lb/>
blurry like photograph of somebody who looked very<lb/>
familiar, and it turned out to be none other than me me<lb/>
me. I looked very gloomy and like scared, but that was<lb/>
really with the flashbulbs going pop pop all the time. What<lb/>
it said underneath my picture was that here was the first<lb/>
graduate of the new State Institute for Reclamation of<lb/>
Criminal Types, cured of his criminal instincts in a fort-<lb/>
night only, now a good law-fearing citizen and all that cal.<lb/>
Then I viddied there was a very boastful article about this<lb/>
Ludovico’s Technique and how clever the Government was<lb/>
and all that cal. Then there was another picture of some<lb/>
veck I thought I knew, and it was this Minister of the<lb/>
Inferior or Interior. It seemed that he had been doing a<lb/>
bit of boasting, looking forward to a nice crime-free era<lb/>
in which there would be no more fear of cowardly attacks<lb/>
from young hooligans and perverts and burglers and all<lb/>
that cal. So I went arghhhhhh and threw this gazetta on<lb/>
the floor, so that it covered up stains of spilled chai and<lb/>
horrible spat gobs from the cally animals that used this<lb/>
caff.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What it was going to be now, brothers, was homeways<lb/>
and a nice surprise for dadada and mum, their only son<lb/>
and heir back in the family bosom. Then I could lay back<lb/>
on the bed in my own malenky den and slooshy some<lb/>
lovely music, and at the same time I could think over<lb/>
what to do now with my jeezny. The Discharge Officer<lb/>
had given me a long list the day before of jobs I could try<lb/>
for, and he had telephoned to different vecks about me,<lb/>
but I had no intention, my brothers, of going off to rabbit<lb/>
</p>
<p>
145<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="89"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
right away. A malenky bit of rest first, yes, and a quiet<lb/>
think on the bed to the sound of lovely music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And so the autobus to Center, and then the autobus to<lb/>
Kingsley Avenue, the flats of Flatblock 18A being just near.<lb/>
You will believe me, my brothers, when I say that my<lb/>
heart was going clopclopclop with the like excitement. All<lb/>
was very quiet, it still being early winter morning, and<lb/>
when I ittied into the vestibule of the flatblock there was<lb/>
no veck about, only the nagoy vecks and cheenas of the<lb/>
Dignity of Labour. What surprised me, brothers, was the<lb/>
way that had been cleaned up, there being no longer any<lb/>
dirty ballooning slovos from the rots of the Dignified<lb/>
Labourers, not any dirty parts of the body added to their<lb/>
naked plotts by dirty-minded pencilling malchicks. And<lb/>
what also surprised me was that the lift was working. It<lb/>
came purring down when I pressed the electric knopka,<lb/>
and when I got in J was surprised again to viddy all was<lb/>
clean inside the like cage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So up I went to the tenth floor, and there I saw 10-8<lb/>
as it had been before, and my rooker trembled and shook<lb/>
as I took out of my carman the little klootch I had for<lb/>
opening up. But I very firmly fitted the klootch in the<lb/>
lock and turned, then opened up then went in, and there<lb/>
I met three pairs of surprised and almost frightened glazzies<lb/>
looking at me, and it was pee and em having their break-<lb/>
fast, but it was also another veck that I had never viddied<lb/>
in my jeezny before, a bolshy thick veck in his shirt and<lb/>
braces, quite at home, brothers, slurping away at the milky<lb/>
chai and munchmunching at his eggiweg and toast. And<lb/>
it was this stranger veck who spoke first, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Who are you, friend? Where did you get hold of a key?<lb/>
Out, before I push your face in. Get out there and knock.<lb/>
Explain your business, quick.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
146<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My dad and mum sat like petrified, and I could viddy<lb/>
they had not yet read the gazetta, then I remembered that<lb/>
the gazetta did not arrive till papapa had gone off to his<lb/>
work. But then mum said, “Oh, youve broken out. You've<lb/>
escaped. Whatever shall we do? We shall have the police<lb/>
here, oh oh oh. Oh, you bad and wicked boy, disgracing<lb/>
us all like this.’ And, believe it or kiss my sharries, she<lb/>
started to go boo hoo. So J started to try and explain, they<lb/>
could ring up the Staja if they wanted, and all the time<lb/>
this stranger veck sat there like frowning and looking as<lb/>
if he could push my litso in with his hairy bolshy beefy<lb/>
fist. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How about you answering a few, brother? What are<lb/>
you doing here and for how long? I didn’t like the tone<lb/>
of what you said just then. Watch it. Come on, speak up.’<lb/>
He was a working-man type veck, very ugly, about thirty<lb/>
or forty, and he sat now with his rot open at me, not<lb/>
govoreeting one single slovo. Then my dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This is all a bit bewildering, son. You should have let<lb/>
us know you were coming. We thought it would be at<lb/>
least another five or six years before they let you out. Not,’<lb/>
he said, and he said it very like gloomy, ‘that we're not<lb/>
very pleased to see you again and a free man, too.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who is this?’ I said. “Why can’t he speak up? What’s<lb/>
going on in here?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This is Joe,’ said my mum. ‘He lives here now. The<lb/>
lodger, that’s what he is. Oh, dear dear dear,’ she went.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You,’ said this Joe. ‘I’ve heard all about you, boy. I<lb/>
know what you've done, breaking the hearts of your poor<lb/>
grieving parents. So youre back, eh? Back to make life a<lb/>
misery for them once more, is that it? Over my dead<lb/>
corpse you will, because they've let me be more like a son<lb/>
to them than like a lodger.’ I could nearly have smecked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
147<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="90"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
loud at that if the old razdraz within me hadn’t started to<lb/>
wake up the feeling of wanting to sick, because this veck<lb/>
looked about the same age as my pee and em, and there<lb/>
he was like trying to put a son’s protecting rooker round<lb/>
my crying mum, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So,’ I said, and I near felt like collapsing in all tears<lb/>
myself. ‘So that’s it, then. Well, I give you five large<lb/>
minootas to clear all your horrible cally veshches out of<lb/>
my room.’ And I made for this room, this veck being a<lb/>
malenky bit too slow to stop me. When I opened the door<lb/>
my heart cracked to the carpet, because I viddied it was<lb/>
no longer like my room at all, brothers. All my flags had<lb/>
gone off the walls and this veck had put up pictures of<lb/>
boxers, also like a team sitting smug with folded rookers<lb/>
and a silver like shield in front. And then I viddied what<lb/>
else was missing. My stereo and my disc-cupboard were<lb/>
no longer there, nor was my locked treasure-chest that<lb/>
contained bottles and drugs and two shining clean syringes.<lb/>
‘There’s been some filthy vonny work going on here,’ I<lb/>
creeched. “What have you done with my own personal<lb/>
veshches, you horrible bastard?’ This was to this Joe, but<lb/>
it was my dad that answered, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That was all took away, son, by the police. This new<lb/>
regulation, see, about compensation for the victims.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I found it very hard not to be very ill, but my gulliver<lb/>
was aching shocking and my rot was so dry that I had to<lb/>
take a skorry swig from the milk-bottle on the table, so<lb/>
that this Joe said, ‘Filthy piggish manners.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But she died. That one died.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It was the cats, son,’ said my dad like sorrowful, ‘that<lb/>
were left with nobody to look after them till the will was<lb/>
read, so they had to have somebody in to feed them. So<lb/>
the police sold your things, clothes and all, to help with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
148<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the looking after of them. That’s the law, son. But you<lb/>
were never much of a one for following the law.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had to sit down then, and this Joe said, ‘Ask permis-<lb/>
sion before you sit, you mannerless young swine,’ so I<lb/>
cracked back skorry with a ‘Shut your dirty big fat hole,<lb/>
you,’ feeling sick. Then I tried to be all reasonable and<lb/>
smiling for my health’s sake like, so I said, “Well, that’s<lb/>
my room, there’s no denying that. This is my home also.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But they just looked very glum, my mum shaking a bit,<lb/>
her litso all lines and wet with like tears, and then my dad<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All this needs thinking about, son. We can’t very well<lb/>
just kick Joe out, not just like that, can we? I mean, Joe's<lb/>
here doing a job, a contract it is, two years, and we made<lb/>
like an arrangement, didn’t we, Joe? I mean, son, thinking<lb/>
you were going to stay in prison a long time and that<lb/>
room going begging.’ He was a bit ashamed, you could<lb/>
viddy that from his litso. So I just smiled and like nodded,<lb/>
saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I viddy all. You got used to a bit of peace and you got<lb/>
used to a bit of extra pretty polly. That’s the way it goes.<lb/>
And your son has just been nothing but a terrible nuisance.’<lb/>
And then, O my brothers, believe me or kiss my sharries,<lb/>
I started to like cry, feeling very like sorry for myself. So<lb/>
my dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, you see, son, Joe’s paid next month’s rent already.<lb/>
I mean, whatever we do in the future we can’t say to Joe<lb/>
to get out, can we, Joe?’ This Joe said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's you two I’ve got to think of, who've been like a<lb/>
father and mother to me. Would it be right or fair to go<lb/>
off and leave you to the tender mercies of this young<lb/>
monster who has been like no real son at all? He's weeping<lb/>
</p>
<p>
149<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="91"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
now, but that’s his craft and artfulness. Let him go off and<lb/>
find a room somewhere. Let him learn the error of his<lb/>
ways and that a bad boy like he’s been doesn’t deserve such<lb/>
a good mum and dad as what he’s had.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right,’ I said, standing up in all like tears still. “I<lb/>
know how things are now. Nobody wants or loves me.<lb/>
I’ve suffered and suffered and suffered and everybody wants<lb/>
me to go on suffering. I know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You've made others suffer,’ said this Joe. ‘It’s only right<lb/>
you should suffer proper. I've been told everything that<lb/>
you've done, sitting here at night round the family table,<lb/>
and pretty shocking it was to listen to. Made me real sick<lb/>
a lot of it did.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T wish,’ I said, ‘I was back in the prison. Dear old Staja<lb/>
as it was. I’m ittying off now,’ I said. “You won't ever viddy<lb/>
me no more. I’ll make my own way, thank you very much.<lb/>
Let it lie heavy on your consciences.’ My dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Don’t take it like that, son,’ and my mum just went<lb/>
boo hoo hoo, her litso all screwed up real ugly, and this<lb/>
Joe put his rooker round her again, patting her and going<lb/>
there there like bezoomny. And so I just sort of staggered<lb/>
to the door and went out, leaving them to their horrible<lb/>
guilt, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Irryrnc down the street in a like aimless<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ties which lewdies like stared at as I went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
) sort of a way, brothers, in these night plat-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
by, cold too, it being a bastard cold winter<lb/>
day, all I felt I wanted was to be away from<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all this and not to have to think any more about any sort<lb/>
of veshch at all. So I got the autobus to Center, then I<lb/>
walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick<lb/>
MELODIA I had used to favour with my inestimable<lb/>
custom, O my brothers, and it looked much the same sort<lb/>
of mesto as it always had, and walking in I expected to<lb/>
viddy old Andy there, that bald and very very thin helpful<lb/>
like veck from whom I had kupetted discs in the old days.<lb/>
But there was no Andy there now, brothers, only a scream<lb/>
and a creech of nadsat (teenage, that is) malchicks and<lb/>
ptitsas slooshying some new horrible popsong and dancing<lb/>
to it as well, and the veck behind the counter not much<lb/>
more than a nadsat himself, clicking his rooker-bones and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
like deigned to notice me, then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Td like to hear a disc of the Mozart Number Forty.’ I<lb/>
don’t know why that should have come into my gulliver,<lb/>
but it did. The counter-veck said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Forty what, friend?’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Symphony. Symphony Number Forty in G Minor.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I5l<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="92"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ooooh,’ went one of the dancing nadsats, a malchick<lb/>
with his hair all over his glazzies, ‘seemfunnah. Dont it<lb/>
seem funny? He wants a seemfunnah.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I could feel myself growing all razdraz within, but I had<lb/>
to watch that, so I like smiled at the veck who had taken<lb/>
over Andy’s place and at all the dancing and creeching<lb/>
nadsats. This counter-veck said, “You go into that listen-<lb/>
booth over there, friend, and I’ll pipe something through.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I went over to the malenky box where you could<lb/>
slooshy the discs you wanted to buy, and then this veck<lb/>
put a disc on for me, but it wasn't the Mozart Forty, it was<lb/>
the Mozart ‘Prague’ — he seemingly having just picked any<lb/>
Mozart he could find on the shelf — and that should have<lb/>
started making me real razdraz and J had to watch that for<lb/>
fear of the pain and sickness, but what I'd forgotten was<lb/>
something I shouldn't have forgotten and now made me<lb/>
want to snuff it. It was that these doctor bratchnies had<lb/>
so fixed things that any music that was like for the emotions<lb/>
would make me sick just like viddying or wanting to do<lb/>
violence. It was because all those violence films had music<lb/>
with them. And I remembered especially that horrible Nazi<lb/>
film with the Beethoven Fifth, last movement. And now<lb/>
here was lovely Mozart made horrible. I dashed out of the<lb/>
box like bezoomny to get away from the sickness and pain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
these nadsats smecking after me and the counter-veck<lb/>
creeching, ‘Eh eh eh! But I took no notice and went stag-<lb/>
gering almost like blind across the road and round the<lb/>
corner to the Korova Milkbar. I knew what I wanted.<lb/>
The mesto was near empty, it being still morning. It<lb/>
looked strange too, having been painted with all red<lb/>
mooing cows, and behind the counter was no veck I knew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when I said, ‘Milk, plus, large,’ the veck with a like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
152<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lean litso very newly shaved knew what I wanted. I took<lb/>
the large moloko plus to one of the little cubies that were<lb/>
all round this mesto, there being like curtains to shut them<lb/>
off from the main mesto, and there I sat down in the<lb/>
plushy chair and sipped and sipped. When I'd finished<lb/>
the whole lot I began to feel that things were happening.<lb/>
I had my glazzies like fixed on a malenky bit of silver<lb/>
paper from a cancer packet that was on the floor, the<lb/>
sweeping-up of this mesto not being all that horrorshow,<lb/>
brothers. This scrap of silver began to grow and grow and<lb/>
grow and it was so like bright and fiery that I had to<lb/>
squint my glazzies at it. It got so big that it became not<lb/>
only this whole cubie I was lolling in but like the whole<lb/>
Korova, the whole street, the whole city. Then it was the<lb/>
whole world, then it was the whole everything, brothers,<lb/>
and it was like a sea washing over every veshch that had<lb/>
ever been made or thought of even. I could sort of slooshy<lb/>
myself making special sort of shooms and govoreeting<lb/>
slovos like ‘Dear dead idlewilds, rot not in variform guises’<lb/>
and all that cal. Then I could like feel the vision beating<lb/>
up in all this silver, and then there were colours like nobody<lb/>
had ever viddied before, and then I could viddy like a<lb/>
group of statues a long long long way off that was like<lb/>
being pushed nearer and nearer and nearer, all lit up by<lb/>
very bright light from below and above alike, O my<lb/>
brothers. This group of statues was of God or Bog and all<lb/>
His Holy Angels and Saints, all very bright like bronze,<lb/>
with beards and bolshy great wings that waved about in<lb/>
a kind of wind, so that they could not really be of stone<lb/>
or bronze, really, and the eyes or glazzies like moved and<lb/>
were alive. These bolshy big figures came nearer and nearer<lb/>
and nearer till they were like going to crush me down,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and I could slooshy my goloss going ‘Eeeeee.’ And I felt<lb/>
</p>
<p>
153<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="93"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had got rid of everything — platties, plott, brain, eemya,<lb/>
the lot — and felt real horrorshow, like in heaven. Then<lb/>
there was the shoom of like crumbling and crumpling,<lb/>
and Bog and the Angels and Saints sort of shook their<lb/>
gullivers at me, as though to govoreet that there wasn’t<lb/>
quite time now but I must try again, and then everything<lb/>
like leered and smecked and collapsed and the big warm<lb/>
light grew like cold, and then there I was as I was before,<lb/>
the empty glass on the table and wanting to cry and feeling<lb/>
like death was the only answer to everything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that was it, that was what I viddied quite clear was<lb/>
the thing to do, but how to do it I did not properly know,<lb/>
never having thought of that before, O my brothers. In<lb/>
my little bag of personal veshches I had my cut-throat<lb/>
britva, but I at once felt very sick as I thought of myself<lb/>
going swishhhh at myself and all my own red red krovvy<lb/>
flowing. What I wanted was not something violent but<lb/>
something that would make me like just go off gentle to<lb/>
sleep and that be the end of Your Humble Narrator, no<lb/>
more trouble to anybody any more. Perhaps, I thought,<lb/>
if I ittied off to the Public Biblio round the corner I might<lb/>
find some book on the best way of snuffing it with no<lb/>
pain. I thought of myself dead and how sorry everybody<lb/>
was going to be, pee and em and that cally vonny Joe who<lb/>
was a like usurper, and also Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom<lb/>
and that Inferior Interior Minister and every veck else.<lb/>
And the boastful vonny Government too. So out I scatted<lb/>
into the winter, and it was afternoon now, near two o'clock,<lb/>
as I could viddy from the bolshy Center timepiece, so that<lb/>
me being in the land with the old moloko plus must have<lb/>
took like longer than I thought. I walked down Marghanita<lb/>
Boulevard and then turned into Boothby Avenue, then<lb/>
round the corner again, and there was the Public Biblio.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
154<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was a starry cally sort of a mesto that I could not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of very starry old men with their plotts stinking of like<lb/>
old age and poverty. These were standing at the gazetta<lb/>
stands all round the room, snuffling and belching and<lb/>
govoreeting to themselves and turning over the pages to<lb/>
read the news very sadly, or else they were sitting at the<lb/>
tables looking at the mags or pretending to, some of them<lb/>
asleep and one or two of them snoring real gromky. I<lb/>
couldn’t like remember what it was I wanted at first, then<lb/>
I remembered with a bit of shock that I had ittied here<lb/>
to find out how to snuff it without pain, so I goolied over<lb/>
to the shelf full of reference veshches. There were a lot of<lb/>
books, but there was none with a title, brothers, that would<lb/>
really do. There was a medical book that I took down,<lb/>
but when I opened it it was full of drawings and photo-<lb/>
graphs of horrible wounds and diseases, and that made<lb/>
me want to sick just a bit. So I put that back and then<lb/>
took down the big book or Bible, as it was called, thinking<lb/>
that might give me like comfort as it had done in the old<lb/>
Staja days (not so old really, but it seemed a very very<lb/>
long time ago), and I staggered over to a chair to read in<lb/>
it. But all I found was about smiting seventy times seven<lb/>
and a lot of yahoodies cursing and tolchocking each other,<lb/>
and that made me want to sick, too. So then I near cried,<lb/>
so that a very starry ragged moodge opposite me said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is it, son? What's the trouble?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I want to snuff it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had it, that’s what it is.<lb/>
Life’s become too much for me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A starry reading veck next to me said, “Shhhh,’ without<lb/>
</p>
<p>
155<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="94"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
looking up from some bezoomny mag he had full of draw-<lb/>
ings of like bolshy geometrical veshches. That rang a bell<lb/>
somehow. This other moodge said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Youre too young for that, son. Why, you've got every-<lb/>
thing in front of you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said, bitter. “Like a pair of false groodies.’ This<lb/>
mag-reading veck said, ‘Shhhh’ again, looking up this time,<lb/>
and something clicked for both of us. I viddied who it<lb/>
was. He said, real gromky:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I never forget a shape, by God. I never forget the shape<lb/>
of anything. By God, you young swine, I’ve got you now.’<lb/>
Crystallography, that was it. That was what he'd been taking<lb/>
away from the Biblio that time. False teeth crunched up<lb/>
real horrorshow. Platties torn off. His books razrezzed, all<lb/>
about Crystallography. I thought I had best get out of here<lb/>
real skorry, brothers. But this starry old moodge was on his<lb/>
feet, creeching like bezoomny to all the starry old coughers<lb/>
at the gazettas round the walls and to them dozing over<lb/>
mags at the tables. “We have him,’ he creeched. “The<lb/>
poisonous young swine who ruined the books on<lb/>
Crystallography, rare books, books not to be obtained ever<lb/>
again, anywhere.’ This had a terrible mad shoom about it,<lb/>
as though this old veck was really off his gulliver. ‘A prize<lb/>
specimen of the cowardly brutal young,’ he creeched. “Here<lb/>
in our midst and at our mercy. He and his friends beat me<lb/>
and kicked me and thumped me. They stripped me and<lb/>
tore out my teeth. They laughed at my blood and my moans.<lb/>
They kicked me off home, dazed and naked.’ All this wasn’t<lb/>
quite true, as you know, brothers. He had some platties on,<lb/>
he hadn't been completely nagoy. I creeched back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That was over two years ago. I’ve been punished since<lb/>
then. I’ve learned my lesson. See over there — my picture's<lb/>
in the papers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
156<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
to itty out of this mesto of bezoomny old men. Aspirin,<lb/>
that was it. You could snuff it on a hundred aspirin. Aspirin<lb/>
from the old drugstore. But the crystallography veck<lb/>
creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dontt let him go. We'll teach him all about punishment,<lb/>
the murderous young pig. Get him.’ And, believe it,<lb/>
brothers, or do the other veshch, two or three starry<lb/>
dodderers, about ninety years old apiece, grabbed me with<lb/>
their trembly old rookers, and I was like made sick by the<lb/>
von of old age and disease which came from these near-<lb/>
dead moodges. The crystal veck was on to me now, starting<lb/>
to deal me malenky weak tolchocks on my litso, and I<lb/>
tried to get away and itty out, but these starry rookers<lb/>
that held me were stronger than I had thought. Then other<lb/>
starry vecks came hobbling from the gazettas to have a go<lb/>
at Your Humble Narrator. They were creeching veshches<lb/>
like: ‘Kill him, stamp on him, murder him, kick his teeth<lb/>
in,’ and all that cal, and I could viddy what it was clear<lb/>
enough. It was old age having a go at youth, that’s what<lb/>
it was. But some of them were saying, ‘Poor old Jack, near<lb/>
killed poor old Jack he did, this is the young swine’ and<lb/>
so on, as though it had all happened yesterday. Which to<lb/>
them I suppose it had. There was now like a sea of vonny<lb/>
runny dirty old men trying to get at me with their like<lb/>
feeble rookers and horny old claws, creeching and panting<lb/>
on to me, but our crystal droog was there in front, dealing<lb/>
out tolchock after tolchock. And I daren’t do a solitary<lb/>
single veshch, O my brothers, it being better to be hit at<lb/>
</p>
<p>
157<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="95"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like that than to want to sick and feel that horrible pain,<lb/>
but of course the fact that there was violence going on<lb/>
made me feel that the sickness was peeping round the<lb/>
corner to viddy whether to come out into the open and<lb/>
roar away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then an attendant veck came along, a youngish veck,<lb/>
and he creeched, “What goes on here? Stop it at once.<lb/>
This is a reading room.’ But nobody took any notice. So<lb/>
the attendant veck said, ‘Right, I shall phone the police.’<lb/>
So I creeched, and I never thought I would ever do that<lb/>
in all my jeezny:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes yes yes, do that, protect me from these old madmen.’<lb/>
I noticed that the attendant veck was not too anxious to<lb/>
join in the dratsing and rescue me from the rage and<lb/>
madness of these starry vecks’ claws; he just scatted off to<lb/>
his like office or wherever the telephone was. Now these<lb/>
old men were panting a lot now, and I felt I could just<lb/>
flick at them and they would all fall over, but I just let<lb/>
myself be held, very patient, by these starry rookers, my<lb/>
glazzies closed, and feel the feeble tolchocks on my litso,<lb/>
also slooshy the panting breathy old golosses creeching,<lb/>
‘Young swine, young murderer, hooligan, thug, kill him.’<lb/>
Then I got such a real painful tolchock on the nose that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
up and started to struggle to get free, which was not hard,<lb/>
brothers, and I tore off creeching to the sort of hallway<lb/>
outside the reading-room. But these starry avengers still<lb/>
came after me, panting like dying, with their animal claws<lb/>
all trembling to get at your friend and Humble Narrator.<lb/>
Then I was tripped up and was on the floor and was being<lb/>
kicked at, then I slooshied golosses of young vecks<lb/>
creeching, ‘All right, all right, stop it now,’ and I knew<lb/>
the police had arrived.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
158<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was like dazed, O my brothers, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
could not viddy very clear, but I was sure<lb/>
35 I had met these millicents some mesto<lb/>
</p>
<p>
before. The one who had hold of me,<lb/>
going, “There there there,’ just by the front<lb/>
door of the Public Biblio, him I did not know at all, but<lb/>
it seemed to me he was like very young to be a rozz. But<lb/>
the other two had backs that I was sure I had viddied<lb/>
before. They were lashing into these starry old vecks with<lb/>
great bolshy glee and joy, swishing away with malenky<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
teach you to stop rioting and breaking the State's peace,<lb/>
you wicked villains, you.’ So they drove these panting and<lb/>
wheezing and near dying starry avengers back into the<lb/>
reading-room, then they turned round, smecking with the<lb/>
fun they'd had, to viddy me. The older one of the two<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well well well well well. If it isn’t little Alex.<lb/>
Very long time no viddy, droog. How goes?’ I was like<lb/>
dazed, the uniform and the shlem or helmet making it<lb/>
very hard to viddy who this was, though litso and goloss<lb/>
were very familiar. Then I looked at the other one, and<lb/>
about him, with his grinny bezoomny litso, there was no<lb/>
doubt. Then, all numb and growing number, I looked<lb/>
back at the well well welling one. This one was then fatty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
159<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="96"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old Billyboy, my old enemy. The other was, of course,<lb/>
Dim, who had used to be my droog and also the enemy<lb/>
of stinking fatty goaty Billyboy, but was now a millicent<lb/>
with uniform and shlem and whip to keep order. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh no.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Surprise, eh?’ And old Dim came out with the old guff<lb/>
I remembered so horrorshow: ‘Huh huh huh.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s impossible,’ I said. ‘It can’t be so. I don’t believe it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Evidence of the old glazzies,’ grinned Billyboy. ‘Nothing<lb/>
up our sleeves. No magic, droog. A job for two who are<lb/>
now of job-age. The police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You're too young,’ I said. ‘Much too young. They don't<lb/>
make rozzes of malchicks of your age.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Was young,’ went old millicent Dim. I could not get<lb/>
over it, brothers, I really could not. “That’s what we was,<lb/>
young droogie. And you it was that was always the<lb/>
youngest. And here now we are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T still can’t believe it,’ I said. Then Billyboy, rozz Billyboy<lb/>
that I couldn’t get over, said to this young millicent that<lb/>
was like holding on to me and that I did not know:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘More good would be done, I think, Rex, if we doled<lb/>
out a bit of the old summary. Boys will be boys, as always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
one here has been up to his old tricks, as we can well<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
attacking the aged and defenceless, and they have properly<lb/>
been retaliating. But we must have our say in the State's<lb/>
name.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is all this?’ I said, not able hardly to believe my<lb/>
ookos. ‘It was them that went for me, brothers. You're not<lb/>
on their side and can’t be. You can't be, Dim. It was a<lb/>
veck we fillied with once in the old days trying to get his<lb/>
own malenky bit of revenge after all this long time.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
160<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Long time is right,’ said Dim. ‘I don’t remember them<lb/>
days too horrorshow. Don’t call me Dim no more, either.<lb/>
Officer call me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Enough is remembered, though,’ Billyboy kept nodding.<lb/>
He was not so fatty as he had been. “Naughty little<lb/>
malchicks handy with cut-throat britvas — these must be<lb/>
kept under.’ And they took me in a real strong grip and<lb/>
like walked me out of the Biblio. There was a millicent<lb/>
patrol-car waiting outside, and this veck they called Rex<lb/>
was the driver. They like tolchocked me into the back of<lb/>
this auto, and I couldn't help feeling it was all really like<lb/>
a joke, and that Dim anyway would pull his shlem off his<lb/>
gulliver and go haw haw haw. But he didn’t. I said, trying<lb/>
to fight the strack inside me:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And old Pete, what happened to old Pete? It was sad<lb/>
about Georgie,’ I said. ‘I slooshied all about that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Pete, oh yes, Pete,’ said Dim. ‘I seem to remember like<lb/>
the name.’ I could viddy we were driving out of town. I<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where are we supposed to be going?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Billyboy turned round from the front to say, ‘It is light<lb/>
still. A little drive into the country, all winter-bare but lonely<lb/>
and lovely. It is not right, not always, for lewdies in the town<lb/>
to viddy too much of our summary punishment. Streets<lb/>
must be kept clean in more than one way.’ And he turned<lb/>
to the front again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come,’ I said. ‘I just don’t get this at all. The old days<lb/>
are dead and gone days. For what I did in the past I have<lb/>
been punished. I have been cured.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That was read out to us,’ said Dim. “The Super read<lb/>
all that out to us. He said it was a very good way.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Read to you,’ I said, a malenky bit nasty. “You still too<lb/>
dim to read for yourself, O brother?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="97"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, no,’ said Dim, very like gentle and like regretful.<lb/>
‘Not to speak like that. Not no more, droogie.’ And he<lb/>
launched a bolshy tolchock right on my cluve, so that all<lb/>
red red nose-krovvy started to drip drip drip.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There was never any trust,’ I said, bitter, wiping off<lb/>
the krovvy with my rooker. I was always on my oddy<lb/>
knocky.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This will do,’ said Billyboy. We were now in the country<lb/>
and it was all bare trees and a few odd distant like twit-<lb/>
ters, and in the distance there was some like farm machine<lb/>
making a whirring shoom. It was getting all dusk now,<lb/>
this being the heighth of winter. There were no lewdies<lb/>
about, nor no animals. There was just the four. “Get out,<lb/>
Alex boy,’ said Dim. ‘Just a malenky bit of summary.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All through what they did this driver veck just sat at the<lb/>
wheel of the auto, smoking a cancer, reading a malenky<lb/>
bit of a book. He had the light on in the auto to viddy<lb/>
by. He took no notice of what Billyboy and Dim did to<lb/>
your Humble Narrator. I will not go into what they did,<lb/>
but it was all like panting and thudding against this like<lb/>
background of whirring farm engines and the twittwittwit-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
say which one, said, ‘About enough, droogie, I should think,<lb/>
shouldn't you?’ Then they gave me one final tolchock on<lb/>
the litso each and I fell over and just laid there on the<lb/>
grass. It was cold but I was not feeling the cold. Then they<lb/>
dusted their rookers and put back on their shlems and<lb/>
tunics which they had taken off, and then they got back<lb/>
into the auto. “Be viddying you some more sometime, Alex,’<lb/>
said Billyboy, and Dim just gave one of his old clowny<lb/>
</p>
<p>
162<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eufts. The driver finished the page he was reading and put<lb/>
his book away, then he started the auto and they were off<lb/>
townwards, my ex-droog and ex-enemy waving. But I just<lb/>
laid there, fagged and shagged.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After a bit I was hurting bad, and then the rain started,<lb/>
all icy. I could viddy no lewdies in sight, nor no lights of<lb/>
houses. Where was I to go, who had no home and not<lb/>
much cutter in my carmans? I cried for myself boo hoo<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hoo. Then I got up and began walking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="98"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Home, home home, it was home I was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
brothers. I walked through the dark and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wanting, and it was HOME I came to,<lb/>
- followed not the town way but the way<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
where the shoom of a like farm machine<lb/>
had been coming from. This brought me to a sort of village<lb/>
I felt I had viddied before, but was perhaps because all<lb/>
villages look the same, in the dark especially. Here were<lb/>
houses and there was a like drinking mesto, and right at<lb/>
the end of the village there was a malenky cottage on its<lb/>
oddy knocky, and I could viddy its name shining white<lb/>
on the gate. HOME, it said. I was all dripping wet with<lb/>
this icy rain, so that my platties were no longer in the<lb/>
heighth of fashion but real miserable and like pathetic,<lb/>
and my luscious glory was a wet tangled cally mess all<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spread over my gulliver, and I was sure there were cuts<lb/>
and bruises all over my litso, and a couple of my zoobies<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and my stomach growled grrrrr all the time with not<lb/>
having had any pishcha since morning and then not very<lb/>
much, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
HOME, it said, and perhaps here would be some veck<lb/>
to help. I opened the gate and sort of slithered down the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
165<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="99"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
path, the rain like turning to ice, and then I knocked<lb/>
gentle and pathetic on the door. No veck came, so I<lb/>
knocked a malenky bit longer and louder, and then I heard<lb/>
the shoom of nogas coming to the door. Then the door<lb/>
opened and a male goloss said, “Yes, what is it?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘please help. I've been beaten up by the<lb/>
police and just left to die on the road. Oh, please give me<lb/>
a drink of something and a sit by the fire, please, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The door opened full then, and I could viddy like warm<lb/>
light and a fire going crackle crackle within. ‘Come in,’<lb/>
said this veck, ‘whoever you are. God help you, you poor<lb/>
victim, come in and let’s have a look at you.’ So I like<lb/>
staggered in, and it was no big act I was putting on,<lb/>
brothers, I really felt done and finished. This kind veck<lb/>
put his rookers round my pletchoes and pulled me into<lb/>
this room where the fire was, and of course I knew right<lb/>
away now where it was and why HOME on the gate<lb/>
looked so familiar. I looked at this veck and he looked at<lb/>
me in a kind sort of way, and I remembered him well<lb/>
now. Of course he would not remember me, for in those<lb/>
carefree days I and my so-called droogs did all our bolshy<lb/>
dratsing and fillying and crasting in maskies which were<lb/>
real horrorshow disguises. He was a shortish veck in middle<lb/>
age, thirty, forty, fifty, and he had otchkies on. ‘Sit down<lb/>
by the fire,’ he said, ‘and I'll get you some whisky and<lb/>
warm water. Dear dear dear, somebody /as been beating<lb/>
you up.’ And he gave a like tender look at my gulliver<lb/>
and litso.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The police,’ I said. “The horrible ghastly police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Another victim,’ he said, like sighing. ‘A victim of the<lb/>
modern age. I’ll go and get you that whisky and then I<lb/>
must clean up your wounds a little.’ And off he went. I<lb/>
had a look round this malenky comfortable room. It was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
166<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nearly all books now and a fire and a couple of chairs,<lb/>
and you could viddy somehow that there wasn’t a woman<lb/>
living there. On the table was a typewriter and a lot of<lb/>
like tumbled papers, and I remembered that this veck was<lb/>
a writer veck. A Clockwork Orange, that had been it. It<lb/>
was funny that that stuck in my mind. J must not let on,<lb/>
though, for I needed help and kindness now. Those horrible<lb/>
grahzny bratchnies in that terrible white mesto had done<lb/>
that to me, making me need help and kindness now and<lb/>
forcing me to want to give help and kindness myself, if<lb/>
anybody would take it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Here we are, then,’ said this veck returning. He gave<lb/>
me this hot stimulating glassful to peet, and it made me<lb/>
feel better, and then he cleaned up these cuts on my litso.<lb/>
Then he said, ‘You have a nice hot bath, Pll draw it for<lb/>
you, and then you can tell me all about it over a nice hot<lb/>
supper which I’ll get ready while you're having the bath.’<lb/>
O my brothers, I could have wept at his kindness, and I<lb/>
think he must have viddied the old tears in my glazzies,<lb/>
for he said, ‘There there there,’ patting me on the pletcho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, I went up and had this hot bath, and he brought<lb/>
in pyjamas and an over-gown for me to put on, all warmed<lb/>
by the fire, also a very worn pair of toofles. And now,<lb/>
brothers, though I was aching and full of pains all over, I<lb/>
felt I would soon feel a lot better. I ittied downstairs and<lb/>
viddied that in the kitchen he had set the table with knives<lb/>
and forks and a fine big loaf of kleb, also a bottle of<lb/>
PRIMA SAUCE, and soon he served out a nice fry of<lb/>
eggiwegs and lomticks of ham and bursting sausages and<lb/>
big bolshy mugs of hot sweet milky chai. It was nice sitting<lb/>
there in the warm, eating, and I found I was very hungry,<lb/>
so that after the fry I had to eat lomtick after lomtick of<lb/>
kleb and butter spread with strawberry jam out of a bolshy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
167<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="100"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
great pot. ‘A lot better,’ I said. “How can I ever repay?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T think I know who you are,’ he said. ‘If you are who<lb/>
I think you are, then you've come, my friend, to the right<lb/>
place. Wasn’t that your picture in the papers this morning?<lb/>
Are you the poor victim of this horrible new technique?<lb/>
If so, then you have been sent here by Providence. Tortured<lb/>
in prison, then thrown out to be tortured by the police.<lb/>
My heart goes out to you, poor poor boy.’ Brothers, I<lb/>
could not get a slovo in, though I had my rot wide open<lb/>
to answer his questions. “You are not the first to come<lb/>
here in distress,’ he said. “The police are fond of bringing<lb/>
their victims to the outskirts of this village. But it is<lb/>
providential that you, who are also another kind of victim,<lb/>
should come here. Perhaps, then, you have heard of me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had to be very careful, brothers. I said, ‘I have heard<lb/>
of A Clockwork Orange. | have not read it, but I have heard<lb/>
of it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ he said, and his litso shone like the sun in its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ptitsa — lady, I mean. There was no real harm meant.<lb/>
Unfortunately the lady strained her good old heart in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of my own accord, and then she died. I was accused of<lb/>
being the cause of her death. So I was sent to prison, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Yes yes yes, go on.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Then I was picked out by the Minister of the Inferior<lb/>
or Interior to have this Ludovico’s veshch tried out on<lb/>
me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tell me all about it,’ he said, leaning forward eager, his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pullover elbows with all strawberry jam on them from the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
168<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
plate I'd pushed to one side. So I told him all about it. I<lb/>
told him the lot, all, my brothers. He was very eager to<lb/>
hear all, his glazzies like shining and his goobers apart,<lb/>
while the grease on the plates grew harder harder harder.<lb/>
When I had finished he got up from the table, nodding<lb/>
a lot and going hm hm hm, picking up the plates and<lb/>
other veshches from the table and taking them to the sink<lb/>
for washing up. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I will do that, sir, and gladly.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Rest, rest, poor lad,’ he said, turning the tap on so that<lb/>
all steam came burping out. “You've sinned, I suppose, but<lb/>
your punishment has been out of all proportion. They<lb/>
have turned you into something other than a human being.<lb/>
You have no power of choice any longer. You are committed<lb/>
to socially acceptable acts, a little machine capable only<lb/>
of good. And I see that clearly — that business about the<lb/>
marginal conditionings. Music and the sexual act, literature<lb/>
and art, all must be a source now not of pleasure but of<lb/>
pain.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s right, sir,’ I said, smoking one of this kind man’s<lb/>
cork-tipped cancers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘They always bite off too much,’ he said, drying a plate<lb/>
like absent-mindedly. ‘But the essential intention is the<lb/>
real sin. A man who cannot choose ceases to be a man.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s what the charles said, sir, I said. “The prison<lb/>
chaplain, I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Did he, did he? Of course he did. He’d have to, wouldn’t<lb/>
he, being a Christian? Well, now then,’ he said, still wiping<lb/>
the same plate he'd been wiping ten minutes ago, ‘we shall<lb/>
have a few people in to see you tomorrow. I think that<lb/>
you can be used, poor boy. I think you can help dislodge<lb/>
this overbearing Government. To turn a decent young man<lb/>
into a piece of clockwork should not, surely, be seen as<lb/>
</p>
<p>
169<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="101"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
any triumph for any government, save one that boasts of<lb/>
its repressiveness.’ He was still wiping this same plate. I<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir, youre still wiping that same plate. I agree with you,<lb/>
sit, about boasting. This Government seems to be very<lb/>
boastful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, like viddying this plate for the first time<lb/>
and then putting it down. ‘I’m still not too handy,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘with domestic chores. My wife used to do them all<lb/>
and leave me to my writing.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Your wife, sir?’ I said. ‘Has she gone and left you?’ I<lb/>
really wanted to know about his wife, remembering very<lb/>
well.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, left me,’ he said, in a like loud and bitter goloss.<lb/>
‘She died, you see. She was brutally raped and beaten. The<lb/>
shock was very great. It was in this house,’ his rookers<lb/>
were trembling, holding a wiping-up cloth, ‘in that room<lb/>
next door. I have had to steel myself to continue to live<lb/>
here, but she would have wished me to stay where her<lb/>
fragrant memory still lingers. Yes yes yes. Poor little girl.’<lb/>
I viddied all clearly, my brothers, what had happened that<lb/>
far-off nochy, and viddying myself on that job, I began<lb/>
to feel I wanted to sick and the pain started up in my<lb/>
gulliver. This veck viddied this, because my litso felt it<lb/>
was all drained of red red krovwvy, very pale, and he would<lb/>
be able to viddy this. “You go to bed now,’ he said kindly.<lb/>
‘I've got the spare room ready. Poor poor boy, you must<lb/>
have had a terrible time. A victim of the modern age, just<lb/>
as she was. Poor poor poor girl.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wap a real horrorshow night's sleep,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
morning was very clear and like frosty, and<lb/>
there was the very pleasant like von of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
breakfast frying away down below. It took<lb/>
me some little time to remember where I was, as it always<lb/>
does, but it soon came back to me and then I felt like<lb/>
warmed and protected. But, as I laid there in the bed,<lb/>
waiting to be called down to breakfast, it struck me that I<lb/>
ought to get to know the name of this kind protecting and<lb/>
like motherly veck, so I had a pad round in my nagoy<lb/>
nogas looking for A Clockwork Orange, which would be<lb/>
bound to have his eemya in, he being the author. There<lb/>
was nothing in my bedroom except a bed and a chair and<lb/>
a light, so I ittied next door to this veck’s own room, and<lb/>
there I viddied his wife on the wall, a bolshy blown-up<lb/>
photo, so I felt a malenky bit sick remembering. But there<lb/>
were two or three shelves of books there too, and there<lb/>
was, as I thought there must be, a copy of A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange, and on the back of the book, like on the spine,<lb/>
was the author’s eemya— F. Alexander. Good Bog, I thought,<lb/>
he is another Alex. Then I leafed through, standing in my<lb/>
pyjamas and bare nogas but not feeling one malenky bit<lb/>
cold, the cottage being warm all through, and I could not<lb/>
viddy what the book was about. It seemed written in a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
171<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="102"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very bezoomny like style, full of Ah and Oh and that cal,<lb/>
but what seemed to come out of it was that all lewdies<lb/>
nowadays were being turned into machines and that they<lb/>
were really — you and me and him and kiss-my-sharries<lb/>
— more like a natural growth like a fruit. F Alexander<lb/>
seemed to think that we all like grow on what he called<lb/>
the world-tree in the world-orchard that like Bog or God<lb/>
planted, and we were there because Bog or God had need<lb/>
of us to quench his thirsty love, or some such cal. I didnt<lb/>
like the shoom of this at all, O my brothers, and wondered<lb/>
how bezoomny this F, Alexander really was, perhaps driven<lb/>
bezoomny by his wife’s snuffing it. But then he called me<lb/>
down in a like sane veck’s goloss, full of joy and love and<lb/>
all that cal, so down Your Humble Narrator went.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You've slept long,’ he said, ladling out boiled eggs and<lb/>
pulling black toast from under the grill. ‘Irs nearly ten<lb/>
already. I’ve been up hours, working.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Writing another book, sir?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No no, not that now,’ he said, and we sat down nice<lb/>
and droogy to the old crack crack crack of eggs and crackle<lb/>
crunch crunch of this black toast, very milky chai standing<lb/>
by in bolshy great morning mugs. ‘No, I’ve been on the<lb/>
phone to various people.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I thought you didn’t have a phone,’ I said, spooning<lb/>
egg in and not watching out what I was saying.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Why?’ he said, very alert like some skorry animal with<lb/>
an egg-spoon in its rooker. “Why shouldn't you think I<lb/>
have a phone?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nothing, ‘I said, ‘nothing, nothing.’ And I wondered,<lb/>
brothers, how much he remembered of the earlier part of<lb/>
that distant nochy, me coming to the door with the old<lb/>
tale and saying to phone the doctor and she saying no<lb/>
phone. He took a very close smot at me but then went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
172<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
back to being like kind and cheerful and spooning up the<lb/>
old eggiweg. Munching away, he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, I’ve rung up various people who will be interested<lb/>
in your case. You can be a very potent weapon, you see,<lb/>
in ensuring that this present evil and wicked Government<lb/>
is not returned in the forthcoming election. The<lb/>
Government's big boast, you see, is the way it has dealt<lb/>
with crime these last months.’ He looked at me very close<lb/>
again over his steaming egg, and I wondered again if he<lb/>
was viddying what part I had so far played in his jeezny.<lb/>
But he said, ‘Recruiting brutal young roughs for the police.<lb/>
Proposing debilitating and will-sapping techniques of<lb/>
conditioning.’ All these long slovos, brothers, and a like<lb/>
mad or bezoomny look in his glazzies. “We’ve seen it all<lb/>
before,’ he said, ‘in other countries. The thin end of the<lb/>
wedge. Before we know where we are we shall have the<lb/>
full apparatus of totalitarianism.’ “Dear dear dear,’ I<lb/>
thought, egging away and toast-crunching. | said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where do I come into all this, sir?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You,’ he said, still with this bezoomny look, ‘are a living<lb/>
witness to these diabolical proposals. The people, the<lb/>
common people must know, must see.’ He got up from<lb/>
his breakfast and started to walk up and down the kitchen,<lb/>
from the sink to the like larder, saying very gromky, “Would<lb/>
they like their sons to become what you, poor victim, have<lb/>
become? Will not the Government itself now decide what<lb/>
is and what is not crime and pump out the life and guts<lb/>
and will of whoever sees fit to displease the Government?’<lb/>
He became quieter but did not go back to his egg. ‘I’ve<lb/>
written an article,’ he said, ‘this morning, while you were<lb/>
sleeping. That will be out in a day or so, together with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of what they have done to you.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
173<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="103"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what do you get out of all this, sir? I mean, besides<lb/>
the pretty polly you'll get for the article, as you call it? I<lb/>
mean, why are you so hot and strong against this<lb/>
Government, if I may make like so bold as to ask?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He gripped the edge of the table and said, gritting his<lb/>
zoobies, which were very cally and all stained with cancer-<lb/>
smoke, ‘Some of us have to fight. There are great traditions<lb/>
of liberty to defend. I am no partisan man. Where I see<lb/>
the infamy I seek to erase it. Party names mean nothing.<lb/>
The tradition of liberty means all. The common people<lb/>
will let it go, oh yes. They will sell liberty for a quieter<lb/>
life. That is why they must be prodded, prodded — And<lb/>
here, brothers, he picked up a fork and stuck it two or<lb/>
three razzes into the wall, so that it all got bent. Then he<lb/>
threw it on the floor. Very kindly he said, “Eat well, poor<lb/>
boy, poor victim of the modern world,’ and I could viddy<lb/>
quite clear he was going off his gulliver. “Eat, eat. Eat my<lb/>
ege as well.’ But I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what do I get out of this? Do I get cured of the<lb/>
way | am? Do I find myself able to slooshy the old Choral<lb/>
Symphony without being sick once more? Can I live like<lb/>
a normal jeezny again? What, sir, happens to me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, brothers, as if he hadn’t thought of<lb/>
that before and, anyway, it didn’t matter compared with<lb/>
Liberty and all that cal, and he had a look of surprise at<lb/>
me saying what I said, as though I was being like selfish<lb/>
in wanting something for myself. Then he said, ‘Oh, as I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
breakfast and then come and see what I’ve written, for it’s<lb/>
going into The Weekly Trumpet under your name, you<lb/>
unfortunate victim.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, brothers, what he had written was a very long and<lb/>
very weepy piece of writing, and as I read it I felt very<lb/>
</p>
<p>
174<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Le<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SEER UGA RON<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sorry for the poor malchick who was govoreeting about<lb/>
his sufferings and how the Government had sapped his<lb/>
will and how it was up to all lewdies to not let such a<lb/>
rotten and evil Government rule them again, and then of<lb/>
course I realised that the poor suffering malchick was none<lb/>
other than Y.H.N. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Real horrorshow.<lb/>
Written well thou hast, O sir.’ And then he looked at me<lb/>
very narrow and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, that,’ I said, ‘is what we call nadsat talk. All the<lb/>
teens use that, sir” So then he ittied off to the kitchen to<lb/>
wash up the dishes, and I was left in these borrowed night<lb/>
platties and toofles, waiting to have done to me what was<lb/>
going to be done to me, because I had no plans for myself,<lb/>
O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While the great F. Alexander was in the kitchen a ding-<lb/>
alingaling came at the door. ‘Ah,’ he creeched, coming out<lb/>
wiping his rookers, ‘it will be these people. I'll go.’ So he<lb/>
went and let them in, a kind of rumbling hahaha of talk<lb/>
and hallo and filthy weather and how are things in the<lb/>
hallway, then they ittied into the room with the fire and<lb/>
the books and the article about how I had suffered,<lb/>
viddying me and going Aaaaah as they did it. There were<lb/>
three lewdies, and F. Alex gave me their eemyas. Z. Dolin<lb/>
was a very wheezy smoky kind of a veck, coughing kashl<lb/>
kashl kashl with the end of a cancer in his rot, spilling<lb/>
ash all down his platties and then brushing it away with<lb/>
like very impatient rookers. He was a malenky round veck,<lb/>
fat, with big thick-framed otchkies on. Then there was<lb/>
Something Something Rubinstein, a very tall and polite<lb/>
chelloveck with a real gentleman's goloss, very starry with<lb/>
a like eggy beard. And lastly there was D. B. da Silva who<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was like skorry in his movements and had this strong von<lb/>
</p>
<p>
175<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="104"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of scent coming from him. They all had a real horrorshow<lb/>
look at me and seemed like overjoyed with what they<lb/>
viddied. Z. Dolin said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right, eh? What a superb device he can be,<lb/>
this boy. If anything, of course, he could for preference<lb/>
look even iller and more zombyish than he does. Anything<lb/>
for the cause. No doubt we can think of something.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I did not like that crack about zombyish, brothers, and<lb/>
so I said, “What goes on, bratties? What dost thou in mind<lb/>
for thy little droog have?’ And then F. Alexander swooshed<lb/>
in with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Strange, strange, that manner of voice pricks me. We've<lb/>
come into contact before, I’m sure we have.’ And he<lb/>
brooded, like frowning. I would have to watch this, O my<lb/>
brothers. D. B. da Silva said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Public meetings, mainly. To exhibit you at public meet-<lb/>
ings will be a tremendous help. And, of course, the news-<lb/>
paper angle is all tied up. A ruined life is the approach.<lb/>
We must inflame all hearts.’ He showed his thirty-odd<lb/>
zoobies, very white against his dark-coloured litso, he<lb/>
looking a malenky bit like some foreigner. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody will tell me what I get out of all this. Tortured<lb/>
in jail, thrown out of my home by my own parents and<lb/>
their filthy overbearing lodger, beaten by old men and<lb/>
near-killed by the millicents — what is to become of me?’<lb/>
The Rubinstein veck came in with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You will see, boy, that the Party will not be ungrateful.<lb/>
Oh, no. At the end of it all there will be some very accept-<lb/>
able little surprise for you. Just you wait and see.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“There’s only one veshch I require,’ I creeched out, ‘and<lb/>
that’s to be normal and healthy as I was in the starry days,<lb/>
having my malenky bit of fun with real droogs and not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
176<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like traitors. Can you do that, eh? Can any veck restore<lb/>
me to what I was? That’s what I want and that’s what I<lb/>
want to know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kashl kashl kashl, coughed this Z. Dolin. ‘A martyr to<lb/>
the cause of Liberty,’ he said. “You have your part to play<lb/>
and don’t forget it. Meanwhile, we shall look after you.’<lb/>
And he began to stroke my left rooker as if I was like an<lb/>
idiot, grinning in a bezoomny way. I creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Stop treating me like a thing that’s like got to be just<lb/>
used. I’m not an idiot you can impose on, you stupid<lb/>
bratchnies. Ordinary prestoopnicks are stupid, but I’m not<lb/>
ordinary and nor am I dim. Do you slooshy?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim,’ said F. Alexander, like musing. ‘Dim. That was<lb/>
a name somewhere. Dim.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh?’ I said. “What's Dim got to do with it? What do<lb/>
you know about Dim?’ And then I said, ‘Oh, Bog help<lb/>
us.’ I didn’t like the like look in E Alexander’s glazzies. I<lb/>
made for the door, wanting to go upstairs and get my<lb/>
platties and then itty off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I could almost believe,’ said F. Alexander, showing his<lb/>
stained zoobies, his glazzies mad. “But such things are<lb/>
impossible. For, by Christ, if he were I'd tear him. I'd split<lb/>
him, by God, yes yes, so I would.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There,’ said D. B. da Silva, stroking his chest like he<lb/>
was a doggie to calm him down. ‘It’s all in the past. It<lb/>
was other people altogether. We must help this poor victim.<lb/>
That’s what we must do now, remembering the Future<lb/>
and our Cause.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T’ll just get my platties,’ I said, at the stair-foot, ‘that<lb/>
is to say clothes, and then I'll be ittying off all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky. I mean, my gratitude for all, but I have my<lb/>
own jeezny to live.’ Because, brothers, I wanted to get out<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of here real skorry. But Z. Dolin said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
177<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="105"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, no. We have you, friend, and we keep you. You<lb/>
come with us. Everything will be all right, you'll see.’ And<lb/>
he came up to me like to grab hold of my rooker again.<lb/>
Then, brothers, I thought of fight, but thinking of fight<lb/>
made me like want to collapse and sick, so I just stood.<lb/>
And then I saw this like madness in F Alexander's glazzies<lb/>
and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Whatever you say. I am in your rookers. But let’s get<lb/>
it started and all over, brothers.’ Because what I wanted<lb/>
now was to get out of this mesto called HOME. I was<lb/>
beginning not to like the like look of the glazzies of F.<lb/>
Alexander one malenky bit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good,’ said this Rubinstein. ‘Get dressed and let’s get<lb/>
started.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim dim dim,’ E Alexander kept saying in a like low<lb/>
mutter. “What or who was this Dim?’ | ittied upstairs real<lb/>
skorry and dressed in near two seconds flat. Then I was out<lb/>
with these three and into an auto, Rubinstein one side of<lb/>
me and Z. Dolin coughing kashl kashl kashl the other side,<lb/>
D. B. da Silva doing the driving, into the town and to a<lb/>
flatblock not really all that distant from what had used to<lb/>
be my own flatblock or home. ‘Come, boy, out,’ said Z.<lb/>
Dolin, coughing to make the cancer-end in his rot glow red<lb/>
like some malenky furnace. “This is where you shall be<lb/>
installed.’ So we ittied in, and there was like another of these<lb/>
Dignity of Labour veshches on the wall of the vestibule, and<lb/>
we upped in the lift, brothers, and then went into a flat like<lb/>
all the flats of all the flatblocks of the town. Very very<lb/>
malenky, with two bedrooms and one live-eat-work-room,<lb/>
the table of this all covered with books and papers and ink<lb/>
and bottles and all that cal. “Here is your new home,’ said<lb/>
D. B. da Silva. ‘Settle here, boy. Food is in the food-cupboard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
178<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh,’ I said, not quite ponying that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right,’ said Rubinstein, with his starry goloss. “We<lb/>
are now leaving you. Work has to be done. We'll be with<lb/>
you later. Occupy yourself as best you can.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘One thing,’ coughed Z. Dolin kashl kash! kashl. “You<lb/>
saw what stirred in the tortured memory of our friend<lb/>
FE. Alexander. Was it, by any chance —? That is to say, did<lb/>
you —? I think you know what I mean. We won't let it go<lb/>
any further.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T’ve paid,’ I said. “Bog knows I’ve paid for what I did.<lb/>
[ve paid not only like for myself but for those bratchnies<lb/>
too that called themselves my droogs.’ I felt violent so<lb/>
then I felt a bit sick. ‘Pll lay down a bit,’ I said. ‘Pve been<lb/>
through terrible terrible times.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have,’ said D. B. da Silva, showing all his thirty<lb/>
zoobies. “You do that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So they left me, brothers. They ittied off about their<lb/>
business, which I took to be about politics and all that<lb/>
cal, and I was on the bed, all on my oddy knocky with<lb/>
everything very very quiet. I just laid there with my sabogs<lb/>
kicked off my nogas and my tie loose, like all bewildered<lb/>
and not knowing what sort of a jeezny I was going to live<lb/>
now. And all sorts of like pictures kept like passing through<lb/>
my gulliver, of the different chellovecks I'd met at school<lb/>
and in the Staja, and the different veshches that had<lb/>
happened to me, and how there was not one veck you<lb/>
could trust in the whole bolshy world. And then I like<lb/>
dozed off, brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I woke up I could slooshy music coming out of<lb/>
the wall, real gromky, and it was that that had dragged<lb/>
me out of my bit of like sleep. It was a symphony that I<lb/>
knew real horrorshow but had not slooshied for many a<lb/>
year, namely the Symphony Number Three of the Danish<lb/>
</p>
<p>
179<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="106"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
veck Otto Skadelig, a very gromky and violent piece,<lb/>
especially in the first movement, which was what was<lb/>
playing now. I slooshied for two seconds in like interest<lb/>
and joy, but then it all came over me, the start of the pain<lb/>
and the sickness, and I began to groan deep down in my<lb/>
keeshkas. And then there I was, me who had loved music<lb/>
so much, crawling off the bed and going oh oh oh to<lb/>
myself, and then bang bang banging on the wall creeching,<lb/>
‘Stop, stop it, turn it off? But it went on and it seemed<lb/>
to be like louder. So I crashed at the wall till my knuckles<lb/>
were all red red krovvy and torn skin, creeching and<lb/>
creeching, but the music did not stop. Then I thought I<lb/>
had to get away from it, so I lurched out of the malenky<lb/>
bedroom and ittied skorry to the front door of the flat,<lb/>
but this had been locked from the outside and I could<lb/>
not get out. And all the time the music got more and<lb/>
more gromky, like it was all a deliberate torture, O my<lb/>
brothers. So I stuck my little fingers real deep in my ookos,<lb/>
but the trombones and kettledrums blasted through<lb/>
gromky enough. So I creeched again for them to stop and<lb/>
went hammer hammer hammer on the wall, but it made<lb/>
not one malenky bit of difference. ‘Oh, what am I to do?’<lb/>
I boohooed to myself. ‘Oh, Bog in Heaven help me.’ I<lb/>
was like wandering all over the flat in pain and sickness,<lb/>
trying to shut out the music and like groaning deep out<lb/>
of my guts, and then on top of the pile of books and<lb/>
papers and all that cal that was on the table in the living-<lb/>
room I viddied what I had to do and what I had wanted<lb/>
to do until those old men in the Public Biblio and then<lb/>
Dim and Billyboy disguised as rozzes stopped me, and<lb/>
that was to do myself in, to snuff it, to blast off for ever<lb/>
out of this wicked and cruel world. What I viddied was<lb/>
the slovo DEATH on the cover of a like pamphlet, even<lb/>
</p>
<p>
180<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
though it was only DEATH TO THE GOVERNMENT.<lb/>
And like it was Fate there was another like malenky booklet<lb/>
which had an open window on the cover, and it said,<lb/>
‘Open the window to fresh air, fresh ideas, a new way of<lb/>
living.’ And so I knew that was like telling me to finish<lb/>
it all off by jumping out. One moment of pain, perhaps,<lb/>
and then sleep for ever and ever and ever.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The music was still pouring in all brass and drums and<lb/>
the violins miles up through the wall. The window in the<lb/>
room where I had laid down was open. I ittied to it and<lb/>
viddied a fair drop to the autos and buses and walking<lb/>
chellovecks below. I creeched out to the world: “Goodbye,<lb/>
goodbye, may Bog forgive you for a ruined life.’ Then I<lb/>
got on to the sill, the music blasting away to my left, and<lb/>
I shut my glazzies and felt the cold wind on my litso, then<lb/>
I jumped.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="107"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I yumPED, O my brothers, and I fell on<lb/>
the sidewalk hard, but I did not snuff it,<lb/>
6 oh no. If I had snuffed it I would not be<lb/>
here to write what I written have. It seems<lb/>
that the jump was not from a big enough<lb/>
heighth to kill. But I cracked my back and my wrists and<lb/>
nogas and felt very bolshy pain before I passed out, brothers,<lb/>
with astonished and surprised litsos of chellovecks in the<lb/>
streets looking at me from above. And just before I passed<lb/>
out I viddied clear that not one chelloveck in the whole<lb/>
horrid world was for me and that that music through the<lb/>
wall had all been like arranged by those who were supposed<lb/>
to be my like new droogs and that it was some veshch like<lb/>
this that they wanted for their horrible selfish and boastful<lb/>
politics. All that was in like a million millionth part of one<lb/>
minoota before I threw over the world and the sky and<lb/>
the litsos of the staring chellovecks that were above me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Where I was when I came back to jeezny after a long<lb/>
black black gap of it might have been a million years was<lb/>
a hospital, all white and with this von of hospitals you<lb/>
get, all like sour and smug and clean. These antiseptic<lb/>
veshches you get in hospitals should have a real horrorshow<lb/>
von of like frying onions or of flowers. I came very slow<lb/>
back to knowing who I was and I was all bound up in<lb/>
white and I could not feel anything in my plott, pain nor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
183<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="108"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sensation nor any veshch at all. All round my gulliver was<lb/>
a bandage and there were bits of stuff like stuck to my<lb/>
litso, and my rookers were all in bandages and like bits of<lb/>
stick were like fixed to my fingers like on it might be<lb/>
flowers to make them grow straight, and my poor old<lb/>
nogas were all straightened out too, and it was all band-<lb/>
ages and wire cages and into my right rooker, near the<lb/>
pletcho, was red red krovvy dripping from a jar upside<lb/>
down. But I could not feel anything, O my brothers. There<lb/>
was a nurse sitting by my bed and she was reading some<lb/>
book that was all like very dim print and you could viddy<lb/>
it was a story because of a lot of inverted commas, and<lb/>
she was like breathing hard uh uh uh over it, so it must<lb/>
have been a story about the old in-out in-out. She was a<lb/>
real horrorshow devotchka, this nurse, with a very red rot<lb/>
and like long lashes over her glazzies, and under her like<lb/>
very stiff uniform you could viddy she had very horrorshow<lb/>
groodies. So | said to her, “What gives, O my little sister?<lb/>
Come thou and have a nice lay-down with your malenky<lb/>
droog in this bed.’ But the slovos didn’t come out horror-<lb/>
show at all, it being as though my rot was all stiffened up,<lb/>
and I could feel with my yahzick that some of my zoobies<lb/>
were no longer there. But this nurse like jumped and<lb/>
dropped her book on the floor and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, you've recovered consciousness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was like a big rotful for a malenky ptitsa like her,<lb/>
and I tried to say so, but the slovos came out only like er<lb/>
er er. She ittied off and left me on my oddy knocky, and<lb/>
I could viddy now that I was in a malenky room of my<lb/>
own, not in one of these long wards like I had been in as<lb/>
a very little malchick, full of coughing dying starry vecks<lb/>
all round to make you want to get well and fit again. It<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had been like diphtheria I had had then, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
184<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pe oltre Oa SD eterna tot seins . Se Soe De SO Santee<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was like now as though I could not hold to being<lb/>
conscious all that long, because I was like asleep again almost<lb/>
right away, very skorry, but in a minoota or two I was sure<lb/>
that this nurse ptitsa had come back and had brought<lb/>
chellovecks in white coats with her and they were viddying<lb/>
me very frowning and going hm hm hm at Your Humble<lb/>
Narrator. And with them I was sure there was the old charles<lb/>
from the Staja govoreeting, ‘Oh my son, my son,’ breathing<lb/>
a like very stale von of whisky on to me and then saying,<lb/>
‘But I would not stay, oh no. I could not in no wise subscribe<lb/>
to what those bratchnies are going to do to other poor<lb/>
prestoopnicks. So I got out and am preaching sermons now<lb/>
about it all, my little beloved son in J.C.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I woke up again later on and who should I viddy there<lb/>
round the bed but the three from whose flat I had jumped<lb/>
out, namely D. B. da Silva and Something Something<lb/>
Rubinstein and Z. Dolin. ‘Friend,’ one of these vecks was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
tried to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If | had died it would have been even better for you<lb/>
political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treach-<lb/>
erous droogs as you are.’ But all that came out was er er et.<lb/>
Then one of these three seemed to hold out a lot of bits<lb/>
cut from gazettas and what I could viddy was a horrible<lb/>
picture of me all krovvy on a stretcher being carried off and<lb/>
I seemed to like remember a kind of a popping of lights<lb/>
which must have been photographer vecks. Out of one glaz<lb/>
I could read like headlines which were sort of trembling in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the rooker of the chelloveck that held them, like BOY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
185<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="109"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
VICTIM OF CRIMINAL REFORM SCHEME and<lb/>
GOVERNMENT AS MURDERER and then there was<lb/>
like a picture of a veck that looked familiar to me and it<lb/>
said OUT OUT OUT, and that would be the Minister of<lb/>
the Inferior or Interior. Then the nurse ptitsa said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You shouldn't be exciting him like that. You shouldn't<lb/>
be doing anything that will make him upset. Now come<lb/>
on, let’s have you out.’ I tried to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Out out out,’ but it was er er er again. Anyway, these<lb/>
three political vecks went. And I went, too, only back to<lb/>
the land, back to all blackness lit up by like odd dreams<lb/>
which I didn’t know whether they were dreams or not, O<lb/>
my brothers. Like for instance I had this idea of my whole<lb/>
plott or body being like emptied of as it might be dirty<lb/>
water and then filled up again with clean. And then there<lb/>
were really lovely and horrorshow dreams of being in some<lb/>
veck’s auto that had been crasted by me and driving up<lb/>
and down the world all on my oddy knocky running<lb/>
lewdies down and hearing them creech they were dying,<lb/>
and in me no pain and no sickness. And also there were<lb/>
dreams of doing the old in-out in-out with devotchkas,<lb/>
forcing like them down on the ground and making them<lb/>
have it and everybody standing round clapping their<lb/>
rookers and cheering like bezoomny. And then I woke up<lb/>
again and it was my pee and em come to viddy their ill<lb/>
son, my em boohooing real horrorshow. I could govoreet<lb/>
a lot better now and could say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well well well well well, what gives? What makes you<lb/>
think you are like welcome?’ My papapa said, in a like<lb/>
ashamed way:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You were in the papers, son. It said they had done great<lb/>
wrong to you. It said how the Government drove you to<lb/>
try and do yourself in. And it was our fault too, in a way,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
186<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
es ror iatenervgan nematic irra nminntinenhivrtsiisamsnety seaman rmmammemmaranenc ht hepa beater tH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ugly as kiss-my-sharries. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And how beeth thy new son Joe? Well and healthy and<lb/>
prosperous, I trust and pray.’ My mum said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, Alex Alex. Owwwwwwww.’ My papapa said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A very awkward thing, son. He got into a bit of trouble<lb/>
with the police and was done by the police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Really?’ I said. “Really? Such a good sort of chelloveck<lb/>
and all. Amazed proper I am, honest.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Minding his own business, he was,’ said my pee. ‘And<lb/>
the police told him to move on. Waiting at a corner he<lb/>
was, son, to see a girl he was going to meet. And they<lb/>
told him to move on and he said he had rights like every-<lb/>
body else, and then they sort of fell on top of him and<lb/>
hit him about cruel.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Terrible,’ I said. ‘Really terrible. And where is the poor<lb/>
boy now?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwww, bochooed my mum. ‘Gone back owwww-<lb/>
wwe.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ said dad. ‘He’s gone back to his own home town<lb/>
to get better. They've had to give his job here to somebody<lb/>
else.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So now,’ I said, ‘you're willing for me to move back in<lb/>
again and things be like they were before.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, son,’ said my papapa. ‘Please, son.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tl consider it,’ I said. ‘Tl think about it real careful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwww, went my mum.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, shut it,’ I said, ‘or Pll give you something proper<lb/>
to yowl and creech about. Kick your zoobies in I will.’<lb/>
And, O my brothers, saying that made me feel a malenky<lb/>
bit better, as if all like fresh red red krovvy was flowing<lb/>
all through my plott. That was something I had to think<lb/>
</p>
<p>
187<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="110"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
about. It was like as though to get better I had had to get<lb/>
worse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s no way to speak to your mother, son,’ said my<lb/>
papapa. ‘After all, she brought you into the world.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and a right grahzny vonny world too.’ I<lb/>
shut my glazzies tight in like pain and said, “Go away now.<lb/>
[ll think about coming back. But things will have to be<lb/>
very different.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, son,’ said my pee. ‘Anything you say.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You'll have to make up your mind,’ I said, ‘who's to be<lb/>
boss.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwwww, my mum went on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Very good, son,’ said my papapa. “Things will be as<lb/>
you like. Only get well.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When they had gone I laid and thought a bit about<lb/>
different veshches, like all different pictures passing through<lb/>
my gulliver, and when the nurse ptitsa came back in and<lb/>
like straightened the sheets on the bed I said to her:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How long is it ’'ve been in here?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A week or so,’ she said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what have they been doing to me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you were all broken up and bruised<lb/>
and had sustained severe concussion and had lost a lot of<lb/>
blood. They’ve had to put all that right, haven’t they?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ I said, ‘has anyone been doing anything with my<lb/>
gulliver? What I mean is, have they been playing around<lb/>
with inside like my brain?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Whatever they've done,’ she said, ‘it'll all be for the best.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But a couple of days later a couple of like doctor vecks<lb/>
came in, both youngish vecks with these very sladky smiles,<lb/>
and they had like a picture book with them. One of them<lb/>
said, “We want you to have a look at these and to tell us<lb/>
what you think about them. All right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
188<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
full of eggs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes?’ one of these doctor vecks said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A bird-nest,’ I said, ‘full of like eggs. Very very nice.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what would you like to do about it? the other one<lb/>
said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘smash them. Pick up the lot and like throw<lb/>
them against a wall or a cliff or something and then viddy<lb/>
them all smash up real horrorshow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good good,’ they both said, and then the page was<lb/>
turned. It was like a picture of one of these bolshy great<lb/>
birds called peacocks with all its tail spread out in all colours<lb/>
in a very boastful way. “Yes?” said one of these vecks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T would like,’ I said, ‘to pull out like all those feathers<lb/>
in its tail and slooshy it creech blue murder. For being so<lb/>
like boastful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good,’ they both said, ‘good good good.’ And they<lb/>
went on turning the pages. There were like pictures of real<lb/>
horrorshow devotchkas, and I said I would like to give<lb/>
them the old in-out in-out with lots of ultra-violence.<lb/>
There were like pictures of chellovecks being given the<lb/>
boot straight in the litso and all red red krowvy everywhere<lb/>
and I said I would like to be in on that. And there was a<lb/>
picture of the old nagoy droog of the prison charlie’s<lb/>
carrying his cross up a hill, and I said I would like to have<lb/>
the old hammer and nails. Good good good. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What is all this?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Deep hypnopaedia,’ or some such slovo, said one of<lb/>
these two vecks. ‘You seem to be cured.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
189<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="111"/>
<p>
‘Cured?’ I said. ‘Me tied down to this bed like this and<lb/>
you say cured? Kiss my sharries is what I say.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wait,’ the other said. ‘It won't be long now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I waited and, O my brothers, I got a lot better,<lb/>
munching away at eggiwegs and lomticks of toast and<lb/>
peeting bolshy great mugs of milky chai, and then one<lb/>
day they said I was going to have a very very very special<lb/>
visitor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who? I said, while they straightened the bed and<lb/>
combed my luscious glory for me, me having the bandage<lb/>
off now from my gulliver and the hair growing again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You'll see, youll see,’ they said. And I viddied all right. At<lb/>
two-thirty of the afternoon there were like all photographers<lb/>
and men from gazettas with notebooks and pencils and all<lb/>
that cal. And, brothers, they near trumpeted a bolshy fanfare<lb/>
for this great and important veck who was coming to viddy<lb/>
Your Humble Narrator. And in he came, and of course it<lb/>
was none other than the Minister of the Interior or Inferior,<lb/>
dressed in the heighth of fashion and with this very upper-<lb/>
class haw haw haw goloss. Flash flash bang went the cameras<lb/>
when he put out his rooker to me to shake it. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well well well. What giveth then, old droogie?’<lb/>
Nobody seemed to quite pony that, but somebody said<lb/>
in a like harsh goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘Yarbles,’ I said, like snarling like a doggie. ‘Bolshy great<lb/>
yarblockos to thee and thine.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said the Interior Inferior one very<lb/>
skorry. ‘He speaks to me as a friend, don’t you, son?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I am everyone’s friend,’ I said. “Except to my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And who are your enemies?’ said the Minister, while<lb/>
all the gazetta vecks went scribble scribble scribble. “Tell<lb/>
us that, my boy.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All who do me wrong,’ I said, ‘are my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said the Int Inf Min, sitting down by my bed.<lb/>
‘I and the Government of which I am a member want<lb/>
you to regard us as friends. Yes, friends. We have put you<lb/>
right, yes? You are getting the best of treatment. We never<lb/>
wished you harm, but there are some who did and do.<lb/>
And I think you know who those are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All who do me wrong,’ I said, ‘are my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes yes yes,’ he said. “There are certain men who wanted<lb/>
to use you, yes, use you for political ends. They would<lb/>
have been glad, yes, glad for you to be dead, for they<lb/>
thought they could then blame it all on the Government.<lb/>
I think you know who those men are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T did not,’ I said, ‘like the look of them.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There is a man,’ said the Intinfmin, ‘called F Alexander,<lb/>
a writer of subversive literature, who has been howling for<lb/>
your blood. He has been mad with desire to stick a knife<lb/>
in you. But youre safe from him now. We put him away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He was supposed to be like a droogie,’ I said. “Like a<lb/>
mother to me was what he was.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He found out that you had done wrong to him. At<lb/>
least,’ said the Min very very skorry, ‘he believed you had<lb/>
done wrong. He formed this idea in his mind that you<lb/>
had been responsible for the death of someone near and<lb/>
dear to him.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What you mean,’ I said, ‘is that he was told.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He had this idea,’ said the Min. “He was a menace. We<lb/>
put him away for his own protection. And also,’ he said,<lb/>
‘for yours.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Kind,’ I said. ‘Most kind of thou.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘When you leave here,’ said the Min, ‘you will have no<lb/>
worries. We shall see to everything. A good job on a good<lb/>
salary. Because you are helping us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
191<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="112"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Am I?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘We always help our friends, dont we? And then he<lb/>
took my rooker and some veck creeched, “Smile? and I<lb/>
smiled like bezoomny without thinking, and then flash<lb/>
flash crack flash bang there were pictures being taken of<lb/>
me and the Intinfmin all droogy together. “Good boy,’<lb/>
said this great chelloveck. ‘Good good boy. And now, see,<lb/>
a present.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was brought in now, brothers, was a big shiny<lb/>
box, and I viddied clear what sort of a veshch it was. It<lb/>
was a stereo. It was put down next to the bed and opened<lb/>
up and some veck plugged its lead into the wall-socket.<lb/>
‘What shall it be?’ asked a veck with otchkies on his nose,<lb/>
and he had in his rookers lovely shiny sleeves full of music.<lb/>
‘Mozart? Beethoven? Schoenberg? Carl Orff?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Ninth,’ I said. “The glorious Ninth.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the Ninth it was, O my brothers. Everybody began<lb/>
to leave nice and quiet while I laid there with my glazzies<lb/>
closed, slooshying the lovely music. The Min said, ‘Good<lb/>
good boy,’ patting me on the pletcho, then he ittied off.<lb/>
Only one veck was left, saying, ‘Sign here, please.’ I opened<lb/>
my glazzies up to sign, not knowing what I was signing<lb/>
and not, O my brothers, caring either. Then I was left<lb/>
alone with the glorious Ninth of Ludwig van.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh, it was gorgeosity and yumyumyum. When it came<lb/>
to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running<lb/>
and running on like very light and mysterious nogas,<lb/>
carving the whole litso of the creeching world with my<lb/>
cut-throat britva. And there was the slow movement and<lb/>
the lovely last singing movement still to come. I was cured<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘WHAT’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and my three droogs, that is Len, Rick,<lb/>
and Bully, Bully being called Bully because<lb/>
of his bolshy big neck and very gromky<lb/>
</p>
<p>
7 There was me, Your Humble Narrator,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
auuuuuuuuh. We were sitting in the Korova Milkbar<lb/>
making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening,<lb/>
a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. All round were<lb/>
chellovecks well away on milk plus vellocet and synthemesc<lb/>
and drencrom and other veshches which take you far far<lb/>
far away from this wicked and real world into the land to<lb/>
viddy Bog And All His Holy Angels And Saints in your<lb/>
left sabog with lights bursting and spurting all over your<lb/>
mozg. What we were peeting was the old moloko with<lb/>
knives in it, as we used to say, to sharpen you up and<lb/>
make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, but I’ve<lb/>
told you all that before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We were dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in<lb/>
those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose<lb/>
black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt<lb/>
with a like scarf tucked in. At this time too it was the<lb/>
heighth of fashion to use the old britva on the gulliver,<lb/>
so that most of the gulliver was like bald and there was<lb/>
hair only on the sides. But it was always the same on the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
193<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="113"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old nogas — real horrorshow bolshy big boots for kicking<lb/>
litsos in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was like the oldest of we four, and they all looked up<lb/>
to me as their leader, but I got the idea sometimes that<lb/>
Bully had the thought in his gulliver that he would like<lb/>
to take over, this being because of his bigness and the<lb/>
gromky goloss that bellowed out of him when he was on<lb/>
the warpath. But all the ideas came from Your Humble,<lb/>
O my brothers, and also there was this veshch that I had<lb/>
been famous and had had my picture and articles and all<lb/>
that cal in the gazettas. Also I had by far the best job of<lb/>
all we four, being in the National Gramodisc Archives on<lb/>
the music side with a real horrorshow carman full of pretty<lb/>
polly at the week’s end and a lot of nice free discs for my<lb/>
own malenky self on the side.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of<lb/>
vecks and ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking<lb/>
and peeting away, and cutting through their govoreeting<lb/>
and the burbling of the in-the-landers with their ‘“Gorgor<lb/>
fallatuke and the worm sprays in filltip slaughterballs’ and<lb/>
all that cal you could slooshy a popdisc on the stereo, this<lb/>
being Ned Achimota singing “That Day, Yeah, That Day’.<lb/>
At the counter were three devotchkas dressed in the heighth<lb/>
of nadsat fashion, that is to say long uncombed hair dyed<lb/>
white and false groodies sticking out a metre or more and<lb/>
very very tight short skirts with all like frothy white under-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
alone with his God.’ And Len kept saying, “Yarbles yarbles.<lb/>
Where is the spirit for all for one and one for all, eh boy?’<lb/>
Suddenly I felt both very very tired and also full of tingly<lb/>
energy, and I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Out out out out out.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Where to?’ said Rick, who had a litso like a frog's.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, just to viddy what’s doing in the great outside,’ I<lb/>
said. But somehow, my brothers, I felt very bored and a<lb/>
bit hopeless, and I had been feeling that a lot these days.<lb/>
So I turned to the chelloveck nearest me on the big plush<lb/>
seat that ran right round the whole mesto, a chelloveck,<lb/>
that is, who was burbling away under the influence, and<lb/>
I fisted him real skorry ack ack ack in the belly. But he<lb/>
felt it not, brothers, only burbling away with his ‘Cart<lb/>
cart virtue, where in toptails lieth the poppoppicorns?’ So<lb/>
we scatted out into the big winter nochy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We walked down Marghanita Boulevard and there were<lb/>
no millicents patrolling that way, so when we met a starry<lb/>
veck coming away from a news-kiosk where he had been<lb/>
kupetting a gazetta I said to Bully, ‘All right, Bully boy,<lb/>
thou canst if thou like wishest.’ More and more these days<lb/>
I had been just giving the orders and standing back to<lb/>
viddy them being carried out. So Bully cracked into him<lb/>
er er er, and the other two tripped him and kicked at him,<lb/>
smecking away, while he was down and then let him crawl<lb/>
off to where he lived, like whimpering to himself. Bully<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How about a nice yummy glass of something to keep<lb/>
out the cold, O Alex?’ For we were not too far from the<lb/>
Duke of New York. The other two nodded yes yes yes but<lb/>
all looked at me to viddy whether that was all right. I<lb/>
nodded too and so off we ittied. Inside the snug there<lb/>
were these starry ptitsas or sharps or baboochkas you will<lb/>
remember from the beginning and they all started on their,<lb/>
‘Evening, lads, God bless you, boys, best lads living, that’s<lb/>
what you are,’ waiting for us to say, “What's it going to<lb/>
be, girls? Bully rang the collocoll and a waiter came in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
195<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="114"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rubbing his rookers on his grazzy apron. “Cutter on the<lb/>
table, droogies,’ said Bully, pulling out his own rattling<lb/>
and chinking mound of deng. ‘Scotchmen for us and the<lb/>
same for the old baboochkas, eh?’ And then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, to hell. Let them buy their own.’ I didn’t know<lb/>
what it was, but these last days I had become like mean.<lb/>
There had come into my gulliver a like desire to keep all<lb/>
my pretty polly to myself, to like hoard it all up for some<lb/>
reason. Bully said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What gives, bratty? What’s coming over old Alex?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, to hell,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. What<lb/>
it is is I don’t like just throwing away my hard-earned<lb/>
pretty polly, that’s what it is.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Earned?’ said Rick. ‘Earned? It doesn’t have to be earned,<lb/>
as well thou knowest, old droogie. Took, that’s all, just<lb/>
took, like.’ And he smecked real gromky and I viddied<lb/>
one or two of his zoobies weren't all that horrorshow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I’ve got some thinking to do.’ But viddying<lb/>
these baboochkas looking all eager like for some free alc,<lb/>
like shrugged my pletchoes and pulled out my own cutter<lb/>
from my trouser carman, notes and coin all mixed together,<lb/>
and plonked it tinkle crackle on the table.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Scotchmen all round, right,’ said the waiter. But for<lb/>
some reason I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No, boy, for me make it one small beer, right.’ Len<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This I do not much go for,’ and he began to put his<lb/>
rooker on my gulliver like kidding I must have fever, but<lb/>
I like snarled doggy-wise for him to give over skorry. ‘All<lb/>
right, all right, droog,’ he said. ‘As thou like sayest.’ But<lb/>
Bully was having a smot with his rot open at something<lb/>
that had come out of my carman with the pretty polly I'd<lb/>
put on the table. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
196<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
a baby. It was of a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like<lb/>
moloko dribbling from its rot and looking up and like<lb/>
smecking at everybody, and it was all nagoy and its flesh<lb/>
was like in all folds with being a very fat baby. There was<lb/>
then like a bit of haw haw haw struggling to get hold of<lb/>
this bit of paper from me, so I had to snarl again at them<lb/>
and I grabbed the photo and tore it up into tiny teeny<lb/>
pieces and let it fall like a bit of snow on to the floor. The<lb/>
whisky came in then and the starry baboochkas said, ‘Good<lb/>
health, lads, God bless you, boys, the best lads living, that’s<lb/>
what you are,’ and all that cal. And one of them who was<lb/>
all lines and wrinkles and no zoobies in her shrunken old<lb/>
rot said, ‘Don’t tear up money, son. If you don’t need it<lb/>
give it them as does,’ which was very bold and forward<lb/>
of her. But Rick said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Money that was not, O baboochka. It was a picture of<lb/>
a dear little itsy witsy bitsy bit of a baby.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tm getting just that bit tired, that I am. It’s you who's<lb/>
the babies, you lot. Scoffing and grinning and all you can<lb/>
do is smeck and give people bolshy cowardly tolchocks<lb/>
when they can’t give them back.’ Bully said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well now, we always thought it was you who was the<lb/>
king of that and also the teacher. Not well, that’s the<lb/>
trouble with thou, old droogie.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I viddied this sloppy glass of beer I had on the table in<lb/>
front of me and felt like all vomity within, so I went<lb/>
‘Aaaaah’ and poured all the frothy vonny cal all over the<lb/>
floor. One of the starry ptitsas said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Waste not want not.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
197<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="115"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Look, droogies. Listen. Tonight I am somehow just not<lb/>
in the mood. I know not why or how it is, but there it<lb/>
is. You three go your own ways this nightwise, leaving me<lb/>
out. Tomorrow we shall meet same place same time, me<lb/>
hoping to be like a lot better.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said Bully, ‘right sorry I am.’ But you could viddy<lb/>
a like gleam in his glazzies, because now he would be<lb/>
taking over for this nochy. Power, power, everybody like<lb/>
wants power. ‘We can postpone till tomorrow,’ said Bully,<lb/>
‘what we in mind had. Namely, that bit of shop-crasting<lb/>
in Gagarin Street. Flip horrorshow takings there, droog,<lb/>
for the having.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No,’ I said. “You postpone nothing. You just carry on<lb/>
in your own like style. Now,’ I said, ‘I itty off’ And I got<lb/>
up from my chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Where to, then?’ asked Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That know I not,’ I said. ‘Just to be on like my own<lb/>
and sort things out.’ You could viddy the old baboochkas<lb/>
were real puzzled at me going out like that and like all<lb/>
morose and not the bright and smecking malchickiwick<lb/>
you will remember. But I said, ‘Ah, to hell, to hell,’ and<lb/>
scatted out all on my oddy knocky into the street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was dark and there was a wind sharp as a nozh getting<lb/>
up, and there were very very few lewdies about. There<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
cruising about, and now and then on the corner you could<lb/>
viddy a couple of very young millicents stamping against<lb/>
the bitchy cold and letting out steam breath on the winter<lb/>
ait, O my brothers. I suppose really a lot of the old ultra-<lb/>
violence and crasting was dying out now, the rozzes being<lb/>
so brutal with who they caught, though it had become<lb/>
like a fight between naughty nadsats and the rozzes who<lb/>
could be more skorry with the nozh and britva and the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
198<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stick and even the gun. But what was the matter with me<lb/>
these days was that I didn’t care much. It was like some-<lb/>
thing soft getting into me and I could not pony why.<lb/>
What I wanted these days I did not know. Even the music<lb/>
I liked to slooshy in my own malenky den was what I<lb/>
would have smecked at before, brothers. I was slooshying<lb/>
more like malenky romantic songs, what they call Lieder,<lb/>
just a goloss and a piano, very quiet and like yearny,<lb/>
different from when it had been all bolshy orchestras and<lb/>
me lying on the bed between the violins and the trombones<lb/>
and kettledrums. There was something happening inside<lb/>
me, and I wondered if it was like some disease or if it was<lb/>
what they had done to me that time upsetting my gulliver<lb/>
and perhaps going to make me real bezoomny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So thinking like this with my gulliver bent and my<lb/>
rookers stuck in my trouser carmans I walked the town,<lb/>
brothers, and at last I began to feel very tired and also in<lb/>
great need of a nice bolshy chasha of milky chai. Thinking<lb/>
about this chai, I got a sudden like picture of me sitting<lb/>
before a bolshy fire in an armchair peeting away at this<lb/>
chai, and what was funny and very very strange was that<lb/>
I seemed to have turned into a very starry chelloveck,<lb/>
about seventy years old, because I could viddy my own<lb/>
voloss, which was very grey, and I also had whiskers, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But it was very like strange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I came to one of these tea-and-coffee mestos, brothers,<lb/>
and I could viddy through the long long window that it<lb/>
was full of very dull lewdies, like ordinary, who had these<lb/>
very patient and expressionless litsos and would do no<lb/>
harm to no one, all sitting there and govoreeting like<lb/>
quietly and peeting away at their nice harmless chai and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
199<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="116"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
coffee. I ittied inside and went up to the counter and<lb/>
bought me a nice hot chai with plenty of moloko, then I<lb/>
ittied to one of these tables and sat down to peet it. There<lb/>
was like a young couple at this table, peeting and smoking<lb/>
filter-tip cancers, and govoreeting and smecking very<lb/>
quietly between themselves, but I took no notice of them<lb/>
and just went on peeting away and like dreaming and<lb/>
wondering what it was in me that was like changing and<lb/>
what was going to happen to me. But I viddied that the<lb/>
devotchka at this table who was with this chelloveck was<lb/>
real horrorshow, not the sort you would want to like throw<lb/>
down and give the old in-out in-out to, but with a horror-<lb/>
show plott and litso and a smiling rot and very very fair<lb/>
voloss and all that cal. And then the veck with her, who<lb/>
had a hat on his gulliver and had his litso like turned away<lb/>
from me, swivelled round to viddy the bolshy big clock<lb/>
they had on the wall in this mesto, and then I viddied<lb/>
who he was and then he viddied who IJ was. It was Pete,<lb/>
one of my three droogs from those days when it was<lb/>
Georgie and Dim and him and me. It was Pete like looking<lb/>
a lot older though he could not now be more than nine-<lb/>
teen and a bit, and he had a bit of a moustache and an<lb/>
ordinary day-suit and this hat on. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
old droogie?’<lb/>
‘He talks funny, doesn’t he?’ said this devotchka, like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
giggling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This,’ said Pete to the devotchka, ‘is an old friend. His<lb/>
name is Alex. May I,’ he said to me, ‘introduce my wife?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My rot fell wide open then. “Wife?’ I like gaped. “Wife<lb/>
wife wife? Ah no, that cannot be. Too young art thou to<lb/>
be married, old droog. Impossible impossible.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This devotchka who was like Pete’s wife (impossible<lb/>
impossible) giggled again and said to Pete, “Did you used<lb/>
to talk like that too?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Pete, and he like smiled. ‘P’m nearly twenty.<lb/>
Old enough to be hitched, and it’s been two months<lb/>
already. You were very young and very forward, remember.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ I like gaped still. ‘Over this get can I not, old<lb/>
droogie. Pete married. Well well well.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We have a small flat,’ said Pete. ‘I am earning very<lb/>
small money at State Marine Insurance, but things will<lb/>
get better, that I know. And Georgina here —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What again is that name?’ I said, rot still open like<lb/>
bezoomny. Pete’s wife (wife, brothers) like giggled again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Georgina,’ said Pete. “Georgina works too. Typing, you<lb/>
know. We manage, we manage.’ I could not, brothers, take<lb/>
my glazzies off him, really. He was like grown up now,<lb/>
with a grown-up goloss and all. “You must,’ said Pete,<lb/>
‘come and see us sometime. You still,’ he said, ‘look very<lb/>
young, despite all your terrible experiences. Yes yes yes,<lb/>
we've read all about them. But, of course, you ave very<lb/>
young still.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eighteen,’ I said, ‘just gone.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eighteen, eh?’ said Pete. ‘As old as that. Well well well.<lb/>
Now,’ he said, ‘we have to be going.’ And he like gave<lb/>
this Georgina of his a like loving look and pressed one of<lb/>
her rookers between his and she gave him one of those<lb/>
looks back, O my brothers. ‘Yes,’ said Pete, turning back<lb/>
to me, ‘we're off to a little party at Greg's.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="117"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Greg?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, of course,’ said Pete, you wouldn't know Greg,<lb/>
would you? Greg is after your time. While you were away<lb/>
Greg came into the picture. He runs little parties, you<lb/>
know. Mostly wine-cup and word-games. But very nice,<lb/>
very pleasant, you know. Harmless, if you see what I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Harmless. Yes yes, I viddy that real horror-<lb/>
show.’ And this Georgina devotchka giggled again at my<lb/>
slovos. And then these two ittied off to their vonny word-<lb/>
games at this Greg’s, whoever he was. I was left all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky with my milky chai, which was getting cold<lb/>
now, like thinking and wondering.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perhaps that was it, I kept thinking. Perhaps I was<lb/>
getting too old for the sort of jeezny I had been leading,<lb/>
brothers. I was eighteen now, just gone. Eighteen was not<lb/>
a young age. At eighteen old Wolfgang Amadeus had<lb/>
written concertos and symphonies and operas and ora-<lb/>
torios and all that cal, no, not cal, heavenly music. And<lb/>
then there was old Felix M. with his Midsummer Night's<lb/>
Dream Overture. And there were others. And there was<lb/>
this like French poet set by old Benjy Britt, who had done<lb/>
all his best poetry by the age of fifteen, O my brothers.<lb/>
Arthur, his first name. Eighteen was not all that young an<lb/>
age, then. But what was I going to do?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ittying off from this chai and coffee mesto, I kept viddying<lb/>
like visions, like these cartoons in the gazettas. There was<lb/>
Your Humble Narrator Alex coming home from work to<lb/>
a good hot plate of dinner, and there was this ptitsa all<lb/>
welcoming and greeting like loving. But I could not viddy<lb/>
her all that horrorshow, brothers, I could not think who<lb/>
it might be. But I had this sudden very strong idea that<lb/>
if I walked into the room next to this room where the fire<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was burning away and my hot dinner laid on the table,<lb/>
there I should find what I really wanted, and now it all<lb/>
tied up, that picture scissored out of the gazetta and<lb/>
meeting old Pete like that. For in that other room in a<lb/>
cot was laying gurgling goo goo goo my son. Yes yes yes,<lb/>
brothers, my son. And now I felt this bolshy big hollow<lb/>
inside my plott, feeling very surprised too at myself. I<lb/>
knew what was happening, O my brothers. I was like<lb/>
growing up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But<lb/>
youth is only being in a way like it might be an animal.<lb/>
No, it is not just like being an animal so much as being<lb/>
like one of these malenky toys you viddy being sold in<lb/>
the streets, like little chellovecks made out of tin and with<lb/>
a spring inside and then a winding handle on the outside<lb/>
and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off it itties, like<lb/>
walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a straight line and<lb/>
bangs straight into things bang bang and it cannot help<lb/>
what it is doing. Being young is like being like one of<lb/>
these malenky machines.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain<lb/>
all that to him when he was starry enough to like under-<lb/>
stand. But then I knew he would not understand or would<lb/>
not want to understand at all and would do all the vesh-<lb/>
ches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry<lb/>
forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I<lb/>
would not be able to really stop him. And nor would he<lb/>
be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would<lb/>
itty on to like the end of the world, round and round and<lb/>
round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old<lb/>
Bog Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
rookers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="118"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But first of all, brothers, there was this veshch of finding<lb/>
some devotchka or other who would be a mother to this<lb/>
son. I would have to start on that tomorrow, I kept<lb/>
thinking. That was something like new to do. That was<lb/>
something I would have to get started on, a new like<lb/>
chapter beginning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s what it’s going to be then, brothers, as | come<lb/>
to the like end of this tale. You have been everywhere with<lb/>
your little droog Alex, suffering with him, and you have<lb/>
viddied some of the most grahzny bratchnies old Bog ever<lb/>
made, all on to your old droog Alex. And all it was was<lb/>
that I was young. But now as I end this story, brothers, I<lb/>
am not young, not no longer, oh no. Alex like groweth<lb/>
up, oh yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky, where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet<lb/>
flowers and the turning vonny earth and the stars and the<lb/>
old Luna up there and your old droog Alex all on his oddy<lb/>
knocky seeking like a mate. And all that cal. A terrible<lb/>
grahzny vonny world, really, O my brothers. And so fare-<lb/>
well from your little droog. And to all others in this story<lb/>
profound shooms of lip-music, brrrrrr. And they can kiss<lb/>
my sharries. But you, O my brothers, remember sometimes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
thy little Alex that was. Amen. And all that cal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="119"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NOTES<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a bit of dirty twenty-to-one: “Twenty-to-one’ is rhyming slang<lb/>
for ‘fun’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the heighth of fashion: The Oxford English Dictionary (OED)<lb/>
notes that ‘heighth’ was a common spelling in the seventeenth<lb/>
century. It is found in English dialect writing as late as the<lb/>
nineteenth century. The Penguin paperback of 1972 misprints<lb/>
this as ‘the height of fashion’ (p. 5), but Burgess was clearly<lb/>
aiming for an archaic-sounding effect. He achieves something<lb/>
similar in his historical novel about the life of Shakespeare,<lb/>
Nothing Like the Sun (1964), which is written in a parody of<lb/>
Shakespearean English.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Berti Laski: Melvyn Lasky was, along with Frank Kermode and<lb/>
the poet Stephen Spender, co-editor of the literary magazine<lb/>
Encounter. But this is more likely to be an allusion to Marghanita<lb/>
Laski (1915-88), the Manchester novelist and playwright. She<lb/>
provided more than 250,000 quotations for the four supplements<lb/>
to the Oxford English Dictionary. Her novels included Love on<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
as a musical starring Bing Crosby in 1953. Marghanita Laski had<lb/>
written an unfavourable review of Burgess’s novel The Right to<lb/>
an Answer, published in the Saturday Review on 28 January 1961.<lb/>
Marghanita Boulevard: Another unflattering reference to<lb/>
Marghanita Laski. See note on ‘Berti Laski’ above.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boothby Avenue: Possibly a reference to Sir Brooke Boothby<lb/>
</p>
<p>
207<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="120"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(1744-1824), a minor English poet and translator of Rousseau.<lb/>
Another Boothby appears as a character in Burgess’s first novel,<lb/>
Time for a Tiger (1956). He is the headmaster of the Mansoor<lb/>
School in colonial Malaya, modelled on the Malay College in<lb/>
Kuala Kangsar, where Burgess himself had taught from 1954<lb/>
until 1955. Boothby is a cruel caricature of Jimmy Howell, the<lb/>
real-life headmaster known to Burgess and disliked by him.<lb/>
hen-korm: originally ‘hen-corm’ in the typescript. In a letter<lb/>
to James Michie of Heinemann dated 25 February 1962, Burgess<lb/>
wrote: ‘There is also the case of “hen-corm” [...] which was<lb/>
silently corrected to “hen-corn”. Now “corm” comes from a<lb/>
Slav-root meaning animal-fodder. So that the reader shall not<lb/>
see a mistake there I’ve changed “corm” to “korm”. Will that<lb/>
be horrorshow?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sammy act: Late nineteenth-century slang; to ‘sam’ or ‘stand<lb/>
sam’ is to pay for a drink. See Jonathon Green, Cassell’s Dictionary<lb/>
of Slang (2000).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Amis Avenue: Kingsley Amis, English novelist and critic (1922-<lb/>
95). Burgess and Amis often reviewed each other’s novels, and<lb/>
Amis’s review of A Clockwork Orange (‘Mr Burgess has written<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Amis on Burgess, see the chapter in his Memoirs (Hutchinson,<lb/>
1991), pp. 274-8, and various uncomplimentary references in<lb/>
The Letters of Kingsley Amis, edited by Zachary Leader<lb/>
(HarperCollins, 2000).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
black and suds: Guinness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
double firegolds: Firegold is whisky, but this is also an allusion<lb/>
to ‘The Starlight Night’, a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins<lb/>
(1844-89): ‘O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! [. . .]<lb/>
The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies! Burgess<lb/>
had memorised all of Hopkins’s poems when he was a schoolboy,<lb/>
and he later set a number of them to music, including “The<lb/>
Wreck of the Deutschland’. For more detail on these composi-<lb/>
tions, see Paul Phillips, A Clockwork Counterpoint (Manchester<lb/>
University Press, 2010), pp. 288-9.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
208<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a bottle of Yank General: Three-star brandy or cognac. Burgess<lb/>
drew three stars in the margin of the typescript at this point,<lb/>
to make the reference to a three-star American general clear.<lb/>
Attlee Avenue: Clement Attlee, Labour Prime Minister from 1945<lb/>
until 1951. Burgess voted Labour in 1945, and he admired the<lb/>
National Health Service, which was set up by Attlee’s government.<lb/>
rozz patrols: ‘Rozzer’ as slang for ‘policeman’ was first recorded<lb/>
in the 1870s. Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional<lb/>
English (1937), one of several slang dictionaries owned by Burgess,<lb/>
suggests that ‘rozzer’ is derived from the Romany ‘roozlo’,<lb/>
meaning ‘strong’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Elvis Presley: Burgess wrote in the margin of the typescript:<lb/>
‘Will this name be known when book appears?’ Burgess must<lb/>
have found Elvis Presley difficult to avoid while he was working<lb/>
on A Clockwork Orange. According to the trade magazine Record<lb/>
Retailer, Presley's single ‘It's Now or Never’ was number one in<lb/>
the UK chart for eight weeks in 1960. “Wooden Heart’ and<lb/>
‘Surrender’, both released in 1961, held the number one position<lb/>
for six weeks and four weeks respectively. Elvis and The Beatles<lb/>
(who received a kicking in Burgess’s 1968 novel, Enderby Outside)<lb/>
represented everything that he hated about popular music and<lb/>
teenage culture.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sore athirst: A corruption of the biblical ‘and they were sore<lb/>
afraid’ (Luke 2:9).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lip-music: A quotation from St Winefred’s Well, an unfinished<lb/>
play by Gerard Manley Hopkins: “While blind men’s eyes shall<lb/>
thirst after daylight, draughts of daylight, / Or deaf ears shall<lb/>
desire that lipmusic that’s lost upon them.’ Burgess later<lb/>
completed this Hopkins play and composed incidental music<lb/>
for a radio production, broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on 23<lb/>
December 1989.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Priestley Place: J. B. Priestley, English writer and broadcaster<lb/>
(1894-1984), author of The Good Companions (1929), Time and<lb/>
the Conways (1937) and An Inspector Calls (1945), among many<lb/>
other novels, plays and non-fiction works. Burgess discusses<lb/>
</p>
<p>
209<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="121"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Priestley’s writing in The Novel Now (Faber, 1971), pp. 102-3,<lb/>
and in a long review of Vincent Brome’s biography, published<lb/>
in the Times Literary Supplement on 21 October 1988.<lb/>
swordpen: The association between words and swords is present<lb/>
throughout Burgess’s verse translation of Edmond. Rostand’s<lb/>
French play Cyrano de Bergerac (1971). Burgess’ long poem ‘The<lb/>
Sword’, about a man who wanders around New York with ‘a<lb/>
British sword sheathed in cherrywood’, was published in<lb/>
Transatlantic Review 23 (Winter 1966-7), pp. 41-3, and reprinted<lb/>
in Burgess, Revolutionary Sonnets and Other Poems, edited by<lb/>
Kevin Jackson (Carcanet, 2002), pp. 32-3.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
shagged and fagged and fashed: A quotation from “The Leaden<lb/>
Echo and the Golden Echo’, a dramatic poem by Gerard Manley<lb/>
Hopkins: ‘O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled,<lb/>
care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered.’ In a<lb/>
letter to his mother, dated 5 March 1972, Hopkins wrote: ‘I<lb/>
enclose three northcountry primroses [. . .] They will no doubt<lb/>
look fagged.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a hound-and-horny look of evil: Hound and Horn was an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
known to Burgess. Its contributors included Eugene O’Neill and<lb/>
Herbert Read. But the primary meaning here is ‘corny’ (chyming<lb/>
slang).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wilsonsway: A reference either to Burgess’s real name, John<lb/>
Burgess Wilson, or to the English writer Angus Wilson (1913-91),<lb/>
whose dystopian novel The Old Men at the Zoo was reviewed<lb/>
by Burgess in the Yorkshire Post in 1961.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Taylor Place: The historian A. J. P. Taylor (1906-90) taught<lb/>
Burgess and his first wife, Llewela Jones, at Manchester<lb/>
University in the 1930s. According to Taylor's biographer Adam<lb/>
Sisman, Dylan Thomas (who later had an affair with Llewela<lb/>
during the Second World War) seduced Taylor's first wife.<lb/>
Alternatively, this may be a reference to the novelist Elizabeth<lb/>
Taylor (1912-75), whose books were said by Burgess to be under-<lb/>
estimated by critics. See The Novel Now, p. 214.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ludwig van: Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Burgess's 1974<lb/>
novel Napoleon Symphony takes its structure from Beethoven's<lb/>
Eroica symphony. Each episode within the novel corresponds<lb/>
to a passage of music in the score. Beethoven himself appears<lb/>
as one of the characters in Burgess’s novel Mozart and the Wolf<lb/>
Gang (1991), and in “Uncle Ludwig’, an unproduced. Burgess<lb/>
film script about Beethoven's uneasy relationship with his<lb/>
nephew. See also The Ninth, a talk about Beethoven broadcast<lb/>
on BBC Radio 3 on 14 December 1990.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Heaven Seventeen: Originally from Sheffield, the English band<lb/>
Heaven 17 (formed 1980; disbanded 1989) named themselves<lb/>
after one of Burgess’s fictional pop groups. Two of their members,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware, had previously been part<lb/>
of The Human League. Their hits included “Temptation and<lb/>
‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fuzzy warbles: Andy Partridge, the main songwriter from the<lb/>
band XTC, released a series of albums between 2002 and 2006<lb/>
</p>
<p>
under the general title Fuzzy Warbles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven: A half-quotation<lb/>
</p>
<p>
from Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’, which provides the text for the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
final choral movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nineteenth-century English translation known to Burgess is:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Joy, thou glorious spark of heaven, / Daughter of Elysium, /<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hearts on fire, aroused, enraptured, / To thy sacred shrine we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
come. / Custom’s bond no more can sever / Those by thy sure<lb/>
</p>
<p>
magic tied. / All mankind are loving brothers / Where thy sacred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wings abide.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One can die but once: A deliberate misquotation from<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before<lb/>
</p>
<p>
their deaths / The valiant never taste of death but once’ (Act<lb/>
</p>
<p>
II, Scene 2).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Victoria Flatblock: Possibly a reference to Victoria Park, the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
location of Xaverian College in Manchester, where Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
studied between 1928 and 1935.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
long hair and [. . .] big flowy cravat: Note that Alex’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="122"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
appearance, described in the opening chapter, resembles the bust<lb/>
of Beethoven. This identification between Alex and Beethoven<lb/>
reinforces Burgess’s claim (in his 1985 interview with Isaac<lb/>
Bashevis Singer) that Alex will go on to become a great composer<lb/>
after the novel has ended.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
darkmans: “The night’, an example of thieves’ slang, first<lb/>
recorded in the 1560s (OED). ‘Lightmans is the day. For Burgess<lb/>
on the language of the Elizabethan underworld, see his essay<lb/>
‘What Shakespeare Smelt’ in Homage to Qwert Yuiop (Hutchinson,<lb/>
1986), pp. 264-6.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
merzky gets: ‘filthy bastards’ (Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang).<lb/>
Boy, thou uproarious shark of heaven: A parody of Schiller’s<lb/>
‘Ode to Joy’. See note on p.48 above.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very cold glazzy: An allusion to the poem “Under Ben Bulber’<lb/>
by W. B. Yeats: “Cast a cold eye / On life, on death. / Horseman,<lb/>
pass by? We know that Burgess was reading Yeats in the same year<lb/>
that he wrote A Clockwork Orange. His hardback copy of Yeats<lb/>
Collected Poems is inscribed ‘jbw [John Burgess Wilson] 1961’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
idiot or a charlatan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ludovico’s Technique: A double reference to Lodovico, the<lb/>
Italian villain of John Webster's revenge tragedy The White Devil<lb/>
(1612), and to Ludwig van (see note to p.45, above).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wachet Auf Choral Prelude: J. S. Bach, Cantata number 140,<lb/>
‘Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme’ (1731).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
poggy: Late nineteenth-century British Army slang. Partridge’s<lb/>
Dictionary of Slang defines ‘poggy’ as ‘rum, or any spiritous<lb/>
liquor’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
archibalds: First World War slang for aeroplanes or anti-aircraft<lb/>
guns (Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Dostoevsky’s novel Crime and Punishment, which Burgess read<lb/>
for the first time before travelling to Russia in 1961. In a letter<lb/>
to Diana and Meir Gillon, written while he was working on A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange, Burgess said: ‘I’ve just completed Part One<lb/>
— which is just sheer crime. Now comes punishment. The whole<lb/>
thing’s making me feel rather sick.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Each man kills the thing he loves: Dr Branom is quoting from<lb/>
The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1897) by Oscar Wilde, who was<lb/>
convicted of sodomy in 1895 and imprisoned for two years with<lb/>
hard labour. Burgess later corresponded about Wilde with<lb/>
Richard Ellmann, whose biography Oscar Wilde was published<lb/>
in 1987.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the dialect of the tribe: A quotation from the second section<lb/>
of Little Gidding (1942) by T. S. Eliot: ‘Since our concern was<lb/>
speech, and speech impelled us / To purify the dialect of the<lb/>
tribe’ (Eliot, Collected Poems 1909-1962, Faber, p. 218). Eliot is<lb/>
quoting ‘Le Tombeau d’Edgar Poe’ by the nineteenth-century<lb/>
French poet Stéphane Mallarmé: “Donner un sens plus pur aux<lb/>
mots de la tribu.’ Eliot’s poem is concerned with what the critic<lb/>
David Moody calls ‘the fruitful dead’. See Moody, Thomas<lb/>
Stearns Eliot: Poet, second edition (Cambridge University Press,<lb/>
1994); PP. 239, 253.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perfect Love Casteth Out Fear: A quotation from the King<lb/>
James Bible: ‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth<lb/>
out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made<lb/>
perfect in love’ (x John, 4:18).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I say to you, there shall be joy before the angels of God upon<lb/>
one sinner doing penance’ (Luke 15:10).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mozart Number Forty: Burgess later wrote a short story based<lb/>
on Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 (K.550, 1788) and included<lb/>
it in the text of Mozart and the Wolf Gang (1991), pp. 81-91.<lb/>
Dear dead idlewilds, rot not in variform guises: A parody of<lb/>
Gerard Manley Hopkins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="123"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You could snuff it on a hundred aspirin: Although an overdose<lb/>
of aspirin can cause liver failure and internal bleeding, it would<lb/>
take more than 250 tablets to achieve these effects in an adult<lb/>
male such as Alex. Burgess appears to have miscalculated here.<lb/>
Where I see the infamy I seek to erase it: A quotation from<lb/>
Voltaire’s letter to d’Alembert, 28 November 1762: ‘Quoi que<lb/>
vous fassiez, écrazez l’infame.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rubinstein: Harold Rubinstein was the libel lawyer at William<lb/>
Heinemann, Burgess’s UK publisher. He had dealt with complaints<lb/>
about libel arising from two of Burgess’s previous novels, The<lb/>
Enemy in the Blanket (1958) and. The Worm and the Ring (1961).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that manner of voice pricks me: OED defines the verb ‘prick’<lb/>
as “To cause sharp mental pain; to sting with sorrow or remorse;<lb/>
to grieve, pain, vex’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We must inflame all hearts: A reference to St Francis Xavier,<lb/>
who gave his name to Xaverian College, where Burgess was<lb/>
educated. In Catholic art, the flaming heart is one of the symbols<lb/>
associated with St Francis.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rest, perturbed spirit: A quotation from Shakespeare’s Hamlet<lb/>
(Act I, Scene 5). Hamlet says to his father’s ghost: “Rest, rest,<lb/>
perturbed spirit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was cured all right: Immediately after this sentence, there is<lb/>
a note on the typescript in Burgess’s handwriting: “Should we<lb/>
end here? An optional “epilogue” follows.’ Eric Swenson, the<lb/>
publisher at W. W. Norton who was responsible for the 1963<lb/>
American edition, encouraged Burgess to end the novel at this<lb/>
point, omitting the twenty-first chapter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Felix M.: The composer Felix Mendelssohn (1809-47) wrote his<lb/>
overture to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Nights Dream in 1827.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
French poet set by old Benjy Britt: Benjamin Britten (1913-76)<lb/>
composed his song cycle (opus 18) based on Les Illuminations<lb/>
by Arthur Rimbaud in 1939. Burgess had a high regard for<lb/>
Montagu Slater’s libretto for Britten's opera Peter Grimes. He<lb/>
described it as ‘the only libretto I know that can be read in its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
own right as a dramatic poem’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
214<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NADSAT GLOSSARY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
appy polly loggies: cheena: woman<lb/>
apologies to cheest: to wash<lb/>
</p>
<p>
chelloveck: man, human<lb/>
baboochka: old woman being<lb/>
bezoomny: crazy chepooka: nonsense<lb/>
biblio: library choodessny: wonderful<lb/>
bitva: battle cluve: beak<lb/>
bog: God collocoll: bell<lb/>
bolnoy: sick to crast: to steal<lb/>
bolshy: big to creech: to scream<lb/>
bratchny: bastard cutter: money<lb/>
bratty, brat: brother<lb/>
britva: razor darkmans: night<lb/>
brooko: stomach deng: money<lb/>
to brosat: to throw devotchka: girl<lb/>
bugatty: rich dobby: good<lb/>
</p>
<p>
domy: house<lb/>
cal: shit dorogoy: valuable, dear<lb/>
cancer: cigarette to drats: to fight<lb/>
cantora: office droog, droogie: friend<lb/>
carman: pocket<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
chasso: guard eemya: Name<lb/>
</p>
<p>
215<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="124"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eggiweg: egg<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to filly: to play<lb/>
flip: very or great<lb/>
forella: trout, woman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
glaz, glazzy: eye, nipple<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gloopy: stupid<lb/>
</p>
<p>
golly: coin<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goloss: voice<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goober: lip<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to gooly: to go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gorlo: throat<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to govoreet: to talk,<lb/>
speak<lb/>
</p>
<p>
grahzny: dirty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
grazzy: dirty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gromky: loud<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groody: breast<lb/>
</p>
<p>
guff: laugh<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gulliver: head<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
horrorshow: good, well<lb/>
</p>
<p>
interessovatted: interested<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to itty: to go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
jammiwam: jam, jelly<lb/>
jeezny: life<lb/>
</p>
<p>
kartoffel: potato<lb/>
keeshkas: guts<lb/>
</p>
<p>
kleb: bread<lb/>
klootch: key<lb/>
knopka: button<lb/>
kopat: understand<lb/>
koshka: cat<lb/>
krovvy: blood<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to kupet: to buy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lewdies: people<lb/>
lighter: old woman<lb/>
litso: face<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lomtick: piece<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to lovet: to catch<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to lubbilub: to kiss<lb/>
</p>
<p>
malchick: boy<lb/>
malenky: little<lb/>
maslo: butter<lb/>
merzky: filthy<lb/>
messel: idea<lb/>
</p>
<p>
mesto: place<lb/>
millicent: policeman<lb/>
minoota: minute<lb/>
molodoy: young<lb/>
moloko: milk<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
morder: snout<lb/>
mounch: food<lb/>
mozg: brain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nachinat: to begin<lb/>
nadmenny: arrogant<lb/>
nadsat: teen<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nagoy: naked<lb/>
nazz: name<lb/>
neezhnies: panties<lb/>
nochy: night<lb/>
noga: foot, leg<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nozh: knife<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oddy knocky: alone<lb/>
okno: window<lb/>
oobivat: to kill<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to ookadeet: to leave<lb/>
ooko: ear<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oomny: intelligent<lb/>
oozhassny: dreadful<lb/>
oozy: chain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to osoosh: to wipe<lb/>
otchkies: glasses<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to peet: to drink<lb/>
pishcha: food<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to platch: to cry<lb/>
platties: clothes<lb/>
plennies: prisoners<lb/>
plesk: splash<lb/>
pletcho: shoulder<lb/>
plott: body<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pol: sex<lb/>
</p>
<p>
polezny: useful<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to pony: to understand<lb/>
poogly: frightened<lb/>
pooshka: pistol<lb/>
</p>
<p>
prestoopnick: criminal<lb/>
pretty polly: money<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to prod: to produce<lb/>
ptitsa: woman<lb/>
pyahnitsa: drunk<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to rabbit: to work<lb/>
radosty: joy<lb/>
rassoodock: mind<lb/>
raz: time<lb/>
</p>
<p>
razdraz: angry<lb/>
raskazz: story<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to razrez: to tear<lb/>
rooker: hand or arm<lb/>
rot: mouth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rozz: policeman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sabog: shoe<lb/>
sakar: sugar<lb/>
sarky: sarcastic<lb/>
scoteena: beast<lb/>
shaika: gang<lb/>
sharp: woman<lb/>
sharries: buttocks,<lb/>
arse<lb/>
shest: barrier<lb/>
shilarny: interest<lb/>
shive: slice<lb/>
shiyah: neck<lb/>
shlaga: club, cudgel<lb/>
shlapa: hat<lb/>
shlem: helmet<lb/>
shoom: noise<lb/>
shoomny: noisy<lb/>
shoot: fool<lb/>
</p>
<p>
217<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="125"/>
<p>
sinny: cinema<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to skazat: to say<lb/>
</p>
<p>
skolliwoll: school<lb/>
</p>
<p>
skorry: fast<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to skvat: to snatch<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sladky: sweet<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to sloochat: to happen<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to slooshy: to hear<lb/>
</p>
<p>
slovo: word<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to smeck: laugh<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to smot: to look<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sneety: dream<lb/>
</p>
<p>
snoutie: tobacco<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to sobirat: to pick up<lb/>
</p>
<p>
soomka: bag, unattractive<lb/>
woman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to spat with: to have sex<lb/>
with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spatchka: sleep<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spoogy: terrified<lb/>
</p>
<p>
starry: old<lb/>
</p>
<p>
strack: horror<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tally: waist<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tashtook: handkerchief<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tass: cup<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to tolchock: to hit<lb/>
</p>
<p>
toofles: slippers<lb/>
</p>
<p>
twenty-to-one: fun, Le.<lb/>
gang violence<lb/>
</p>
<p>
vareet: to cook up<lb/>
vaysay: WC, bathroom<lb/>
</p>
<p>
veck: man, guy<lb/>
veshch: thing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to viddy: to see<lb/>
voloss: hair<lb/>
</p>
<p>
von: smell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to vred: to injure<lb/>
</p>
<p>
yahma: mouth or hole<lb/>
yahzick: tongue<lb/>
</p>
<p>
yarbles: testicles, bollocks<lb/>
to yeckate: to drive<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zammechat: remarkable<lb/>
zasnoot: sleep<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zheena: wife<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zooby: tooth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zubrick: penis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zvook: ring, sound<lb/>
zvonock: bell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PROLOGUE to A Clockwork Orange: A Play with Music<lb/>
Anthony Burgess, 1986<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This prologue was written in July 1986 for Burgess’s musical<lb/>
stage version of A Clockwork Orange, published by<lb/>
Hutchinson the following year. The prologue is missing from<lb/>
all published editions of the play. Marty is the seventeen-year-<lb/>
old girl who becomes Alex's partner in the final scene of the<lb/>
stage version.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The scene is the Garden of Eden. Alex is Adam, his even-<lb/>
tual girlfriend Marty is Eve. This, of course, is a dream<lb/>
that Alex is dreaming. Early morning, delicate greenish<lb/>
light, a tumult of bird-song. Alex and Marty wake in each<lb/>
</p>
<p>
other’s arms. Alex yawns cavernously, then smacks his lips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Zavtrak.<lb/>
MARTY: What’s zavtrak?<lb/>
ALEX: It’s a word that just came. Like all words. It means<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
(He does an exaggerated and brutal mime of sleep.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: What you mean is breakfast.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
219<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="126"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Zavtrak tastes better. Or will when I’ve had it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY (rising): T’ll pick you some fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Always fruit. We might as well be wasps. You can’t<lb/>
do a hard day’s lazing about on fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A VOICE: Beware of the yellow apple.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: He’s up early. He’s not usually round till the what-<lb/>
youcallit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: The cool of the evening.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(God appears. He has a strong look of the prison chaplain of<lb/>
a later scene. He is in spotless white and long-bearded. He<lb/>
sits on a tree stump.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: What's that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog. You said I’d got to give names to everything.<lb/>
Ptitsa — the thing that flies. Devotchka — her. Yarblocko<lb/>
— the hard round thing that grows on trees and that<lb/>
I’m fed up of eating. Bog — you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Beware of the yellow yarblocko.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Now I pony. You never skaz about why beware.<lb/>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: You must not know too much.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Because there’s limits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Are limits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I stand corrected.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Sit, you mean. (She goes off with her basket.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
GoD: Sometimes it repents me that I made the — what's<lb/>
the word?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Devotchka. Cheena. Moozh. Look, Bog — what<lb/>
veshch is this about knowing too much?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Free will has to have limits. Your will must not be<lb/>
as free as mine. You see that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: I viddy real horrorshow. After all, you're like in<lb/>
charge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: We've just had trouble in heaven. One I trusted —<lb/>
the one | placed in charge of the light — made up his<lb/>
mind that he was as free as I am. Free as I am meant<lb/>
being me. You see that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I viddy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: He had to go. That means that I’m responsible for<lb/>
a moral duality. He versus me. He calls me evil, he calls<lb/>
himself good. The truth, of course, is the other way<lb/>
round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: These two slovos I do not pony.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: If by that you mean understand —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I’m in charge of the slovos. That was made very<lb/>
clear. What thing he calls by name, that is its name.<lb/>
Eemya. Naz.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Do not seek to pony. That would mean disaster.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Eat that yellow yarblocko and wed pony those two<lb/>
slovos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Good and evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It’s me that’s supposed to be in charge of the slovos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Not those two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And yet it’s there to eat. Reach up my rooker, pull<lb/>
it down, munch munch. Too easy, isn’t it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: It’s a way of testing your capacity for obedience.<lb/>
You're free to obey and free to disobey. That’s free will.<lb/>
That's choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It’s not enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I beg your pardon?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I like the sound of that holy angel or saint or what-<lb/>
ever he was. He took a chance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: The chance consequent on his disobedience. He's<lb/>
created an alternative world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="127"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Why didn’t you stop him?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: That’s not in the rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog’s rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Once rules are made, they’re not to be changed. I<lb/>
detest the arbitrary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Those bolshy big slovos I pony not. I'd like to viddy<lb/>
this bolshy disobedient chelloveck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop (shuddering): Youll meet him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What does it mean — that slovo — good, was it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: It means accepting the divine order. My order.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And the other one?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Disorder. Disruption. The irrational bestowal of<lb/>
pain. The dissolution of creation into chaos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And you couldn't stop it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I abide by my own rules. I gave my creation free<lb/>
will. I gave it the power of choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: The choice between those two things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I didn’t say that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
atex: I did. Words are for thinking with. ['m in charge<lb/>
of words. Slovos. You said so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Eat that forbidden fruit and the birds will grow<lb/>
talons, the beasts will bite, the solitary snake will manu-<lb/>
facture venom, you'll discover death and have to find<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
supervene on creation. Do not touch that fruit. (He gets<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up.)<lb/>
ALEX: Take it away, then.<lb/>
cop: No. Remember the rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He goes off: Alex shakes his head, bemused. A bird calls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whistling, he imitates it. He does more: he creates a cantilena<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of his own. He is excited by his act of composition. Marty<lb/>
enters with a basket laden with fruit.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: Did you hear that? (He whistles again.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Nice. But what’s it for?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It needs a slovo. Mouse sick. Moose sick. I call it<lb/>
music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: But what’s it for?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It just is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Listen — I met this man —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Man? You can’t have. I’m the only one. So far.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He tries to embrace Marty, and this makes her spill some of<lb/>
her fruit. Then Alex is struck by a thought.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: You say a man?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Marty: More of an angel, really. He helped me pick this<lb/>
fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: He helped you to pick that one?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He means the large yellow one, orange really, that he picks<lb/>
up from the ground. He holds it gingerly to his ear.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: There’s noise inside. Like ticking. Ticking. I just<lb/>
made up that slovo. We'd better see what's inside. (He<lb/>
pauses.) It was only eating he said, wasn't it? No harm<lb/>
in looking. We viddy it every day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: It smells all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(Alex breaks the rind and juice spatters on to his hand. He<lb/>
licks it.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Now you've eaten it.<lb/>
ALEX: I don’t call that eating. ‘Taste.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(She tastes. The music that Alex whistled is now heard on an<lb/>
orchestra. It is the theme of the last movement of Beethovens<lb/>
</p>
<p>
223<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="128"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ninth Symphony. The light subtly changes. A man enters who<lb/>
is identical with the Minister of the Interior of a later scene.<lb/>
He is smartly dressed in a suit of snakeskin.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: It wasn’t so difficult, was it? The world hasn't<lb/>
changed. The old thunderer hasn't unleashed his light-<lb/>
ning. He wanted you to do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Wanted?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: Of course. Why did he leave it hanging there?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: The world Aas changed. It’s cold. I need some —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Platties? Clothes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You'll find clothes available. When you wake<lb/>
up from this dream. We all need protection from the<lb/>
cold cold world and the cold cold eyes of strangers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What's strangers?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: People we don’t know. The world’s already<lb/>
seething with them. You see them out there? That’s just<lb/>
a small sample.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: I don’t see anything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: But you imagine them. Imagine them first,<lb/>
then create them. That’s your job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: I feel a terrible — I don’t know the word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: Pain. Agony. Birth throes. Youd better go off<lb/>
and lie down. The pain will go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(She painfully leaves.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: 1 know all about it. I’m not your /ittle friend. I don’t<lb/>
have to be told. We have to have the two veshches or<lb/>
there wouldn't be anything to choose. It’s the choosing<lb/>
that counts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: I'll choose for you. That’s my privilege.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I'll choose for myself. That’s mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You'll choose wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Who knows what wrong is? Only Bog has the secret.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You mean the old one? He’s dead. I threw him<lb/>
out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That’s why it’s cold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(The lights dim. A wind drowns the music. The Minister<lb/>
laughs and goes off. Alex tries to warm himself. He huddles<lb/>
on the ground. He wakes to the music of the Prelude. It was<lb/>
all a dream. Naked, he is speedily dressed by his three friends<lb/>
or droogs. The play begins.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="129"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
reser RUDRA RHOH NUR<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
EPILOGUE: ‘A Malenky Govoreet about the Molodoy’<lb/>
Anthony Burgess, 1987<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
as: Alex, if I may call you that — there’s always been some<lb/>
doubt about your surname —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLex: Never gave it, brother, to no manner of chelloveck.<lb/>
The gloopy shoot that put me in the sinny — Lubric or<lb/>
Pubic or some such like naz — he gave me like two —<lb/>
Alex Burgess and Alex Delarge. That’s because of me<lb/>
govoreeting about being Alexander the Big. Then he<lb/>
forgets. Bad like editing. Call me Alex.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: In 1962, when the book about you was published, you<lb/>
were still a nadsat, teen that is. Now you must be about<lb/>
forty-two or -three or -four. Settled down, finished with<lb/>
the ultra-violence. Raising a family. Pillar of society.<lb/>
Taxpayer. Father of family. Faithful husband. Running<lb/>
to fat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: For you, little bratty, I am what I was. I am in a<lb/>
book and I do not sdacha. Fixed like, ah yes, for ever<lb/>
and never, allmen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="130"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Sdacha?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Pick up the old slovar some time, my brother.<lb/>
Shonary, Angleruss.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Shonary?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Leaving like the dick out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Fixed for ever and never, allmen, as you skazz. Eternal<lb/>
type of molodoy aggression.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: You are learning, verily thou art, O little brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: And yet there are changes, sdachas as you would put<lb/>
it. The youth or molodoy of the space age is not what<lb/>
it was in 1962.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That old kneeg was in the space age, my malenky<lb/>
droog. In it there are chellovecks on the old Luna. It<lb/>
was like pathetic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Prophetic?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And pathetic too. The jeezny of all chellovecks is like<lb/>
pathetic and very pathetic. Because they do not sdach.<lb/>
Because they are always the same. Because they are<lb/>
mekansky apple-sins. That being the Russ like naz of the<lb/>
kneeg written by Burgess or F Alexander or whatever his<lb/>
naz is or was. What did you say your naz was, bratty?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: I skazzed nichevo about a name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Learning, brother, learning thou art in Bog’s Pravda.<lb/>
And you would know what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: To put it plain, your opinion of the youth of today.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: My like missal on the molodoy of segodnya. They<lb/>
are not like what I was. No, verily not. Because they<lb/>
have not one veshch in their gullivers. To Ludwig van<lb/>
and his like they give shooms of lip-music prrrrr. It 1s<lb/>
all with them cal, very gromky. Guitars and these kots<lb/>
and. kotchkas with creeching golosses and their luscious<lb/>
glory very long and very grahzny. And their platties. It<lb/>
is all jeans and filthy toofles. And tisshuts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
228<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
gullivers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Meaning not one thought in their heads?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is what I skazzed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: But they have many. They are against war and all for<lb/>
universal peace and banning nuclear missiles. They speak<lb/>
of love and human equality. They have songs about<lb/>
these things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It is all cal and kiss my sharries. A tolchock in the<lb/>
keeshkas for the kots and the old in-out for the koshkas.<lb/>
Devotchkas, that is. What they want they will not get.<lb/>
For there is no sdacha. There will always be voina and no<lb/>
mir, like old Lion Trotsky or it may be Tolstoy was always<lb/>
govoreeting about. It is built in. Chellovecks are all like<lb/>
very aggressive and do not sdach. The Russkies have a<lb/>
slovo for it, two really, and it is prirozhdyonnuiy grekh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Let me consult my ah Angleruss slovar. Odna minoota<lb/>
— it says here original sin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That I have not slooshied before. Real dobby.<lb/>
Original sin is good and very good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: The young of today pride themselves on their sever-<lb/>
ance from the culture of their elders. Their elders have<lb/>
ruined the world, they say, and when they are not trying<lb/>
to rebuild that ruined world with love and fellowship<lb/>
they withdraw from it with hallucinogens.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is a hard slovo and very hard, O my brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: I mean that they take drugs and experience hallucina-<lb/>
tions in which they are transported to heavenly regions<lb/>
of the inner mind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="131"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Meaning that they are in touch with Bog And All<lb/>
His Holy Angels and the other veshches?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Not God, in whom most no longer believe. Though<lb/>
some of them follow the one you would call the bearded<lb/>
nagoy chelloveck who died on the cross. Indeed, they<lb/>
grow beards and try to look like him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What I skaz is that these veshches, like drencrom<lb/>
and vellocet and the rest of the cal, are not good for a<lb/>
malchick. To doomat about Bog and to itty off into the<lb/>
land and burble cal about lubbilubbing every chelloveck<lb/>
has to sap all the goodness and strength out of a<lb/>
malchick. This I skaz, ah yes, and it is the pravda and<lb/>
nichevo but the.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Do you consider the youth of today to be more violent<lb/>
than the generation to which you belonged or belong?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Not more. Those that want deng or cutter to koopat<lb/>
their teeny malenky sniffs and snorts and jabs in the<lb/>
rooker must use the old ultra-violence to take and like<lb/>
grab. But such are not seelny, strong that is. All the<lb/>
strength and goodness has been like sapped out of them.<lb/>
The ultra-violence is less now of the molodoy than of<lb/>
the ITA and ZBD and the Cronks and the Pally Steinians<lb/>
who are not pals of the Steins, ah no, nor of the Cohens<lb/>
and the rest of the yahoodies. It is all with the KPS and<lb/>
the TYF and the QED and the other gruppas. Terror<lb/>
by air and land, O my brother. Bombs in public mestos.<lb/>
Very cowardly and very like unkind. Bombs and guns,<lb/>
they were not ever my own veshch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You never handled a gun?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Very cowardly, for it is ultra-violence from a long<lb/>
long long like way off. Dratsing is not what it was. It<lb/>
was better in what they called like the Dark Ages before<lb/>
they put on the like lights. The old britva and the nozh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
230<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NSN IASON URE DERN ROH OUR ON GT<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rooker to rooker. Your own red red krovvy as well as<lb/>
the krovvy of the chelloveck you are dratsing. And then<lb/>
there was another veshch I do not pomnit the slovo of<lb/>
all that good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: Style, you mean style?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That slovo will do as dobby as any slovo I know<lb/>
whereof, O my brother. Style and again style. Style we<lb/>
had. And the red red krovvy did not get on to your<lb/>
platties if you had style. For it was style of the nogas<lb/>
and the rookers and the plott, as it might be tansivat-<lb/>
ting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: Dancing?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is the slovo that would not like come into my<lb/>
gulliver. The yahzick of the kvadrats I could never get<lb/>
my yahzick round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Kvadrat means quadratic, doesn’t it? And that means<lb/>
square. By using such terminology you give away your<lb/>
age.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: Yarbles. Bolshy great yarblockos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Yarblockos means apples, does it not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It means yarbles, O my brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Let us return to this business of the music preferred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
AB: Lay it on?<lb/>
Avex: Lay it on thick. Flick. Sinny film, that is. He was<lb/>
not seen off by Salieri. He snuffed because he was too<lb/>
</p>
<p>
good for this filthy world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
231<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="132"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You speak plain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I always govoreet plain, my brother. And this I skaz<lb/>
now, that music is the way in. That music is the door<lb/>
to the big bolshy pravda. That it is like heaven. And<lb/>
what the molodoy of now slooshy is not music. And<lb/>
the slovos are like pathetic. What I say to these molodoy<lb/>
chellovecks is that they must like grow up. They must<lb/>
dig into their gullivers more. They must not smeck at<lb/>
what is gone behind. Because that is all we have. There<lb/>
is no to come and the now is no more than like a sneeze.<lb/>
It is all there behind, built up by the bolshy chellovecks<lb/>
who are like dead. But they are not dead. They live on<lb/>
in our jeezny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You seem to be ah govoreeting about the preservation<lb/>
of the past. You seem to me also to be ah skazzing that<lb/>
artistic creation is a great good. And yet your ah jeezny<lb/>
was dedicated to destruction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: All these bolshy slovos. It was the bolshy great force<lb/>
of the jeezny that was in myself. I was molodoy, and<lb/>
none had taught me to make. So break was the veshch<lb/>
I had to do. But I get over it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You get over it? Meaning you grow up?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: There is no kneeg about me growing up. That is<lb/>
not writ by no manner of writing chelloveck. They viddy<lb/>
me as a very ultra-violent malchick and not more, ah<lb/>
no. To be young is to be nothing. It is best as in your<lb/>
slovos to be like growing up. That is why I skaz to the<lb/>
molodoy of now that they must not be as they are. They<lb/>
have this long voloss and these tisshuts and blue tight<lb/>
genovas on their nogas and they think they are all. But<lb/>
they are nothing. Grow up is what they must do, ah<lb/>
yes. What they have to do is to like grow up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Can you now transport yourself to the future, or rather<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
your part in the future which has not been written about<lb/>
and, I speak with some authority, never will be, and<lb/>
deliver a final message to the world of today?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘“f possible’. Very well. I speak as a tax-paying adult.<lb/>
And I say that the only thing that counts is the human<lb/>
capacity for moral choice. No, I will not speak. I will<lb/>
sing. I will take Ludwig van Beethoven's setting of<lb/>
Schiller’s Ode to Joy in the final movement of the glorious<lb/>
Ninth, and I will put my own slovos, I mean words, to<lb/>
it. And the words are these. If you would care to join<lb/>
in, thou art most welcome. Slooshy, listen that is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Being young’s a sort of sickness,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Measles, mumps or chicken pox.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gather all your toys together,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lock them in a wooden box.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That means tolchocks, crasting and dratsing,<lb/>
All of the things that suit a boy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When you build instead of busting,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You can start your Ode to Joy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Do not be a clockwork orange,<lb/>
Freedom has a lovely voice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here is good and there is badness,<lb/>
Look on both, then take your choice.<lb/>
Sweet in juice and hue and aroma,<lb/>
Let’s not be changed to fruit machines.<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Choice is free but seldom easy —<lb/>
That’s what human freedom means.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gloopy sort of slovos, really. Grahzny sort of a world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
May I now, O my brother, return to the pages of my<lb/>
book?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You never left them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Wuat I loved most about the Russians was their ineffi-<lb/>
ciency. I went to Leningrad expecting to find a frightening<lb/>
steel-and-stone image of the Orwellian future. What I<lb/>
found instead was human beings at their most human: or,<lb/>
to put it another way, at their most inefficient.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have to qualify this: inefficient people do not produce<lb/>
sputniks or cosmonauts. But it seems that the efficiency is<lb/>
a thin cream floated to the top; one gets the impression of<lb/>
a school in which all the teachers are busy at a staff meeting<lb/>
or in the sixth-form laboratories, leaving the lower forms to<lb/>
their own unsupervised devices. Stink-bombs are thrown,<lb/>
ink splashes the walls (the walls are already dirty enough,<lb/>
anyway); Ivanov Minor writes on the blackboard. “Comrade<lb/>
Khrushchev has a fat belly.’ But no one minds because there<lb/>
is a most interesting experiment going on in the physics lab,<lb/>
and all the staff is crowding round that. Or else some teacher<lb/>
is being reprimanded by all the other teachers for a breach<lb/>
of staff discipline. Or else plans are being made for a colossal<lb/>
open day. Or perhaps the headmaster is checking the proofs<lb/>
of the glorious and mendacious school prospectus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know whether mendacity is an aspect of the<lb/>
Russian character or something that springs out of Soviet<lb/>
</p>
<p>
237<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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<p>
‘double-think’. In a restaurant a waiter assured me that all<lb/>
the tables were full when I could see for myself that most<lb/>
of them were empty. I tried to buy an English newspaper<lb/>
but could only find the Daily Worker on sale. The girl at<lb/>
the kiosk should rightly have said: “Only the Daily Worker<lb/>
tells the truth; hence it is the only British paper allowed<lb/>
in Soviet Russia.’ But what she actually said was: “You<lb/>
should have come earlier. All the other British papers have<lb/>
been snapped up.’ That was not much of a compliment<lb/>
to the Daily Worker; nor to what I call my intelligence —<lb/>
everyone knows that no other British newspapers are<lb/>
allowed in Russia. Some of the lies are far from annoying.<lb/>
An Intourist man told me I would have to pay £25 for a<lb/>
single night in a double room in the Astoria Hotel. What<lb/>
I actually paid was something under 30 shillings; I have<lb/>
the bill to prove it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But perhaps what I call lying is only a Russian unwill-<lb/>
ingness to face reality. And perhaps both those harsh words<lb/>
— lying and inefficiency — are ill-chosen. The world of<lb/>
romance and fairy tale is never far away from the<lb/>
Khrushchevian Utopia (Utopia, of course, was a fairy tale).<lb/>
Gagarin and Titov are perhaps cognate with Baba Yaga and<lb/>
other fairy-tale witches and magicians. If you can accept<lb/>
that a hut can walk on chicken’s legs, you are not surprised<lb/>
at what can be done with a space-ship. I made friends with<lb/>
a serious young man with a good science degree. For days<lb/>
we talked earnestly and without humour on political and<lb/>
scientific matters. Then suddenly, without warning, without<lb/>
a flicker or glint, he told me that he had in his apartment<lb/>
a Siberian cat nearly three feet long, excluding the tail. This<lb/>
cat, he said, had very green eyes, shared his bed with him,<lb/>
and occasionally kicked him out of bed on to the floor.<lb/>
You could see he sometimes got a bit tired of reality.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In a fairy-tale world time is easily suspended. Dining-<lb/>
room delays are proverbial. In Leningrad’s smallest restau-<lb/>
rant I ordered beef stroganoff at twelve-thirty and was<lb/>
eventually served it at four. That didn’t greatly worry me;<lb/>
I was less hungry than thirsty and desperately wanted beer.<lb/>
But nobody would bring me beer. I lolled my tongue in<lb/>
desperation and made strangled noises: these were appre-<lb/>
ciated but they didn’t bring me beer. What I did then was<lb/>
to go to a refrigerator that was gleaming in the distance<lb/>
and take beer out of it. I brought the beer back to my<lb/>
table and opened it with a knife. Nobody objected. I did<lb/>
this four times; nobody minded in the least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Between drinking this self-service beer and waiting for<lb/>
my beef stroganoff I decided to do a little shopping. I had<lb/>
seen a boutique with bracelets and brooches and badges<lb/>
of Lenin and Major Gagarin. I wanted to buy a small<lb/>
Soviet present for my wife. The girls behind the counter<lb/>
were very pretty and very helpful. Nobody could speak<lb/>
English but we contrived a macaronic mixture of Russian,<lb/>
French, and German. I chose a charming little bracelet<lb/>
and brought out my roubles and kopeks. The girls were<lb/>
shocked. Only foreign currency was allowed here, monsieut.<lb/>
These goods were for foreigners. Did I not see the logic?<lb/>
I didn’t, but I asked how much English money. There was<lb/>
a great rummaging among type-written lists. At length it<lb/>
was proudly announced that the bracelet would cost thirty<lb/>
shillings and fifteen pence. I gave the girls a little lesson.<lb/>
They crowded round. They were most appreciative: the<lb/>
Russians love lessons. I handed over two pound notes and<lb/>
there was an interval for admiring the portrait of the<lb/>
Queen. “The Tsarina,’ they said, ‘very pretty. I asked for<lb/>
change. They were terribly sorry, but they had no change.<lb/>
This was the first day, you see, and their aim was to get<lb/>
</p>
<p>
239<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
foreign currency, not give it. What I must do was to choose<lb/>
some other little gift, so that my total purchases would<lb/>
add up to two pounds. This seemed reasonable, so I chose<lb/>
a small brooch. How much this time? This time, they said,<lb/>
busy with their ballpoints, I must pay five shillings and<lb/>
fourteen pence. A recapitulation of my little arithmetic<lb/>
lessons and some gentle rapping on the knuckles. Charming<lb/>
giggles; very well, then, a total of thirty-five shillings and<lb/>
twenty-nine pence, making a total of one pound, seventeen<lb/>
shillings and five pence. That meant there was still two<lb/>
shillings and sevenpence to be spent. I groaned. I said:<lb/>
‘Please keep the two shillings and sevenpence change,<lb/>
mademoiselle. Buy yourself a little something with it.’<lb/>
Everybody was profoundly shocked. No, no, no,<lb/>
unthinkable, uncultured, un-Sovier. I must buy something<lb/>
else. So I desperately ranged around the little boutique<lb/>
and emerged finally with a small badge with a hammer<lb/>
and sickle and the slogan Mir Miru, meaning ‘Peace to<lb/>
the World’. This was two shillings. I begged and pleaded<lb/>
with the girls to at least keep the sevenpence change, but<lb/>
they wouldn’t and couldn’. Finally, I was given two boxes<lb/>
of Soviet matches, we exchanged kisses and handshakes,<lb/>
and everybody was happy. It had taken a long time. I had<lb/>
now forgotten what I had ordered for lunch. But the<lb/>
waiter, at last back from his three-hour compulsory rest-<lb/>
period, had nor forgotten. On my table was a plate of cold<lb/>
beef stroganoff. The waiter tut-tutted at me reproachfully.<lb/>
The food had been there for twenty minutes, he said.<lb/>
Perhaps the manic depression which so many Russians<lb/>
seem to suffer from militates against what we like to call<lb/>
efficiency: up in the air, on a wave of massive euphoria;<lb/>
then down into the bowels of the earth, in inutterable<lb/>
misery — that’s the way with the lot of them. A lot of them<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
are what are called pyknic types, short, stocky, and temper-<lb/>
amental, like Comrade Khrushchev himself. A good<lb/>
Communist never weeps for the sins of the world, but I<lb/>
saw plenty of weeping and ineffable depression in Leningrad<lb/>
restaurants. One minute up on a crest of frog-dancing,<lb/>
singing and promiscuous kissing — loud, loving smacks<lb/>
— on vodka and Soviet cognac: the next moment, down<lb/>
in the deepest depression. This would often end in sleep,<lb/>
head down in a litter of glasses, bottles and full ash-trays.<lb/>
And then some grim loud woman would appear with a<lb/>
ready cure — a pledget of cotton-wool soaked in ammonia.<lb/>
Up the nostrils, even into the eyes, and the sufferer would<lb/>
cough back into life, be thrown out by the waiters, and<lb/>
then search hopelessly for a taxi home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I saw a great deal of drunkenness in Leningrad restau-<lb/>
rants. I found this on the whole encouraging; where there's<lb/>
drunkenness, there’s hope, for good little totalitarian<lb/>
machines don’t get drunk. The technique with obstreperous<lb/>
drunks was always the same — the unceremonious chuck-<lb/>
out by a gaggle of waiters: the police were never brought<lb/>
into it. That’s another thing I liked about Leningrad — the<lb/>
absence of police. Perhaps all the police are secret police,<lb/>
and perhaps the only crimes are political crimes. Certainly,<lb/>
there was no attempt to cope officially with the minor<lb/>
misdemeanours which fill our police-courts — drunken<lb/>
disorderliness, rowdyism, soliciting. My wife and I left the<lb/>
Metropole Restaurant at three in the morning together<lb/>
with a charming Finnish couple. We had been with them<lb/>
for several hours, had carried on long and intricate conver-<lb/>
sations with them, despite the lack of any common<lb/>
language at all. I asked a waiter if we could get a taxi. He<lb/>
said, with commendable intelligibility, ‘Zaxi, myet.’<lb/>
Downstairs I asked one of the three sweating doormen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But they were busy coping with a loud group of stilyagi<lb/>
or teddy-boys, who were shouting and waving broken<lb/>
bottles and demanding to be let into the restaurant. There,<lb/>
of course, it was a taxi very much myet. So the four of us<lb/>
sat on the pavement, singing in Finnish and English that<lb/>
great international song ‘Clementine’. We wanted the<lb/>
police to come, tap us on the shoulder, find out if we were<lb/>
foreigners, then speed us back to our respective ships in<lb/>
police cars. But no police came. The painted girls solicited<lb/>
and the teddy-boys raged and romped, but no police came.<lb/>
It is my honest opinion that there are no police in<lb/>
Leningrad.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If one expects to find a totalitarian state full of soft-<lb/>
booted, white-helmeted military police, conspicuously<lb/>
armed, one also expects a certain coldness, a thinness of<lb/>
blood, all emotion channelled into a love of Big Brother.<lb/>
You certainly find none of that in Leningrad. There is a<lb/>
tremendous warmth about the people, a powerful desire<lb/>
to admit you, the stranger, into the family and smother<lb/>
you with kisses. I asked my young scientific friend to call<lb/>
me by my first name, but he was shy of that. He didn’t<lb/>
want to be stand-offish, he wanted to establish a closer<lb/>
relationship than the mere use of first names would allow;<lb/>
so I was to be called ‘Uncle’ — Dyadya: I was to be genu-<lb/>
inely one of the family. One found this in hospitals, too.<lb/>
My wife was taken to hospital with some inexplicable<lb/>
complaint — doctors and nurses alike administered the<lb/>
medicine of a good cuddle, a kiss, a maternal or paternal<lb/>
‘there there’. One sees how remote from reality were those<lb/>
early Soviet attempts to abolish the family as a social unit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Strangely enough, one feels this warm ambience of<lb/>
family even in the food. Borshch, that omnipresent soup,<lb/>
coarse and delicious — there’s none of the cold professional<lb/>
</p>
<p>
242<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I suppose if one wanted to be fanciful one could say<lb/>
that the whole of Leningrad is aromatic of home. No<lb/>
names of strangers stand above the shops. All you see is<lb/>
MEAT, BUTTER, EGGS, FISH, VEGETABLES, as<lb/>
though each state food-shop were a compartment of some<lb/>
colossal family kitchen. And there is no terrifying smart-<lb/>
ness among the people who walk the streets — they are all<lb/>
dressed in clumsy ill-cut unpressed suits and dresses, like<lb/>
members of our own family rigged up informally for a<lb/>
day at home. Incidentally, there is plenty to be done at<lb/>
home, but no one ever seems to do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The city is terribly shabby and slummy-looking despite<lb/>
the Byzantine gold of the cathedral, despite the unbeliev-<lb/>
able splendours of the Winter Palace. And what is true of<lb/>
the city is also true of home. Father and elder brothers<lb/>
put off indefinitely the necessary chores — the replacing<lb/>
of broken panes in the windows, the painting and pointing,<lb/>
the mending of the path, the new lightbulb on the landing.<lb/>
Father is a shirt-sleeved pipe-smoking slippered newspaper-<lb/>
reading Father. He is inefficient, and so is Big Brother.<lb/>
Meanwhile, far away the rockets blast off and Major Titov<lb/>
surveys the earth like a god. But all that is taking place<lb/>
in another Russia, far away from the homely smell of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
blocked-up drains and borshch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Listener, 28 December 1961<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="138"/>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I went to see Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange in New<lb/>
York, fighting to get in like everybody else. It was worth the<lb/>
fight, I thought — very much a Kubrick movie, technically<lb/>
brilliant, thoughtful, relevant, poetic, mind-opening. It was<lb/>
possible for me to see the work as a radical remaking of my<lb/>
own novel, not as a mere interpretation, and this — the feeling<lb/>
that it was no impertinence to blazon it as Stanley Kubricks<lb/>
Clockwork Orange — is the best tribute I can pay to the<lb/>
Kubrickian mastery. The fact remains, however, that the film<lb/>
sprang out of a book, and some of the controversy which<lb/>
has begun to attach to the film is controversy in which J,<lb/>
inevitably, feel myself involved. In terms of philosophy and<lb/>
even theology, the Kubrick Orange is a fruit from my tree.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wrote A Clockwork Orange in 1961, which is a very<lb/>
remote year, and I experience some difficulty in empa-<lb/>
thising with that long-gone writer who, concerned with<lb/>
making a living, wrote as many as five novels in fourteen<lb/>
months. The title is the least difficult thing to explain. In<lb/>
1945, back from the army, I heard an eighty-year-old<lb/>
Cockney in a London pub say that somebody was ‘as queer<lb/>
as a clockwork orange’. The ‘queer’ did not mean homo-<lb/>
sexual: it meant mad. The phrase intrigued me with its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
245<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="139"/>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
unlikely fusion of demotic and surrealistic. For nearly<lb/>
twenty years I wanted to use it as the title of something.<lb/>
During those twenty years I heard it several times more<lb/>
— in Underground stations, in pubs, in television plays<lb/>
— but always from aged Cockneys, never from the young.<lb/>
It was a traditional trope, and it asked to entitle a work<lb/>
which combined a concern with tradition and a bizarre<lb/>
technique. The opportunity to use it came when I<lb/>
conceived the notion of writing a novel about brain-<lb/>
washing. Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus (in Ulysses) refers to the<lb/>
world as an ‘oblate orange’: man is a microcosm or little<lb/>
world; he is a growth as organic as a fruit, capable of<lb/>
colour, fragrance and sweetness; to meddle with him,<lb/>
condition him, is to turn him into a mechanical creation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There had been some talk in the British press about the<lb/>
problems of growing criminality. The youth of the late<lb/>
Fifties were restless and naughty, dissatisfied with the post-<lb/>
war world, violent and destructive, and they — being more<lb/>
conspicuous than more old-time crooks and hoods — were<lb/>
what many people meant when they talked about growing<lb/>
criminality. Looking back from a peak of violence, we can<lb/>
see that the British teddy-boys and mods and rockers were<lb/>
mere tyros in the craft of anti-social aggression: neverthe-<lb/>
less, they were a portent, and the man in the street was<lb/>
right to be scared. How to deal with them? Prison or<lb/>
reform school made them worse: why not save the tax-<lb/>
payer's money by subjecting them to an easy course in con-<lb/>
ditioning, some kind of aversion therapy which should<lb/>
make them associate the act of violence with discomfort,<lb/>
nausea, or even intimations of mortality? Many heads nod-<lb/>
ded at this proposal (not, at the time, a governmental pro-<lb/>
posal, but one put out by private though influential<lb/>
theoreticians). Heads still nod at it. On The Frost Show it<lb/>
</p>
<p>
246<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was suggested to me that it might have been a good thing<lb/>
if Adolf Hitler had been forced to undergo aversion therapy,<lb/>
so that the very thought of a new putsch or pogrom would<lb/>
make him sick up his cream cakes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hitler was, unfortunately, a human being, and if we<lb/>
could have countenanced the conditioning of one human<lb/>
being we would have to accept it for all. Hitler was a great<lb/>
nuisance, but history has known others disruptive enough<lb/>
to make the state’s fingers itch — Christ, Luther, Bruno,<lb/>
even D. H. Lawrence. One has to be genuinely philo-<lb/>
sophical about this, however much one has suffered. I<lb/>
dont know how much free will man really possesses<lb/>
(Wagner’s Hans Sachs said: Wir sind ein wenig frei — “We<lb/>
are a little free’), but I do know what little he seems to<lb/>
have is too precious to encroach on, however good the<lb/>
intentions of the encroacher may be.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange was intended to be a sort of tract,<lb/>
even a sermon, on the importance of the power of choice.<lb/>
My hero or anti-hero, Alex, is very vicious, perhaps even<lb/>
impossibly so, but his viciousness is not the product of<lb/>
genetic or social conditioning: it is his own thing, embarked<lb/>
on in full awareness. Alex is evil, not merely misguided,<lb/>
and in a properly run society such evil as he enacts must<lb/>
be checked and punished. But his evil is a human evil,<lb/>
and we recognise in his deeds of aggression potentialities<lb/>
of our own — worked out for the non-criminal citizen in<lb/>
war, sectional injustice, domestic unkindness, armchair<lb/>
dreams. In three ways Alex is an exemplar of humanity:<lb/>
he is aggressive, he loves beauty, he is a language-user.<lb/>
Tronically, his name can be taken to mean ‘wordless’,<lb/>
though he has plenty of words of his own — invented<lb/>
eroup-dialect. He has, though, no word to say in the<lb/>
running of his community or the managing of the state:<lb/>
</p>
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247<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<pb n="140"/>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
he is, to the state, a mere object, something ‘out there’<lb/>
like the Moon, though not so passive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Theologically, evil is not quantifiable. Yet I posit the<lb/>
notion that one act of evil may be greater than another,<lb/>
and that perhaps the ultimate act of evil is dehumanisa-<lb/>
tion, the killing of the soul — which is as much as to say<lb/>
the capacity to choose between good and evil acts. Impose<lb/>
on an individual the capacity to be good and only good,<lb/>
and you kill his soul for, presumably, the sake of social<lb/>
stability. What my, and Kubrick's, parable tries to state is<lb/>
that it is preferable to have a world of violence undertaken<lb/>
in full awareness — violence chosen as an act of will — than<lb/>
a world conditioned to be good or harmless. I recognise<lb/>
that the lesson is already becoming an old-fashioned one.<lb/>
B. E Skinner, with his ability to believe that there is<lb/>
something beyond freedom and dignity, wants to see the<lb/>
death of autonomous man. He may or may not be right,<lb/>
but in terms of the Judaeo-Christian ethic that A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange tries to express he is perpetrating a gross heresy. It<lb/>
seems to me in accordance with the tradition that Western<lb/>
man is not yet ready to jettison, that the area in which<lb/>
human choice is a possibility should be extended, even if<lb/>
one comes up against new angels with swords and banners<lb/>
emblazoned No. The wish to diminish free will is, I should<lb/>
think, the sin against the Holy Ghost. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In both film and book, the evil that the state performs<lb/>
in brainwashing Alex is seen spectacularly in its own lack<lb/>
of self-awareness as regards non-ethical values. Alex is fond<lb/>
of Beethoven, and he has used the Ninth Symphony as a<lb/>
stimulus to dreams of violence. This has been his choice,<lb/>
but there has been nothing to prevent his choosing to use<lb/>
that music as a mere solace or image of divine order. That,<lb/>
by the time his conditioning starts, he has not yet made<lb/>
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the better choice does not mean that he will never do it.<lb/>
But, with an aversion therapy which associates Beethoven<lb/>
and unlooked-for punishment and it is tantamount to<lb/>
robbing a man — stupidly, casually — of his right to enjoy<lb/>
the divine vision. For there is a good beyond mere ethical<lb/>
good, which is always existential: there is the essential good,<lb/>
that aspect of God which we can prefigure more in the<lb/>
taste of an apple or the sound of music than in mere right<lb/>
action or even charity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What hurts me, as also Kubrick, is the allegation made<lb/>
by some viewers and readers of A Clockwork Orange that<lb/>
there is a gratuitous indulgence in violence which turns<lb/>
an intended homiletic work into a pornographic one. It<lb/>
was certainly no pleasure to me to describe acts of violence<lb/>
when writing the novel: I indulged in excess, in caricature,<lb/>
even in an invented dialect with the purpose of making<lb/>
the violence more symbolic than realistic, and Kubrick<lb/>
found remarkable cinematic equivalents for my own<lb/>
literary devices. It would have been pleasanter, and would<lb/>
have made more friends, if there had been no violence at<lb/>
all, but the story of Alex’s reclamation would have lost<lb/>
force if we weren't permitted to see what he was being<lb/>
reclaimed from. For my own part, the depiction of violence<lb/>
was intended as both an act of catharsis and an act of<lb/>
charity, since my own wife was the subject of vicious and<lb/>
mindless violence in blacked-out London in 1942, when<lb/>
she was robbed and beaten by three GI deserters. Readers<lb/>
of my book may remember that the author whose wife is<lb/>
raped is the author of a work called A Clockwork Orange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Viewers of the film have been disturbed by the fact that<lb/>
Alex, despite his viciousness, is quite likeable. It has<lb/>
required a deliberate self-administered act of aversion<lb/>
therapy on the part of some to dislike him, and to let<lb/>
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righteous indignation get in the way of human charity.<lb/>
The point is that, if we are going to love mankind, we<lb/>
will have to love Alex as a not unrepresentative member<lb/>
of it. The place where Alex and his mirror-image<lb/>
F Alexander are most guilty of hate and violence is called<lb/>
HOME, and it is here, we are told, that charity ought to<lb/>
begin. But towards that mechanism, the state, which first<lb/>
is concerned with self-perpetuation and, second, is happiest<lb/>
when human beings are predictable and controllable, we<lb/>
have no duty at all, certainly no duty of charity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have a final point to make, and this will not interest<lb/>
many who like to think of Kubrick’s Orange rather than<lb/>
Burgess’. The language of both movie and book (called<lb/>
nadsat — the Russian ‘teen’ suffix as in pyatnadsat, meaning<lb/>
fifteen) is no mere decoration, nor is it a sinister indication<lb/>
of the subliminal power that a Communist super-state<lb/>
may already be exerting on the young. It was meant to<lb/>
turn A Clockwork Orange into, among other things, a<lb/>
brainwashing primer. You read the book or see the film,<lb/>
and at the end you should find yourself in possession of<lb/>
a minimal Russian vocabulary — without effort, with<lb/>
surprise. This is the way brainwashing works. I chose<lb/>
Russian words because they blend better into English than<lb/>
those of French or even German (which is already a kind<lb/>
of English, not exotic enough). But the lesson of the Orange<lb/>
has nothing to do with the ideology or repressive tech-<lb/>
niques of Soviet Russia: it is wholly concerned with what<lb/>
can happen to any of us in the West if we do not keep<lb/>
on our guard. If Orange, like Nineteen Eighty-Four, takes<lb/>
its place as one of the salutary literary warnings — or<lb/>
cinematic warnings — against flabbiness, sloppy thinking,<lb/>
and overmuch trust in the state, then it will have done<lb/>
something of value. For my part, I do not like the book<lb/>
</p>
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as much as others I have written: I have kept it, till recently,<lb/>
in an unopened jar — marmalade, a preserve on a shelf,<lb/>
rather than an orange on a dish. What I would really like<lb/>
to see is a film of one of my other novels, all of which are<lb/>
singularly unaggressive, but I fear that this is too much to<lb/>
hope for. It looks as though I must go through life as the<lb/>
fountain and origin of a great film, and as a man who<lb/>
has to insist, against all opposition, that he is the most<lb/>
unviolent creature alive. Just like Stanley Kubrick.<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
Ar the moment I’m working on a novel about the life of<lb/>
Christ. In this book I see Christ as a sort of hippie, an<lb/>
early type of revolutionary. | think it's curious that he was<lb/>
a carpenter, and the fact that he worked with pieces of<lb/>
wood all his life. When it was time for him to die, when<lb/>
he looked at that piece of wood, he must have thought<lb/>
something. I am working with a language for the book<lb/>
now, something — like the nadsat language in A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange — using a fusion of two languages — in this case,<lb/>
English and Hebrew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In a way this is drawn out of the Manson business. I<lb/>
have a neurotic thing about that sort of insanity. It’s terri-<lb/>
fying — the evil, the chaos, the multiplicity of it. If there<lb/>
is anything that makes me wish for death, that brings out<lb/>
my death-wish, it is that. I worry all the time. I worry<lb/>
about my wife, and my son in New York. Between the<lb/>
drug people and the psychopaths loose on the streets, it’s<lb/>
hardly safe to walk outside. Young people keep talking<lb/>
about being ‘tuned in to reality, but I wonder what it is<lb/>
they are really tuned in to? I'm not sure the Jesus Freaks<lb/>
and the young people involved in that sort of thing aren't<lb/>
[. . .] getting in touch with something besides Jesus<lb/>
</p>
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— maybe the devil. You know, throughout history people<lb/>
have done evil in the name of the Church. The Reformation,<lb/>
the Salem Witch Trials, all through history people have<lb/>
been misled by the appearance of good. It makes me elect<lb/>
for simplicity [. . .] There is too much multiplicity. The<lb/>
evil around us is frightening, and it’s unsafe to deal with<lb/>
it. Only the artist can deal with it because he can do it<lb/>
more objectively. And perhaps that is not absolutely safe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Everywhere we look there is conflict. It’s on the campuses,<lb/>
it’s on the television, it’s on the streets. God knows, New<lb/>
York City, where I live, is the most dangerous city in the<lb/>
world. [. . .] The conflict is everywhere. This is the twen-<lb/>
tieth century and we are surrounded by conflict. Like Yin<lb/>
and Yang, hot and cold, God and the Devil: everything<lb/>
is conflict. This is the universe and without conflict we<lb/>
have no life at all. But the terms of conflict are uncertain.<lb/>
For instance, Right and Wrong, what do these terms mean?<lb/>
I mean really, what is absolutely Right, and what is abso-<lb/>
lutely Wrong? We could sit down and make a list. What<lb/>
would you say is Wrong? Would you say it is Wrong to<lb/>
hate? Perhaps. But what about in a time of war? In wartime<lb/>
it is Right to hate our enemies. It is Right to Ai// our<lb/>
enemies. The words Right and Wrong in themselves mean<lb/>
nothing. They have a smell of police ward disinfectant<lb/>
about them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
categorical, is it? Most of history is written about destruc-<lb/>
tion, not creation. Records are kept of wars, of the decay<lb/>
of civilisations, of murders and deaths, of men like<lb/>
Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, and others who<lb/>
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built enormous empires on their abilities to destroy. But<lb/>
in a sense, destruction is a means of creation. When a<lb/>
vandal knocks in the side of a telephone booth, or scratches<lb/>
his name on the side of a subway car, he is leaving his<lb/>
mark. He is, whether he knows it or not, attempting to<lb/>
show that he exists and that he has the ability to affect<lb/>
things, and to change things. Destructive violence is a way<lb/>
of saying, ‘Look, I am here.’ That's the easy way. That's<lb/>
negative creation. Positive creation is much more difficult<lb/>
— it requires patience and talent. Of course these young<lb/>
hoodlums have no patience. It’s much easier to destroy<lb/>
than to take a block of stone and slowly and carefully bring<lb/>
out an image — that requires an artist. Violence is much<lb/>
quicker; and to the hoodlums, the thug, I suppose violence<lb/>
is more rewarding because it is freer. There is no restraint<lb/>
and no control. There is also this drive for freedom in<lb/>
violence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My novel, Enderby, is about a poet, a gross, fat man.<lb/>
He belches, he drinks too much, he lives in the toilet — he<lb/>
writes poems in the water closet — he masturbates, he<lb/>
avoids all forms of obligation, he is no good with women.<lb/>
Enderby is free. I suppose that’s what I like about him<lb/>
[...] But you see, when a character or person is too free,<lb/>
then he challenges society. Now one of the basic premises<lb/>
of society is that no one has too much freedom. B. F.<lb/>
Skinner's book Beyond Freedom and Dignity, which, inci-<lb/>
dentally, came out about the same time as the film of A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange, states that we must give up certain<lb/>
rights and privileges so that we do not obtrude ourselves<lb/>
upon our neighbours. We must exercise control; we must<lb/>
limit our freedom for society’s sake. This means we relin-<lb/>
quish our freedom of choice. The artist is a rebel who<lb/>
defies control through his work. He escapes to his closet<lb/>
</p>
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where he paints, or writes, or makes a sculpture, and this<lb/>
way he maintains his identity. It may be that for the<lb/>
criminal violence is an expression of the same kind, or a<lb/>
similar kind, of freedom. However, by the time you use<lb/>
violence, you are out of control. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Violence is chaos. There is a constant war between the<lb/>
chaotic and the aesthetic, and the individual must fight<lb/>
to assert his own authority. The only hope for escape<lb/>
from this kind of chaos is to recognise the power of the<lb/>
human individual. I guess I’m rather a manichaean, but<lb/>
this kind of warfare — this battle of good and evil — has<lb/>
intrigued me for a long time. I tried to deal with it in<lb/>
my novel The Wanting Seed. This was a book I had wanted<lb/>
to write for years but could never quite find the right<lb/>
form. I finally did write it — though it is still not alto-<lb/>
gether successful — but what has concerned me here is a<lb/>
warfare between ideologies. On one hand you have the<lb/>
Pelagian concept that man is basically good, and that he<lb/>
is capable of perfection if left alone and allowed to<lb/>
discover his own way. On the other hand you have the<lb/>
Augustinian concept that man is only capable of evil and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
without God his only hope is self-destruction and eternal<lb/>
damnation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]J<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anatole France once wrote a novel called La Revolte des<lb/>
Anges that describes a sort of eternal war between God<lb/>
and Satan. God reigns on the one side over the powers of<lb/>
good, and on the other side Satan has marshalled the forces<lb/>
of evil. ’'m not suggesting this is necessarily true, but it<lb/>
is certainly a possibility we have to consider. Take Christ’s<lb/>
own words, ‘I come not to bring peace but a sword.’ I<lb/>
may be a Manichee, but we have to live with divisions.<lb/>
</p>
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We strive for order and unity, but it is not often that we<lb/>
can truly claim to have found it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The artist is faced with the duty of revealing the nature<lb/>
of reality. He is not a preacher — his job is not to be didactic<lb/>
_ he may be a teacher — we all try to teach; but the novelist<lb/>
is bound to do his duty. His duty is, as Henry James said,<lb/>
to dramatise. To reveal the nature of reality. You must<lb/>
remember that to the poet, the artist and to the novelist,<lb/>
the nature of reality is revealed, not by vague images passing<lb/>
through the mind, but by words: words which suggest<lb/>
certain meanings and reveal actions as the author knows<lb/>
them. But the author cannot determine right or wrong.<lb/>
All he can do is present a sort of ‘mock scenario’ from<lb/>
which the reader can draw his own conclusions. The author<lb/>
cannot always cast a scene in terms of good and evil — for<lb/>
one thing, good is not necessarily the opposite of evil, and<lb/>
there is a certain subjective value to evil. There is a subjec-<lb/>
tive value to good as well which goes beyond the meanings<lb/>
of right and wrong — a good we experience in a beautiful<lb/>
piece of music, the taste of an apple, or sex. Without a<lb/>
knowledge of the extremes it is difficult, or maybe impos-<lb/>
sible, to know anything of the medians. A man or woman<lb/>
who has never done evil cannot know what good is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is ironic that I am always associated with A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange. This, of all my books, is the one I like least. I<lb/>
wrote this book in 1961, which was the year after I was<lb/>
supposed to have died, and the book reveals a lot of the<lb/>
turmoil in my mind at the time. I don’t think it is my<lb/>
best book, but at the same time, the book reveals a great<lb/>
deal about the conflict of good and evil, and also about<lb/>
this fear of irrational violence. In many ways the book is<lb/>
me; for what we write is very much what we are. And<lb/>
the book reveals an inner battle with this quality, evil.<lb/>
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Not only evil, but the danger of trying to correct it.<lb/>
Basically I’m very suspicious of the use of power to change<lb/>
others.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange also demonstrates the pendulum<lb/>
theory — how one extreme purges the other. But ultimately<lb/>
we, as human beings, must come to terms with the<lb/>
dilemmas of good and evil, right and wrong, or whatever,<lb/>
on our own. God will not do it for us. I will not commit<lb/>
myself to saying ‘Credo in unum deum’. If there is a God,<lb/>
he is a supra-human god; he is not concerned with human<lb/>
motivation. Whether or not God does exist, the conflict<lb/>
of good and evil is inevitable. Even if there were no human<lb/>
beings in the world the principles of good and evil would<lb/>
exist. I don't believe that 2,000 years from now, if the<lb/>
world still exists, that the world will be any less evil, or<lb/>
any less good. The fight never comes to an end. For every<lb/>
moment of stasis is followed by a longer and more<lb/>
disrupting period of struggle. It may be, as has been<lb/>
suggested, that evil is dynamic and good tends to be static<lb/>
— it certainly seems that way in New York City, where I<lb/>
live, anyway — but the task of the concerned individual<lb/>
must be to make good a less static force: to make it more<lb/>
dynamic than evil. But what is the active force of good?<lb/>
Love. I would suggest that Love is the active force and we<lb/>
have to learn how to love everyone else, and everything<lb/>
else. That seems to be the challenge of the twentieth<lb/>
century. But can we do it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
25 October 1972<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
A few years ago I published a brief theatrical version of<lb/>
my novella _A Clockwork Orange, with lyrics and sugges-<lb/>
tions as to music (Beethoven mostly). This was done not<lb/>
because of a great love of the book, but because, for 28<lb/>
years, I was receiving requests from amateur pop groups<lb/>
for permission to present their own versions. These were<lb/>
usually so abysmally bad that I was forced eventually to<lb/>
pre-empt other perversions with an authoritative rendering<lb/>
of my own. But the final textual authority, though not<lb/>
the musical one, rests with this present Royal Shakespeare<lb/>
Company production. Ron Daniels, who directs it, has<lb/>
helped a great deal with putting it into a dramatic shape<lb/>
suitable for a large theatre, and I wish to thank him now<lb/>
for the hard and valuable work he has poured into what<lb/>
was very far from an easy task.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think most people know where the title comes from.<lb/>
‘A clockwork orange’ is a venerable Cockney expression<lb/>
applied to anything queer, with ‘queer’ not necessarily<lb/>
carrying any homosexual denotation. Nothing, in fact,<lb/>
could be queerer than a clockwork orange. When I worked<lb/>
in Malaya as a teacher, my pupils, when asked to write an<lb/>
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essay on a day out in the jungle, often referred to their<lb/>
taking a bottle of ‘orang squash’ with them. ‘Orang’ is a<lb/>
common word in Malay, and it means a human being.<lb/>
The Cockney and the Malay fused in my mind to give<lb/>
an image of human beings, who are juicy and sweet like<lb/>
oranges, being forced into the condition of mechanical<lb/>
objects.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is what happens to my young thug Alex, whose<lb/>
sweet and juicy criminality, which he thoroughly enjoys,<lb/>
is expunged by a course of conditioning in which he loses<lb/>
the free will which enables him to be a thug — but also,<lb/>
if he wishes, a decent adolescent with a strong musical<lb/>
talent. He has committed evil, but the real evil lies in the<lb/>
process which has burnt out the evil. He is forced to watch<lb/>
films of violence while a drug that induces nausea courses<lb/>
through his veins. But these films are accompanied by<lb/>
emotion-heightening music, and he is conditioned into<lb/>
feeling nausea when hearing Mozart or Beethoven as well<lb/>
as when contemplating violence. Music, which should be<lb/>
a neutral paradise, is turned into a hell.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What looks like a celebration of violence — far worse<lb/>
on the stage than in the book or the film that Stanley<lb/>
Kubrick made (now inexplicably banned in Britain) — is<lb/>
really an enquiry into the nature of free will. This is a<lb/>
theological drama. When human beings are made in-<lb/>
capable of performing acts of evil they are also made<lb/>
incapable of performing acts of goodness. For both depend<lb/>
on what St Augustine called berum arbitrium — free will.<lb/>
Whether we like it or not, the power of moral choice is<lb/>
what makes us human. For moral choice to exist, there<lb/>
have to be opposed objects of choice. In other words,<lb/>
there has to be evil. But there has to be good as well.<lb/>
And there has to be an area where moral choice doesn’t<lb/>
</p>
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ought to, making moral choices.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ever since I published A Clockwork Orange in 1962, I<lb/>
have been plagued by the fact that it has really been two<lb/>
books — one American, the other for the rest of the world.<lb/>
Thus, the British edition has twenty-one chapters while<lb/>
the American edition, till very recently, had only twenty.<lb/>
My American publisher did not like my ending: he said<lb/>
it was too British and too bland. This meant that he saw<lb/>
something implausible — or perhaps merely unsaleable — in<lb/>
my notion that most intelligent adolescents given to sense-<lb/>
less violence and vandalism get over it when they sniff the<lb/>
onset of maturity. For youth has energy but rarely knows<lb/>
what to do with it. Youth has not been taught — and is<lb/>
being taught less and less — to put that energy to the<lb/>
service of creation (write a poem, build Salisbury Cathedral<lb/>
out of matchsticks, learn computer engineering). In conse-<lb/>
quence, youth can use that energy only to beat up, put<lb/>
the boot in, slash, rape, destroy. Our card-operated tele-<lb/>
phone kiosks are a monument to youth’s worse instincts.<lb/>
At the end of this play you are to watch young Alex<lb/>
growing up, falling in love, contemplating eventual father-<lb/>
hood — in other ways, becoming a man. Violence, he sees,<lb/>
is kid’s stuff. My American publisher did not like this<lb/>
ending. Stanley Kubrick, when he made his film out of<lb/>
the American edition, naturally did not know that it<lb/>
existed. That is why the film puzzled European readers of<lb/>
the book. You must make up your own minds as to which<lb/>
ending you prefer. You can always leave before the end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One final point. In 1990, which we wrongly think is<lb/>
the start of a new decade, we look forward to a bright<lb/>
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European future. The Berlin Wall is coming down, Mikhail<lb/>
Gorbachev is preaching perestroika (a word which young<lb/>
Alex is bound to know, since a great deal of his vocabulary<lb/>
is Russian), the Channel Tunnel is burrowing its way to<lb/>
the continent. We are, politically at least, becoming opti-<lb/>
mistic. Ron Daniels and his talented actors and musicians,<lb/>
as well as myself, are gently suggesting that politics is not<lb/>
everything. That, in a way, was the whole point of the<lb/>
book. Young Alex and his friends speak a mixture of the<lb/>
two major political languages of the world — Anglo-<lb/>
American and Russian — and this is meant to be ironical,<lb/>
for their activities are totally outside the world of politics.<lb/>
The problems of our age relate not to economic or polit-<lb/>
ical organisation but to what used to be called ‘the old<lb/>
Adam’. Original sin, if you wish. Acquisitiveness. Greed.<lb/>
Selfishness. Above all, aggression for its own sake. What<lb/>
is the purpose of terrorism? The answer is terrorism. Alex<lb/>
is a good, or bad, juvenile specimen of eternal man. That<lb/>
is why he is calling you his brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have no doubt that, with this new dramatic version<lb/>
of my little book, I shall be blamed for promoting fresh<lb/>
violence in the young. A man who killed his uncle blamed<lb/>
it on Shakespeare's Hamlet. A boy who gouged out his<lb/>
brother’s eye blamed it on a school edition of King Lear.<lb/>
Literary artists are always being treated as if they invented<lb/>
evil, but their true task, one of many, is to show that it<lb/>
existed long before they handled their first pen or word<lb/>
processor. If a writer doesn't tell the truth he'd better not<lb/>
write. This is the truth youre watching.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
RSC stage production at the Barbican Theatre,<lb/>
directed by Ron Daniels, 1990<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
MusIcaL composition, more than any other creative<lb/>
activity, shows how far the imagination can function inde-<lb/>
pendently of the rest of the human complex. A writer's<lb/>
arthritis or homosexuality or sweet tooth will often come<lb/>
through in a spring sonnet. An armless sculptor cannot<lb/>
sculpt well, no matter how prehensile his toes. A blind<lb/>
painter cannot paint at all. Frederick Delius, blind and<lb/>
paralysed, produced fine music. Beethoven, deaf, cirrhotic,<lb/>
diarrhetic, dyspnoeal, manic, produced the finest, and<lb/>
healthiest, music of all time. This is not, of course, to say<lb/>
that the composer's art operates totally in its own autono-<lb/>
mous world, Delius found it necessary to tell his amanu-<lb/>
ensis, Eric Fenby, that those long-held D-major string<lb/>
chords had something to do with the sea and sky and the<lb/>
wind arabesques could be seagulls. Gustav Mahler put trivial<lb/>
hurdy-gurdy tunes in his symphonies until Freud, between<lb/>
trains, told him why. Although Beethoven's music is about<lb/>
sounds and structures, it is also, in ways not easily demon-<lb/>
strable, about Kant and the tyrant at Schénbrunn and<lb/>
Beethoven himself, body and soul and blood and ouns. To<lb/>
read Beethoven’s biography is to learn something about<lb/>
</p>
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263<lb/>
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<p>
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</p>
<pb n="148"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
what his music is trying to do. Not much, but something.<lb/>
Maynard Solomon's book is the latest in a long line<lb/>
dedicated to telling the truth about Beethoven as Schindler<lb/>
would not see it and as Thayer, who had to rely heavily on<lb/>
Schindler, was not able to see it. It was only in 1977, at the<lb/>
Berlin Beethovenkongress, that Herre and Beck proved that<lb/>
Schindler had fabricated more than 150 of his own entries<lb/>
in the Conversation Books. Moreover, the hagiographical<lb/>
tendency of many biographies got in the way of presenting<lb/>
the squalor, the clownishness, the downright malice, the<lb/>
drinking and drabbing. It was not right for the composer<lb/>
of the Ninth Symphony and the last quartets to vomit in<lb/>
crapula and frequent brothels. Solomon has no desire to<lb/>
‘fashion an uncontradictory and consistent portrait of<lb/>
Beethoven — to construct a safe, clear, well-ordered design;<lb/>
for such a portrait can be purchased only at the price of<lb/>
truth, by avoiding the obscurities that riddle the documen-<lb/>
tary material’. At the same time he is prepared to call on<lb/>
Freud and, more, Otto Rank to elucidate the obscurities.<lb/>
Beethoven was named for his grandfather, a Kapellmeister<lb/>
at the electoral court of Cologne, and identified with him,<lb/>
going so far as to wish to deny the paternity of Johann<lb/>
Beethoven and to acquiesce in the legend that he was the<lb/>
illegitimate son of a king of Prussia, either Friedrich Wilhelm<lb/>
II or Frederick the Great himself. He denied his birth year<lb/>
of 1770, despite all the documentary evidence, alleging and<lb/>
eventually believing that he had been born in 1772. His<lb/>
contempt for the drunken, feebly tyrannical, not too talented<lb/>
court tenor who was his father seems not to have been<lb/>
matched by a compensatory devotion to his mother: after<lb/>
all, he was prepared to put it about that she had been a<lb/>
court whore. Beethoven wanted a kind of parthenogenetical<lb/>
birth proper for the messianic role he envisaged for himself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
264<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He would willingly turn a woman into a mother if she was<lb/>
too young for the part. That he regarded mothers as super-<lb/>
erogatory is proved by his turning himself into the father<lb/>
of his nephew Karl, execrating his sister-in-law as the ‘Queen<lb/>
of the Night’, pretending that the Dutch van of his name<lb/>
was really von so that he could use aristocratic clout in the<lb/>
courts to dispossess the poor woman of her maternal rights.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He broke free of Viennese musical conventions to assert a<lb/>
new masculine force, appropriate to the Napoleonic age, which<lb/>
should be characterised by rigour of tonal argument and a<lb/>
kind of genial brutality. The legend about his dedicating his<lb/>
Third Symphony to Bonaparte and then tearing up the dedi-<lb/>
cation page after the assassination of the Duc d’Enghien is<lb/>
still to be accepted as true, but Solomon makes it clear that<lb/>
Beethoven was strongly drawn to the tyrant. Vienna's musical<lb/>
talent assembled at Schénbrunn to welcome the conqueror,<lb/>
but Beethoven alone was not invited. He resented this. He<lb/>
arranged a performance of the Eroica, expecting Napoleon to<lb/>
turn up. Napoleon did not turn up. Beethoven was not alto-<lb/>
gether the fierce republican, the romantic artist shaking his<lb/>
fist at despots. He owed much to his aristocratic patrons; he<lb/>
dreamed of receiving honours at the Tuileries. He had his eye<lb/>
to the main chance. He liked money. He was ready to sell the<lb/>
same piece of music to three different publishers at the same<lb/>
time and pocket three different advances.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He also had his ear, even when it was a deaf one, to<lb/>
the exterior world of sonic innovations. When Schénberg<lb/>
was told that six fingers were required to play his Violin<lb/>
Concerto, he replied: ‘I can wait.’ Beethoven did not want<lb/>
six fingers, but he did want a pianoforte — once called by<lb/>
him, in a gust of patriotism, a Hammerklavier — that could,<lb/>
there and then, crash out his post-rococo imaginings. The<lb/>
fourth horn part of the Ninth Symphony was specially<lb/>
</p>
<p>
265<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="149"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
written for one of the new valve instruments: Beethoven<lb/>
knew a man near Vienna who possessed one. He was a<lb/>
great pianist and a very practical musician. His orchestral<lb/>
parts were hard to play but not impossible. Impossibility<lb/>
hovers, like a fermata, above the soprano parts in the<lb/>
Ninth, but sopranos were women, mothers, sisters-in-law.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is only through the vague operation of analogy that we<lb/>
can find in a symphony like the Evoica — a key work, the<lb/>
work that the composer believed to be his highest orchestral<lb/>
achievement — the properties of the Kantian philosophy and<lb/>
the novels of Stendhal. This music was necessary to the age,<lb/>
but not because of its literary programme. One attaches<lb/>
literary programmes at one’s peril to Beethoven's work, even<lb/>
when he says of the yellowhammer call of the Fifth: “Thus<lb/>
Fate knocks at the door.’ Give Beethoven a text and he does<lb/>
more than merely set it. Fidelio is a free-from-chains mani-<lb/>
festo typical of its time (though more in Paris than in Vienna),<lb/>
but it is also vegetation myth, with Florestan as a flower<lb/>
god, woman most loved when the female lion becomes the<lb/>
faithful boy, mother into son, the composer himself incarcer-<lb/>
ated in his deafness. It is, as well, much more, and the much<lb/>
more is not easily explicated. The music works at a very deep<lb/>
psychic level, subliterary, submythical, multiguous. When<lb/>
Donald Tovey said that the Leonora No. 3 rendered the first<lb/>
act superfluous, he spoke no more than the truth. With the<lb/>
American Solomon’s excellent book (though not as excellent<lb/>
as our own Martin Cooper’s) we know a little more about<lb/>
the man but nothing more about the mystery of his art.<lb/>
That was to be expected.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reprinted in Homage<lb/>
to Qwert Yuiop: Essays, 1986<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
My first copy of Gerard Manley Hopkins’s poems was the<lb/>
second edition of 1930 — a slim blue volume about the<lb/>
same size as the newly published selection (edited by<lb/>
Graham Storey, Oxford University Press, 1967) with which<lb/>
Hopkins joins Dryden, Keats, Spenser and other poets in<lb/>
the ‘New Oxford English Series’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The new, fourth, edition of the Complete Poems (edited<lb/>
by W. H. Gardner and N. H. Mackenzie, Oxford University<lb/>
Press, 1967), published at the same time, is twice as big,<lb/>
but not, unfortunately, with newly discovered ‘terrible’<lb/>
sonnets or odes of the scope of the two shipwreck poems.<lb/>
There are just more fragments than before, and more<lb/>
fugitive verse, and the tale is completed — until the fifth<lb/>
edition — with poems in Latin, Greek and Welsh. Some<lb/>
of the verse written between 1862 and 1868 is to be prized<lb/>
— particularly “The Summer Malison’ (‘No rains shall fresh<lb/>
the flats of sea, / Nor close the clayfield’s sharded sores, /<lb/>
And every heart think loathingly / Its dearest changed to<lb/>
bores.’ — That last line is frightening), and one fragment<lb/>
seems to show that Hopkins might once have taken a<lb/>
Meredithian way: ‘She schools the flighty pupils of her<lb/>
eyes, / With levelled lashes stilling their disquiet; / She<lb/>
</p>
<p>
267<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="150"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
puts in leash her paired lips lest surprise / Bare the condi-<lb/>
tion of a realm at riot.’ But the real oeuvre is unchanged<lb/>
— except that sonnet beginning “The shepherd’s brow,<lb/>
fronting forked lightning’ is not, rightly, removed from<lb/>
the appendix to the main body. And some of the emenda-<lb/>
tions of Hopkins’s friend and first editor, Robert Bridges,<lb/>
have been boldly thrown out and the readings of the<lb/>
original manuscript restored.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bridges could be incredibly wanting in ear. In that final<lb/>
sonnet addressed to himself, he made one line read: “Within<lb/>
her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same’, thus killing<lb/>
a sequence based on mingled end-rime and head-rime.<lb/>
Hopkins-lovers always penned in the original ‘combs’ for<lb/>
‘moulds’, and now they have ‘combs’ in print. In “The<lb/>
Soldier Bridges had ‘He of all can handle a rope best’<lb/>
where Hopkins wrote ‘reeve a rope best’ — an exact tech-<lb/>
nical word as well as a necessary head-rime. Re-reading<lb/>
‘The Brothers’, I am shocked to find ‘Eh, how all rung! /<lb/>
Young dog, he did give tongue!’ changed by the present<lb/>
editors to “There! The hall rung! / Young dog, he did give<lb/>
tongue!’ — justified by another manuscript reading but<lb/>
inferior to the version I’ve known by heart for thirty-five<lb/>
years.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At least, I think it’s inferior. But once I had an edition<lb/>
of a Chopin nocturne with a misprinted note that made<lb/>
an uncharacteristic dissonance. I got to accept and like<lb/>
this and was disappointed when told eventually that<lb/>
Chopin never wrote it. I think, though, that Hopkins,<lb/>
when revising his work, was over-influenced by a man<lb/>
who was very small beer as a poet; his verse had that<lb/>
small audience for too long, even posthumously. And I<lb/>
think that Bridges erred in holding back publication till<lb/>
1918 (Hopkins died in 1889): he was too timid, though<lb/>
</p>
<p>
268<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
understand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Discussing such inspiration, W. H. Gardner says: *. . .<lb/>
it is likely that James Joyce, E. E. Cummings, and Dylan<lb/>
Thomas were decisively affected by a reading of Hopkins.’<lb/>
Thomas less than you'd think (no sprung rhythm,<lb/>
anyway), Cummings minimally, Joyce not at all. There<lb/>
is, admittedly, a passage in Finnegans Wake that seems<lb/>
deliberately to evoke Hopkins (the description of the<lb/>
sleeping Isobel towards the end), but Joyce’s mature style<lb/>
was formed before Hopkins was published. And yet the<lb/>
two men pursued the same end out of the same temper-<lb/>
ament, and it is an irony that it was only chronology<lb/>
that prevented their meeting. Hopkins was a professor<lb/>
of University College, Dublin, where Joyce was eventually<lb/>
a student, but Joyce was only seven when Hopkins died.<lb/>
Hopkins became a Jesuit, and Joyce was Jesuit-trained.<lb/>
Both made aesthetic philosophies out of the schoolmen<lb/>
— Joyce from Aquinas, Hopkins from Duns Scotus. Joyce<lb/>
saw ‘epiphanies’ flashing out of the current of everyday<lb/>
life; Hopkins observed nature and felt the ‘instress’ of<lb/>
‘inscapes .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Both were obsessed with language and knowledgeable<lb/>
about music (Hopkins’s song ‘Falling Rain’ uses quarter-<lb/>
tones long before the experimental Central Europeans).<lb/>
Make a context question out of mixed fragments, and you<lb/>
will sometimes find it hard to tell one author from the<lb/>
other. ‘Forwardlike, but however, and like favourable<lb/>
heaven heard these’ might do for a Stephen Dedalus inter-<lb/>
ior monologue; actually it comes from ‘The Bugler's First<lb/>
</p>
<p>
269<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="151"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Communion’; ‘Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root,<lb/>
gripe and wrest them’ is from Ulysses but would do for a<lb/>
Hopkins poem about martyrs. The eschewal of hyphens<lb/>
helps the resemblance: ‘fallowbootfellow’ will do for both.<lb/>
But the kinship goes deeper than compressed syntax, a<lb/>
love of compound words, and a devotion to Anglo-<lb/>
Saxonisms. Musicians both, they were both concerned with<lb/>
bringing literature closer to music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t, of course, mean that they pursued conventional<lb/>
‘melodiousness’, like unmusical Swinburne who, hearing<lb/>
“Three Blind Mice’ for the first time in his maturity, said<lb/>
that it evoked ‘the cruel beauty of the Borgias’. It was rather<lb/>
that they envied music its power of expression through<lb/>
thythmic patterns, and also the complexity of meaning<lb/>
granted by that multilinear technique which is the glory<lb/>
of the music of the West. All that sprung rhythm does is<lb/>
to give the prosodic foot the same rights as a beat in music.<lb/>
A musical bar can have four crotchets or eight quavers or<lb/>
sixteen semi-quavers, but there are still only four beats. A<lb/>
line in a Hopkins sonnet always has its statutory five beats<lb/>
(or six, if it is an Alexandrine sonnet), and there can be<lb/>
any number of syllables from five to twenty — sometimes<lb/>
more, if we get senza misura ‘outriders’. “Who fired France<lb/>
for Mary without spot’ has nine syllables; ‘Cuckoo-echoing,<lb/>
bell-swarméd, lake-charméd, rook-racked, river-rounded’<lb/>
has sixteen: both lines come from the same sonnet. Music<lb/>
always had the freedom of prose with the intensity of verse;<lb/>
since Hopkins, English poetry has been able to enjoy liberty<lb/>
without laxity, on the analogy of music. This is why<lb/>
Hopkins is sometimes called ‘the liberator’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there’s more to it than just rhythm. There have to<lb/>
be the sforzandi of music — heavy head-rimes, like ‘part,<lb/>
pen, pack’ (which means ‘separate the sheep from the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
270<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goats; pen the sheep and send the goats packing’) and<lb/>
there have to be internal rhymes, like ‘each tucked string<lb/>
tells, each hung bell’s / Bow swung finds tongue to fling<lb/>
out broad its name’ so that we seem to be listening to the<lb/>
effects of repetition-with-a-difference that are the essence<lb/>
of melodic phrases. But, most important of all, every line<lb/>
must have the solidity of content of a sequence of chords,<lb/>
or else the sense of multiple significance we find in a<lb/>
passage of counterpoint. There’s no space for the purely<lb/>
functional, since in music nothing is purely functional.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hence that compression in Hopkins that sometimes<lb/>
causes difficulty: ‘the uttermost mark / Our passion-<lb/>
plunged giant risen’ or ‘rare gold, bold steel, bare / In<lb/>
both, care but share care’ or ‘that treads through, prick-<lb/>
proof, thick / Thousands of thorns, thoughts’. In striving<lb/>
to catch a single meaning, we catch more than one; some-<lb/>
times, as with ‘thorns, thoughts’, two words seem to merge<lb/>
into each other, becoming a new word, and what one<lb/>
might call an auditory iridescence gives powerful contra-<lb/>
puntal effect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Joyce lived later and was able to go further. Words like _<lb/>
‘cropse’ (which means ‘a body interred and, through its<lb/>
fertilisation of the earth, able to produce vegetation which<lb/>
may stand as a figure of the possibility of human resur-<lb/>
rection) are the logical conclusion of the Hopkinsian<lb/>
method: contrapuntal simultaneity is achieved without the<lb/>
tricks of speed or syntactical ambiguity. But Joyce's aim<lb/>
was comic, while Hopkins brought what he glumly knew<lb/>
would be called ‘oddity’ to the inscaping of ecstasy or<lb/>
spiritual agony. ‘I am gall, I am heartburn’ to express the<lb/>
bitterness of the taste of damnation, which is the taste<lb/>
of oneself, is a dangerous phrase, and my old professor,<lb/>
H. B. Charlton (who spoke of Hopkins as though he were<lb/>
</p>
<p>
271<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="152"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
a young upstart), could always get an easy seminar laugh<lb/>
by talking about metaphorical stomach trouble. There are<lb/>
plenty of more sophisticated sniggers available nowadays<lb/>
for those who find Hopkins’s response to male beauty —<lb/>
physical or spiritual — classically queer: “When limber<lb/>
liquid youth, that to all I teach / Yields tender as a pushed<lb/>
peach’ or the close catalogue of the strength and beauty<lb/>
of Harry Ploughman. And sometimes the colloquial<lb/>
(‘black, ever so black on it’) or the stuttering (“Behind<lb/>
where, where was a, where was a place?’) carries connota-<lb/>
tions of affectedness guaranteed, with the right camp recite,<lb/>
to bring the house down. Hopkins took frightful risks,<lb/>
but they are all justified by the sudden blaze of success,<lb/>
when the odd strikes as the right and inevitable.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Success’ is an inadequate word for a poet who never<lb/>
aimed at the rhetorical and technical tour de force for its<lb/>
own sake. He is, as we have to be reminded, not one of<lb/>
those little priests whom Joyce remarked at UCD — writers<lb/>
of devotional verse; he is a religious poet of the highest<lb/>
rank — perhaps greater than Donne, certainly greater than<lb/>
Herbert and Crashaw. The devotional writer deals in<lb/>
conventional images of piety; the religious poet shocks,<lb/>
even outrages, by wresting the truths of his faith from<lb/>
their safe dull sanctuaries and placing them in the physical<lb/>
world. Herbert does it: ““You must sit down,” says Love,<lb/>
“and taste my meat.” / So I did sit and eat.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hopkins does it more often. The natural world is<lb/>
notated with such freshness that we tend to think that<lb/>
he is merely a superb nature poet, a Wordsworth with<lb/>
genius. And then we're suddenly hit by the ‘instress’ of<lb/>
revelation: theological properties are as real as the kestrel<lb/>
or the fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls. Reading him, even the<lb/>
agnostic may regret that the “Marvellous Milk’ is no longer<lb/>
</p>
<p>
272<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
From Urgent Copy: Literary Studies, 1968<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="153"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I acclaim Anthony Burgess’s new novel as the curiosity of<lb/>
the day. A Clockwork Orange is told in the first person.<lb/>
That is the extent of its resemblance to anything much<lb/>
else, though a hasty attempt at orientation might suggest<lb/>
Colin MacInnes and the prole parts of Nineteen Eighty-<lb/>
Four as distant reference points.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fifteen-year-old Alex pursues a zealously delinquent<lb/>
career through the last decade of the present century,<lb/>
robbing, punching, kicking, slashing, raping, murdering,<lb/>
going to jail etc. He finds plenty of time to talk to the<lb/>
reader at the top of his voice in his era’s hip patois, an<lb/>
amalgam of Russian (the political implications of this are<lb/>
not explored), gypsy jargon, rhyming slang and a touch<lb/>
of schoolboy’s facetious-biblical.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All this is done so thoroughly — there are getting on for<lb/>
twenty neologisms on the first page — that the less adven-<lb/>
turous reader, especially if he may happen to be giving up<lb/>
smoking, will be tempted to let the book drop. That would<lb/>
be a pity, because soon you pick up the language and<lb/>
begin to see, as the action develops, that this speech not<lb/>
only gives the book its curious flavour, but also fits in with<lb/>
its prevailing mood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="154"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is a sort of cheerful horror which many British<lb/>
readers, adventurous or not, will not be up to stomaching.<lb/>
Even I, all-tolerant as I am, found the double child-rape<lb/>
scene a little uninviting, especially since it takes place to<lb/>
the accompaniment of Beethoven's Ninth, choral section.<lb/>
What price the notion that buying classical LPs is our<lb/>
youth’s route to salvation, eh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there's no harm in it really. Mr Burgess has written<lb/>
a fine farrago of outrageousness, one which incidentally<lb/>
suggests a view of juvenile violence I can’t remember having<lb/>
met before: that its greatest appeal is that it’s a big laugh,<lb/>
in which what we ordinarily think of as sadism plays little<lb/>
part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There's a science-fiction interest here too, to do with a<lb/>
machine that makes you good. We get to this rather late<lb/>
on, as is common when a writer of ordinary fiction has a<lb/>
go at such things, but it’s disagreeably plausible when it<lb/>
comes. If you don’t take to it all, then I can’t resist calling<lb/>
you a starry ptitsa who can’t viddy a horrorshow veshch<lb/>
when it’s in front of your glazzies. And yarbles to you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Observer, 13 May 1962<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Here are four novels that must, I suppose, be described<lb/>
as ‘modern’ — modern in the sense that they are of our<lb/>
time and concerned with the ills to which this time is heir.<lb/>
They deal with our indirection and our indifference, our<lb/>
violence and our sexual exploitation of one another, our<lb/>
rebellion and our protest. Anyone who complains that<lb/>
these themes are now drearily familiar is, of course, right,<lb/>
and there are moments when one wonders if the major<lb/>
dilemma of our time isn’t our failure to escape from these<lb/>
platitudinous interpretations of it. It is, I suppose, natural<lb/>
in a time in which so many novels are written that the<lb/>
form should be repetitive; but this means that the novelist<lb/>
we are all looking for is the one who breaks out of the<lb/>
trap.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A similar problem, in more startling form, occurs with<lb/>
Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange. This is a novel,<lb/>
set in the not too remote future, about the time when<lb/>
juvenile delinquent gangs take over cities at night and the<lb/>
government develops a brainwashing programme to cure<lb/>
tendencies to crime and violence. The story is told by one<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of the hooligans, a youth who kills three people, and who,<lb/>
</p>
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277<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="155"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
after undergoing the treatment, escapes from it and emerges<lb/>
at the end more or less his old self. We get no distance<lb/>
on him, and in the latter part of the book we are clearly<lb/>
expected to be sympathising with him. What is remarkable<lb/>
about the book, however, is the incredible teenage argot<lb/>
that Mr Burgess invents to tell the story in. All Mr Burgess’s<lb/>
powers as a comic writer, which are considerable, have<lb/>
gone into this rich language of his inverted Utopia. If you<lb/>
can stomach the horrors, you'll enjoy the manner.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Punch, 16 May 1962<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Horror Show’<lb/>
Christopher Ricks<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wuen Anthony Burgess published A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
ten years ago, he compacted much of what was in the<lb/>
air, especially the odd mingling of dismay and violence<lb/>
(those teen-age gangs) with pious euphoria about the<lb/>
causes and cures of crime and deviance. Mr Burgess’s<lb/>
narrator hero, Alex, was pungently odious; addicted to<lb/>
mugging and rape, intoxicated with his own command<lb/>
of the language (a newly minted teen-age slang, plus<lb/>
poeticisms, sneers, and sadistic purring). Alex was some-<lb/>
thing both better and worse than a murderer: he was<lb/>
murderous. Because of a brutal rape by Alex, the wife of<lb/>
a novelist dies; because of his lethal clubbing, an old<lb/>
woman dies; because of his exhibitionist ferocity, a fellow<lb/>
prisoner dies.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The second of these killings gets Alex jailed: word<lb/>
reaches him of the new Ludovico Treatment by which he<lb/>
may be reclaimed, and he seeks it and gets it. The treat-<lb/>
ment to watch horrific films of violence (made by one<lb/>
Dr Brodsky) while seething with a painful emetic; the<lb/>
‘cure’ is one that deprives Alex of choice, and takes him<lb/>
beyond freedom and dignity, and extirpates his moral<lb/>
existence. But the grisly bloody failure of his suicide<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<pb n="156"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
attempt after his release does not release him. Alex is<lb/>
himself again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The novel was simply pleased, but it knew that aversion<lb/>
therapy must be denied its smug violences. And the early<lb/>
1960s were, after all, the years in which a liberally wishful<lb/>
newspaper like the London Observer could regale its readers<lb/>
with regular accounts of how a homosexual was being<lb/>
‘cured’ by emetics and films.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To do the ultra-violent’: Alex makes no bones about it.<lb/>
But the film of A Clockwork Orange does not want him to<lb/>
be seen in an ultra-violent light. So it bids for sympathy.<lb/>
There are unobtrusive mitigations: Alex is made younger than<lb/>
in the book. There are obtrusive crassnesses from his jailors:<lb/>
when Alex pauses over the form for Reclamation Treatment,<lb/>
the chief guard shouts, “Dont read it, sign it’ — and of course<lb/>
it has to be signed in triplicate (none of that in the book).<lb/>
There are sentimentalities: where in the book it was his drugs<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
One realises that the film is a re-creation, not a carrying-<lb/>
over, and yet both Kubrick and Burgess are right to call<lb/>
upon each other in what they’ve recently written in defence<lb/>
of the film, Kubrick in the New York Times, February 27,<lb/>
1972, and Burgess in The Listener, February 17. The persis-<lb/>
tent pressure of the film’s Alexculpations is enough to<lb/>
remind one that while A Clockwork Orange is in Burgess’s<lb/>
words ‘a novel about brainwashing,’ the film is not above<lb/>
a bit of brainwashing itself — is indeed righteously unaware<lb/>
</p>
<p>
280<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that any of its own techniques or practices could for a<lb/>
moment be asked to subject themselves to the same scru-<lb/>
tiny as they project. Alex is forced to gaze at the Ludovico<lb/>
treatment aversion films: ‘But I could not shut my glazzies,<lb/>
and even if I tried to move my glaz-balls about I still could<lb/>
not get like out of the line of fire of this picture.’ Yet once<lb/>
‘this picture’ has become not one of Dr Brodsky’s pictures<lb/>
but one of Mr Kubrick’s, then two very central figures are<lb/>
surreptitiously permitted to move ‘out of the line of fire<lb/>
of this picture.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First, the creator of the whole fictional ‘horrorshow’<lb/>
itself, For it was crucial to Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
that it should include a novelist who was writing a book<lb/>
called A Clockwork Orange — crucial not because of the<lb/>
fad for such Chinese boxes, but because this was Burgess’s<lb/>
way of taking responsibility (as Kubrick does not take<lb/>
responsibility for Dr Brodsky’s film within his film),<lb/>
Burgess’s way of seeing that the whole enterprise itself was<lb/>
accessible to its own standards of judgment. The novelist<lb/>
FE. Alexander kept at once a curb and an eye on the book,<lb/>
so that other propensities than those of Dr Brodsky were<lb/>
also under moral surveillance. Above all the propensity of<lb/>
the commanding satirist to become the person who most<lb/>
averts his eyes to what he shows: that ‘satire is a sort of<lb/>
glass wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's<lb/>
face but their own.’ But in the film F. Alexander (who is<lb/>
brutally kicked by Alex, and his wife raped before his eyes)<lb/>
is not at work on a book called A Clockwork Orange, and<lb/>
so the film — unlike the book — ensures that it does not<lb/>
have to stand in its own line of fire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nor, secondly and more importantly, does Alex have to.<lb/>
The film cossets him. For the real accusation against the<lb/>
film is certainly not that it is too violent, but that it is not<lb/>
</p>
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281<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<pb n="157"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
further protected, Alex-wise, by being grotesquely farcical<lb/>
— Alex rams her in the face with a huge sculpture of a penis<lb/>
and testicles, a pretentious art work which she has preten-<lb/>
tiously fussed about and which when touched jerks itself<lb/>
spasmodically.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film reshapes that murder to help Alex out. Similarly<lb/>
with the more important death of the novelist’s wife. ‘She<lb/>
died, you see. She was brutally raped and beaten. The<lb/>
shock was very great.’ But the film — by then nearing its<lb/>
end — doesn’t want Alex to have this death on our<lb/>
consciences, so the novelist (who is manifestly half-mad<lb/>
to boot) is made to mutter that the doctor said it was<lb/>
pneumonia she died of, during the flu epidemic, but that<lb/>
he knew, etc., etc. Or, not to worry, Alex-lovers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then there is the brutal killing within the prison cell,<lb/>
when they all beat up the homosexual newcomer:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, seeing the old krovvy flow red in the red<lb/>
light, I felt the old joy like rising up in my keeshkas<lb/>
... So they all stood around while I cracked at this<lb/>
prestoopnick in the near dark. I fisted him all over,<lb/>
dancing about with my boots on though unlaced,<lb/>
and then I tripped him and he went crash crash on<lb/>
to the floor. I gave him one real horrorshow kick on<lb/>
the gulliver and he went ohhhhh, then he sort of<lb/>
snorted off to like sleep.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
282<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No place for any of that in the film, since it would entail<lb/>
being more perturbed about Alex than would be conven-<lb/>
sent. No, better to show all the convicts as good-natured<lb/>
buffoons and to let the prison guards monopolise detest-<lb/>
ability. The film settles for a happy swap, dispensing with<lb/>
the killing in the cell and proffering instead officialdom’s<lb/>
humiliating violence in shining a torch up Alex’s rectum.<lb/>
None of that in the book.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘When a novelist puts his thumb in the scale, to pull<lb/>
down the balance to his own predilection, that is immor-<lb/>
ality (D. H. Lawrence). As a novelist, Burgess controls<lb/>
his itching thumb (he does after all include within himself<lb/>
as much of a polemicist for Original Sin and for Christian<lb/>
extremity as his co-religionists Graham Greene and William<lb/>
Golding). But the film is not content with having a thumb<lb/>
in the pan — it insists on thumbs down for most and<lb/>
thumbs up for Alex. Thumbs down for Dr Brodsky, who<lb/>
is made to say that the aversion drug will cause a deathlike<lb/>
terror and paralysis; thumbs down for the Minister of the<lb/>
Interior, who bulks proportionately larger and who has<lb/>
what were other men’s words put into his mouth, and<lb/>
whose asinine classy ruthlessness allows the audience to<lb/>
vent its largely irrelevant feelings about ‘politicians,’ thus<lb/>
not having to vent any hostility upon Alex; thumbs down<lb/>
for Alex’s spurious benefactors, who turn out to be mad<lb/>
schemers against the bad government, and not only that<lb/>
but very vengeful — the novelist and his friends torture<lb/>
Alex with music to drive him to suicide (the book told<lb/>
quite another story).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But thumbs up for the gladiatorial Alex. For it is not<lb/>
just the killings that are whitewashed. Take the two girls<lb/>
he picks up and takes back to his room. In the book,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
what matters to Alex — and to our sense of Alex — is<lb/>
</p>
<p>
283<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="158"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that they couldn't have been more than ten years old,<lb/>
that he got them viciously drunk, that he gave himself<lb/>
a ‘hypo jab’ so that he could better exercise ‘the strange<lb/>
and weird desires of Alexander the Large,’ and that they<lb/>
ended up bruised and screaming. The film, which wants<lb/>
to practise a saintlike charity of redemption towards Alex<lb/>
but also to make things assuredly easy for itself, can’t<lb/>
have any of that. So the ten-year-olds become jolly<lb/>
dollies; no drink, no drugs, no bruises, just the three of<lb/>
them having a ball. And to make double sure that Alex<lb/>
is not dislodged from anybody’s affection, the whole<lb/>
thing is speeded up so that it twinkles away like frantic<lb/>
fun from a silent film. Instead of the cold brutality of<lb/>
Alex’s ‘the old in-out,’ a warm Rowan and Martin laugh-<lb/>
in-out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Conversely, Alex’s fight with his friends is put into silent<lb/>
slow motion, draping its balletic gauzes between us and<lb/>
Alex. And when one of these droogs later takes his revenge<lb/>
on Alex by smashing him across the eyes with a milk bottle<lb/>
and leaving him to the approaching police, this too has<lb/>
become something very different from what it was in the<lb/>
book. For there it was not a milk bottle that Dim wielded<lb/>
but his chain: ‘and it snaked whishhhh and he chained<lb/>
me gentle and artistic like on the glazlids, me just closing<lb/>
them up in time.’ The difference which that makes is that<lb/>
the man who is there so brutally hurt is the man who had<lb/>
so recently exulted in Dim’s prowess with that chain:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dim had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain<lb/>
round his waist, twice wound round, and he unwound<lb/>
this and began to swing it beautiful in the eyes or<lb/>
glazzies . . . Old Dim with his chain snaking<lb/>
whissssssshhhhhhhhbh, so that old Dim chained him<lb/>
</p>
<p>
284<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
The novel, though it has failures of judgement which<lb/>
sometimes let in a gloat, does not flinch from showing<lb/>
Alex’s exultation. The movie takes out the book’s first act<lb/>
of violence, the protracted sadistic taunting of an aged<lb/>
book lover and then his beating up:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You naughty old veck, you,’ I said, and then we<lb/>
began to filly about with him. Pete held his rookers<lb/>
and Georgie sort of hooked his rot wide open for<lb/>
him and Dim yanked out his false zoobies, upper and<lb/>
lower. He threw these down on the pavement and<lb/>
then I treated them to the old boot-crush, though<lb/>
they were hard bastards like, being made of some new<lb/>
horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck began to make<lb/>
sort of chumbling shooms — ‘wuf waf wof’ — so<lb/>
Georgie let go of holding his goobers apart and just<lb/>
let him have one in the toothless rot with his ringy<lb/>
fist, and that made the old veck start moaning a lot<lb/>
then, then out comes the blood, my brothers, real<lb/>
beautiful. So all we did then was to pull his outer<lb/>
platties off, stripping him down to his vest and long<lb/>
underpants (very starry; Dim smecked his head off<lb/>
near), and then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot, and<lb/>
we let him go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film holds us off from Alex’s blood-lust, and it lets<lb/>
Alex off by mostly showing us the only show of violence.<lb/>
The beating of the old drunk is done by four silhouetted<lb/>
figures with their sticks — horribly violent in some ways,<lb/>
of course, but held at a distance. That distance would be<lb/>
</p>
<p>
285<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="159"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
artistically admirable if its intention was to preclude the<lb/>
pornography of bloodthirstiness rather than to preclude<lb/>
our realising, making real to ourselves, Alex’s bloodthirst-<lb/>
iness. Likewise the gang fight is at first the frenzied destruc-<lb/>
tiveness of a Western and is then a stylised distanced<lb/>
drubbing; neither of these incriminates Alex as the book<lb/>
had honourably felt obliged to do. The first page of the<lb/>
book knows that Alex longs to see someone ‘swim in his<lb/>
blood,’ and the book never forgets what it early shows:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we tripped him so he laid down flat and heavy<lb/>
and a bucket-load of beer-vomit came whooshing out.<lb/>
That was disgusting so we gave him the boot, one go<lb/>
each, and then it was blood, not song nor vomit, that<lb/>
came out of his filthy old rot. Then we went on our<lb/>
way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to<lb/>
waltz — left two three, right two three — and carve<lb/>
left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two curtains<lb/>
of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one<lb/>
on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter<lb/>
starlight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film does not let Alex shed that blood. But it isn’t<lb/>
against blood-letting or hideous brutality, it just insists on<lb/>
enlisting them. So we see Alex’s face spattered with blood<lb/>
at the police station, the wall too; and we see a very great<lb/>
deal of blood-streaming violence in the aversion therapy<lb/>
film which the emetic-laden Alex is forced to witness.<lb/>
What this selectivity of violence does is ensure that the<lb/>
aversion film outdoes anything that we have as yet been<lb/>
made to contemplate (Alex’s horrorshows are mostly<lb/>
</p>
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286<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
allowed to flicker past). It is not an accident, and it is<lb/>
culpably coercive, that the most long-drawn-out, realistic,<lb/>
and hideous act of brutality is that meted on Alex by his<lb/>
ex-companions, now policemen. Battered and all but<lb/>
drowned, Alex under violence is granted the mercy neither<lb/>
of slow motion nor of speeding up. But the film uses this<lb/>
mercilessness for its own specious mercy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is no difficulty in agreeing with Kubrick that people<lb/>
do get treated like that; and nobody should be treated like<lb/>
that. At this point the film doesn’t at all gloat over the<lb/>
violence which it makes manifest but doesn’t itself manifest.<lb/>
Right. But Burgess’s original artistic decision was the oppo-<lb/>
site: it was to ensure that we should deeply know of but<lb/>
not know about what they did to Alex: ‘I will not go into<lb/>
what they did, but it was all like panting and thudding<lb/>
against this like background of whirring farm machines and<lb/>
the twittwittwittering in the bare or nagoy branches.’ I will<lb/>
not go into what they did: that was Burgess as well as Alex<lb/>
speaking. Kubrick does not speak, but he really goes into<lb/>
what they did. By doing so he ensures our sympathy for<lb/>
Alex, but at the price of an enfeebling circularity. ‘Pity the<lb/>
monster, urges Robert Lowell. I am a man more sinned<lb/>
against than sinning, the film allows Alex to intimate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The pain speaks for Alex, and so does the sexual humour.<lb/>
For Kubrick has markedly sexed things up. Not just that<lb/>
modern sculpture of a penis, but the prison guard's ques-<lb/>
tion (‘Are you or have you ever been a homosexual?’), and<lb/>
the social worker’s hand clapped hard but lovingly on<lb/>
Alex’s genitals, and the prison chaplains amiable eagerness<lb/>
to reassure Alex about masturbation, and the bare breasted<lb/>
nurse and the untrousered doctor at it behind the curtains<lb/>
of the hospital bed. All of this may seem to be just good<lb/>
clean fun (though also most uninventively funny), but it<lb/>
</p>
<p>
287<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="160"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
too takes its part within the forcible reclamation of Alex<lb/>
which Kubrick no less than Dr Brodsky is out to achieve.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The sexual farce is to excriminate Alex as a bit of a dog<lb/>
rather than one hell of a rat, and the tactic pays off — but<lb/>
cheaply — in the very closing moments of the film, when<lb/>
Alex, cured of his cure and now himself again, is listening<lb/>
to great music. In the film his fantasy is of a voluptuous<lb/>
slow-motion lovemaking, rape-ish rather than rape, all<lb/>
surrounded by costumed grandees applauding — amiable<lb/>
enough, in a way, and a bit like Billy Liar. The book ends<lb/>
with the same moment, but with an unsentimental certainty<lb/>
as to what kind of lust it still is that is uppermost for Alex:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh it was gorgeosity and yamyumyum. When it came<lb/>
to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running<lb/>
and running on like very light and mysterious nogas,<lb/>
carving the whole litso [face] of the creeching world<lb/>
with my cutthroat britva. And there was the slow<lb/>
movement and the lovely last sighing movement still<lb/>
to come. I was cured all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film raises real questions, and not just of the are-<lb/>
liberals-really-liberal? sort. On my left, Jean-Jacques<lb/>
Rousseau; on my right, Robert Ardrey — this is factitious<lb/>
and fatuous. When Kubrick and Burgess were stung into<lb/>
replying to criticism, both claimed that the accusation’ of<lb/>
gratuitous violence was gratuitous. Yet Kubrick makes too<lb/>
easy a diclaimer — too easy in terms of the imagination<lb/>
and its sources of energy, though fair enough in repudiating<lb/>
the charge of ‘fascism’ — when he says that he should not<lb/>
be denounced as a fascist, ‘no more than any well-balanced<lb/>
commentator who read “A Modest Proposal” would have<lb/>
accused Dean Swift of being a cannibal.’<lb/>
</p>
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288<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
Agreed, but it would be Swift’s imagination, not his<lb/>
behaviour, that would be at stake, and there have always<lb/>
been those who found ‘A Modest Proposal’ a great deal<lb/>
more equivocally disconcerting than Kubrick seems to. As<lb/>
Dr Johnson said of Swift, “The greatest difficulty that<lb/>
occurs, in analysing his character, is to discover by what<lb/>
depravity of intellect he took delight in revolving ideas,<lb/>
from which almost every other mind shrinks with disgust.’<lb/>
So that to invoke Swift is apt (Alex’s slang ‘gulliver’ for<lb/>
head is not just Russian golova) but isnt a brisk accusation-<lb/>
stopper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Again, when Burgess insists: “It was certainly no pleasure<lb/>
to me to describe acts of violence when writing the novel,’<lb/>
there must be a counter-insistence: that on such a matter<lb/>
no writer's say-so can simply be accepted, since a writer<lb/>
mustn't be assumed to know so — the sincerity in question<lb/>
is of the deepest and most taxing kind. The aspiration<lb/>
need not be doubted:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What my, and Kubrick's, parable tries to state is that<lb/>
it is preferable to have a world of violence undertaken<lb/>
in full awareness — violence chosen as an act of will<lb/>
_ than a world conditioned to be good or harmless.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When so put, few but B. E Skinner are likely to contest<lb/>
it. But there are still some urgent questions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
1, Isnt this alternative too blankly stark? And isn't the<lb/>
book better than the film just because it doesn't take instant<lb/>
refuge in the antithesis, but has a subtler sense of respon-<lb/>
sibilities and irresponsibilities here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
2. Isn't ‘the Judaeo-Christian ethic that A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange tries to express more profoundly disconcerting<lb/>
than it is suggested by Burgess’s hospitable formulation?<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="161"/>
<p>
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</p>
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<p>
is, does not think of it as somehow patently unimpeach-<lb/>
able. ‘The wish to diminish free will is, I should think,<lb/>
a sin against the Holy Ghost’ (Burgess). Those who do<lb/>
not believe in the Holy Ghost need not believe that there<lb/>
is such a thing as the sin against the Holy Ghost — no<lb/>
reassuring worst of sins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
3. Isn't the moral and spiritual crux here more cruelly<lb/>
unresolvable, a hateful siege of contraries? T. S. Eliot sought<lb/>
to resolve it:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So far as we are human, what we do must be either<lb/>
evil or good; so far as we do evil or good, we are<lb/>
human; and it is better, in a paradoxical way, to do<lb/>
evil than to do nothing: at least, we exist. It is true<lb/>
to say that the glory of man is his capacity for salva-<lb/>
tion; it is also true to say that his glory is his capacity<lb/>
for damnation. The worst that can be said of most<lb/>
of our malefactors, from statesmen to thieves, is that<lb/>
they are not men enough to be damned. |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But Eliot’s teeth are there on edge, and so are ours; those<lb/>
who do not share the religion of Eliot and Burgess may<lb/>
think that no primacy should be granted to Eliot’s principle<lb/>
— nor to its humane counter-principle, that it is better to<lb/>
do nothing than to do evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
4. Is this film worried enough about films? Each medium<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
will have its own debasements when seduced by violence.<lb/>
A novel has but words, and words can gloat and collude<lb/>
only in certain ways. A play has people speaking words,<lb/>
and what Dr Johnson deplored in the blinding of Gloucester<lb/>
in King Lear constitutes the artistic opportunity of drama,<lb/>
that we both intensely feel that great violence is perpetrated<lb/>
and intensely know that it is not: ‘an act too horrid to be<lb/>
endured in a dramatic exhibition, and such as must always<lb/>
compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity.’ But<lb/>
the medium of film is an equivocal one (above all how far<lb/>
people are really part of the medium), which is why it is<lb/>
so peculiarly fitted both to use and to abuse equivocations.<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange was a novel about the abuses of the<lb/>
film (its immoralities of violence and brainwashing), and<lb/>
it included — as the film of A Clockwork Orange does not<lb/>
— some thinking and feeling which Kubrick should not<lb/>
have thought that he could merely cut:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This time the film like jumped right away on a young<lb/>
devotchka who was being given the old in-out by first<lb/>
one malchick then another then another then another,<lb/>
she creeching away very gromky through the speakers<lb/>
and like very pathetic and tragic music going on at<lb/>
the same time. This was real, very real, though if you<lb/>
thought about it properly you couldn't imagine<lb/>
lewdies actually agreeing to having all this done to<lb/>
them in a film, and if these films were made by the<lb/>
Good or the State you couldn’t imagine them being<lb/>
allowed to take these films without like interfering<lb/>
with what was going on. So it must have been very<lb/>
clever what they called cutting or editing or some<lb/>
such veshch. For it was very real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...J<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
The minds of this Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom .. .<lb/>
They must have been more cally and filthy than any<lb/>
prestoopnick in the Staja itself. Because I did not<lb/>
think it was possible for any veck to even think of<lb/>
making films of what I was forced to viddy, all tied<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up to this chair and my glazzies made to be wide<lb/>
open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film of A Clockwork Orange doesn't have the moral<lb/>
courage that could altogether deal with that. Rather, like<lb/>
Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove, it has a central failure of courage<lb/>
and confidence, manifest in its need to caricature (bold<lb/>
in manner, timid at heart) and in its determination that<lb/>
nobody except Alex had better get a chance. Burgess says:<lb/>
‘The point is that, if we are going to love mankind, we<lb/>
will have to love Alex as a not unrepresentative member<lb/>
of it. A non-Christian may be thankful that he is not<lb/>
under the impossibly cruel, and cruelty-causing, injunction<lb/>
to love mankind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament, or<lb/>
Enderby’s End’<lb/>
A. 8. Byatt<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tue plot of The Clockwork Testament, or Enderby’ End<lb/>
concerns the final activities, in New York, of the minor<lb/>
poet, EX. Enderby, eponymous protagonist of Inside Mr<lb/>
Enderby and Enderby Outside. He is indirectly responsible<lb/>
for the film, The Wreck of the Deutschland, developed (by<lb/>
rewrite men) ‘out of an idea by E X. Enderby’ ‘based on<lb/>
the story by G. M. Hopkins S. J. Real horrorshow sinny,<lb/>
as Alex, the hero of A Clockwork Orange, would have said,<lb/>
transposed to Nazi times, incorporating ‘over-explicit<lb/>
scenes of nuns being violated by teenage stormtroopers’<lb/>
and advertised by a ‘gaudy poster showing a near-naked<lb/>
nun facing, with carmined lips opening in orgasm, the<lb/>
rash-smart sloggering brine’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Called to American attention by this democratic<lb/>
medium, Enderby has become Professor of Creative<lb/>
Writing at the University of Manhattan. He is occupied<lb/>
with a long poem about the conflict between St Augustine<lb/>
and Pelagius or Morgan, the British heretic, who believed<lb/>
God had left man free to choose between Good and Evil.<lb/>
He is harassed by journalists, who are gleefully perturbed<lb/>
about outbreaks of nunslaughter in Manhattan and<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
Ashton-under-Lyne, and by teenage thugs whom he pinks<lb/>
with a swordstick in the subway. He is threatened by black<lb/>
power, women’s lib, free verse, a female Christ. He has<lb/>
two mild heart attacks. And a final showdown with a<lb/>
mysterious female visitor, as in Enderby Outside, who knows<lb/>
his poems. This one, unlike the golden lady of the earlier<lb/>
book, intends to shoot him because her knowledge of his<lb/>
work is restricting her freedom to compose. She announces<lb/>
herself as Dr Greaving from Goldengrove.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Enderby proclaimed in the first book that all women<lb/>
were stepmothers: rendered impotent, more or less, by<lb/>
terror of his own particularly gross one, he retreated into<lb/>
cloacal austerity and prolonged adolescent fantasy,<lb/>
supported by her legacy to him, some shares and some<lb/>
repulsive dietary habits. But women are also bitch goddesses,<lb/>
white goddesses, moon goddesses and sun goddesses, with<lb/>
whom Enderby’s relations are agonised, embarrassed and<lb/>
incomplete. He masters this last, Americano-Hopkins<lb/>
Muse, at a cost.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess returns, with his own mixture of crude gusto<lb/>
and verbal intricacy, to a concentration of themes: the<lb/>
freedom of the will, the nature of Good and Evil (and<lb/>
their difference from right and wrong) and the relationship<lb/>
between art and morals, the proposition that all life is one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In The Wanting Seed, a repellent and gripping fable of<lb/>
the future, he turned the debate between Pelagius and<lb/>
Augustine into a historical principle, the Cycle. Pelphase<lb/>
— belief in human perfectibility, liberal values, standardiza-<lb/>
tion, rules, order. Interphase — disappointment, breeding<lb/>
repression. Gusphase — belief in original sin, human nature<lb/>
as destructive, use of war, sex and flesheating as social<lb/>
organising forces, Pelphase is rational, Gusphase religious<lb/>
and magical.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, like Enderby, sees both extremes as myths.<lb/>
Enderby quotes Wagner — wir sind ein wenig frei. A little<lb/>
free — to choose between good and evil. That is the moral<lb/>
of that book with a moral, A Clockwork Orange. Alex is<lb/>
chemically conditioned to ‘like present the other cheek’.<lb/>
The Pelagian chaplain warns him — ‘when a man cannot<lb/>
choose, he ceases to be a man’, But the existence of choice<lb/>
involves the existence of evil, violence, horror, as according<lb/>
to Enderby and Burgess, does art.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Enderby’s epic The Pet Beast, the Minotaur, double<lb/>
natured, man, God, beast, gentle and flesh-eating at the<lb/>
centre of the lawgiver’s labyrinth, is crucified by the<lb/>
Pelagian liberator. But the daedale labyrinth contains<lb/>
the Cretan culture — with the death of the Beast, who<lb/>
is original sin, civilisation crashes into dust. Alex,<lb/>
conditioned to be repelled by violence, is conditioned<lb/>
to be repelled by Beethoven. Enderby, in this book,<lb/>
describes God as a kind of infinite Ninth Symphony<lb/>
playing itself eternally, unconcerned with human rights<lb/>
and wrongs. Aesthetic good is morally neutral, although<lb/>
it contains the knowledge of Good and Evil, beauty and<lb/>
destruction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It may be that one needs a Catholic upbringing to<lb/>
appreciate the full urgency of Burgess’s dichotomies. Like<lb/>
the Pet Beast, everything in his world is dual, flesh and<lb/>
spirit, as well as good and evil. Those who can claim that<lb/>
all life is one are either dangerous normative doctors and<lb/>
psychologists or the representatives of the White Goddess,<lb/>
tempting Enderby to the violence inherent in the flesh<lb/>
and beauty and sex which he has always feared.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Clockwork Testament makes intricate connexions<lb/>
between these themes, Hopkins, film and book of the<lb/>
Clockwork Orange and all sorts of aspects of contemporary<lb/>
</p>
<p>
295<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="164"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
art and life. It succeeds because it is ferociously funny and<lb/>
wildly, verbally inventive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are various tours-de-force — the Hopkins-Enderby<lb/>
script of the Wreck of the Deutschland, an excruciating<lb/>
illustrative transcript of the television show, complete with<lb/>
commercials (for an aerosol product called Mansex) full<lb/>
of double-entendres and horrible puns. There are Enderby’s<lb/>
encounters with the Creative Writing of his students.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is a miraculous moment when Enderby, having<lb/>
undergone the poems of Black Hatred (‘It will be your<lb/>
balls next whitey’) and some ‘sloppy and fungoid’ imita-<lb/>
tion Hart Crane, suddenly produces on demand his idea<lb/>
of a good poem. ‘Queen and huntress chaste and fair.’<lb/>
The White Goddess again. Dangerous but orderly, in<lb/>
culture, history and language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Times, 6 June 1974<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Afterword<lb/>
Stanley Edgar Hyman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ANTHONY Burgess is one of the newest and most talented<lb/>
of the younger British writers. Although he is forty-five,<lb/>
he has devoted himself to writing only in the last few<lb/>
years; with enormous productivity, he has published ten<lb/>
novels since 1956; before that he was a composer, and a<lb/>
civil servant in Malaya and Brunei. His first novel to be<lb/>
published in this country, The Right to an Answer, appeared<lb/>
in 1961. It was followed the next year by Devil of a State,<lb/>
and by A Clockwork Orange early in 1963. A fourth novel,<lb/>
The Wanting Seed, is due out later in 1963. Burgess seems<lb/>
to me the ablest satirist to appear since Evelyn Waugh,<lb/>
and the word ‘satire’ is inadequate to his range.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Right to an Answer is a terribly funny, terribly bitter<lb/>
smack at English life in a provincial city (apparently the<lb/>
author’ birthplace, Manchester). The principal activity of<lb/>
the townspeople seems to be the weekend exchange of<lb/>
wives, and their dispirited slogan is “Bit of fun’ (prophet-<lb/>
ically heard by Mr Raj, a visiting Ceylonese, as ‘bitter<lb/>
fun’). The book’s ironic message is Love. It ends quoting<lb/>
Raj’s unfinished manuscript on race relations: “Love seems<lb/>
inevitable, necessary, as normal and as easy a process as<lb/>
respiration, but unfortunately .. .’ the manuscript breaks<lb/>
</p>
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<pb n="165"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
off. Raj’s love has just led him to kill two people and blow<lb/>
his brains out. One thinks of A Passage to India, several<lb/>
decades more sour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Devil of a State is less bitter, more like early Waugh. Its<lb/>
comic target is the uranium-rich East African state of<lb/>
Dunia (obviously based on the oil-rich Borneo state of<lb/>
Brunei). In what there is of a plot, the miserable protago-<lb/>
nist, Frank Lydgate, a civil servant, struggles with the rival<lb/>
claims of his wife and his native mistress, only to be<lb/>
snatched from both of them by his first wife, a formidable<lb/>
female spider of a woman. The humour derives mainly<lb/>
from incongruity: the staple food in Dunia is Chinese<lb/>
spaghetti; the headhunters upriver shrink a Belgian head<lb/>
with eyeglasses and put Brylcreem on its hair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Neither book at all prepares one for the savagery of<lb/>
Burgess’ next novel. A Clockwork Orange is a nightmarish<lb/>
fantasy of a future England where the hoodlums take over<lb/>
after dark. Its subject is the dubious redemption of one<lb/>
such hoodlum, Alex, told by himself. The society is a limp<lb/>
and listless socialism at some future time when men are<lb/>
on the moon: hardly anyone still reads, although streets<lb/>
are named Amis Avenue and Priestley Place; Jonny<lb/>
Zhivago, a ‘Russky’ pop singer, is a juke-box hit, and the<lb/>
teenage language is three-quarters Russian; everybody ‘not<lb/>
a child nor with child nor ill’ must work; criminals have<lb/>
to be rehabilitated because all the prison space will soon<lb/>
be needed for politicals; there is an opposition and elec-<lb/>
tions, but they reelect the Government.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A streak of grotesque surrealism runs all through Burgess’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
State, a political meeting is held in a movie theatre while<lb/>
polecats walk the girders near the roof, sneer down at the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
298<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
audience, and dislodge bits of dried excrement on their<lb/>
heads. By A Clockwork Orange this has become truly<lb/>
infernal. As the hoodlums drive to their ‘surprise visit,<lb/>
they run over a big snarling toothy thing that screams and<lb/>
squelches, and as they drive back they run over ‘odd<lb/>
squealing things’ all the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Alex has no interest in women except as objects of<lb/>
violence and rape (the term for the sex act in his vocabu-<lb/>
lary is characteristically mechanical, ‘the old in-out in-out’).<lb/>
No part of the female body is mentioned except the size<lb/>
of the breasts (it would also interest a Freudian to know<lb/>
that the hoodlums’ drink is doped milk). Alex’s only<lb/>
‘esthetic’ interest is his passion for symphonic music. He<lb/>
lies naked on his bed, surrounded by his stereo speakers,<lb/>
listening to Mozart or Bach while he daydreams of grinding<lb/>
his boot into the faces of men, or raping ripped screaming<lb/>
girls, and at the music's climax he has an orgasm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A‘ running lecture on free will, first from the prison<lb/>
chaplain, then from the writer, strongly suggests that the<lb/>
books intention is Christian. Deprived of his capacity for<lb/>
moral choice by science, Burgess appears to be saying, Alex<lb/>
is only a ‘clockwork orange,’ something mechanical that<lb/>
appears organic. Free to will, even if he wills to sin, Alex is<lb/>
capable of salvation, like Pinky in Brighton Rock (Devil of<lb/>
a State, incidentally, is dedicated to Greene). But perhaps<lb/>
this is to confine Burgess’ ironies and ambiguities within<lb/>
simple orthodoxy. Alex always was a clockwork orange, a<lb/>
machine for mechanical violence far below the level of<lb/>
choice, and his dreary socialist England is a giant clockwork<lb/>
orange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the book is<lb/>
its language. Alex thinks and talks in the ‘nadsat’ (teenage)<lb/>
vocabulary of the future. A doctor in the book explains<lb/>
</p>
<p>
299<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="166"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
it. ‘Odd bits of old rhyming slang,’ he says. ‘A bit of gipsy<lb/>
talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav. Propaganda.<lb/>
Subliminal penetration.’ Nadsat is not quite so hard to<lb/>
decipher as Cretan Linear B, and Alex translates some of<lb/>
it. I found that I could not read the book without<lb/>
compiling a glossary; I reprint it here, although it is entirely<lb/>
unauthorised, and some of it is guesswork.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first the vocabulary seems incomprehensible: ‘you<lb/>
could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or<lb/>
one or two other veshches.’ Then the reader, even if he<lb/>
knows no Russian, discovers that some of the meaning is<lb/>
clear from context: ‘to tolchock some old veck in an alley<lb/>
and viddy him swim in his blood.’ Other words are intel-<lb/>
ligible after a second context: when Alex kicks a fallen<lb/>
enemy on the ‘gulliver’ it might be any part of the body,<lb/>
but when a glass of beer is served with a gulliver, ‘gulliver’<lb/>
is ‘head.’ (Life is easier, of course, for those who know the<lb/>
Russian word golova.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess has not used Russian words mechanically, but<lb/>
with great ingenuity, as the transformation into ‘gulliver,’<lb/>
with its Swiftian associations, suggests. Others are bril-<lb/>
liantly anglicised: khorosho (good or well) as ‘horrorshow’;<lb/>
liudi (people) as ‘lewdies’; militsia (militia or police) as<lb/>
‘millicents’; odinock (lonesome) as ‘oddy knocky.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess uses some Russian words in an American slang<lb/>
extension, such as nadsat itself, the termination of the Russian<lb/>
numbers eleven to nineteen, which he breaks off indepen-<lb/>
dently on the analogy of our ‘teen.’ Thus fopat (to dig with<lb/>
a shovel) is used as ‘dig’ in the sense of enjoy or understand;<lb/>
koshka (cat) and ptitsa (bird) become the hip ‘cat’ and ‘chick’;<lb/>
neezhny (lower) turns into ‘neezhnies’ (underpants); pooshka<lb/>
(cannon) becomes the term for a pistol; rozha (grimace)<lb/>
turns into ‘rozz,’ one of the words for policeman; samyi (the<lb/>
</p>
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300<lb/>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
most) becomes ‘sammy’ (generous); soomka (bag) is the slang<lb/>
‘ugly woman’; vareet (to cook up) is also used in the slang<lb/>
sense, for something preparing or transpiring.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The ‘gypsy talk,’ I would guess, includes Alex’s phrase<lb/>
‘O my brothers,’ and ‘crark’ (to yowl?), ‘cutter’ (money),<lb/>
‘filly’ (to fool with), and such. The rhyming slang includes<lb/>
‘luscious glory’ for ‘hair’ (rhyming with ‘upper story’?) and<lb/>
‘pretty polly’ for ‘money’ (rhyming with ‘lolly’ of current<lb/>
slang). Others are inevitable associations, such as ‘cancer’<lb/>
for ‘cigarette’ and ‘charlie’ for ‘chaplain.’ Others are<lb/>
produced simply by schoolboy transformations: ‘appy polly<lb/>
loggy’ (apology), ‘baddiwad’ (bad), ‘eggiweg’ (egg), ‘skol-<lb/>
liwoll’ (school), and so forth. Others are amputations:<lb/>
‘suff’ (guffaw), ‘pee and em’ (pop and mom), ‘sarky’<lb/>
(sarcastic), ‘sinny’ (cinema). Some appear to be portman-<lb/>
teau words: ‘chumble’ (chatter-mumble), ‘mounch’ (mouth-<lb/>
munch), ‘shive’ (shiv-shave), ‘skriking’ (striking-scratching).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are slight inconsistencies, when Burgess (or Alex)<lb/>
forgets his word and invents another or uses our word,<lb/>
but on the whole he handles his Russianate vocabulary in<lb/>
a masterly fashion. It has a wonderful sound, particularly<lb/>
in abuse, when ‘grahzny bratchny’ sounds infinitely better<lb/>
than ‘dirty bastard.’ Coming to literature by way of music,<lb/>
Burgess has a superb ear, and he shows an interest in the<lb/>
texture of language rare among current novelists. (He<lb/>
confessed in a recent television interview that he is obsessed<lb/>
by words.) As a most promising writer of the 6os, Burgess<lb/>
has followed novels that remind us of Forster and Waugh<lb/>
with an eloquent and shocking novel that is quite unique.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After A Clockwork Orange, Burgess wrote The Wanting<lb/>
Seed, which appeared in England in 1962 and will soon be<lb/>
published in the United States. It is a look centuries ahead<lb/>
to a future world almost as repulsive as Alex's. Perpetual<lb/>
</p>
<p>
301<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="167"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
Peace has been established, and the main effort of govern-<lb/>
ment is to hold down human reproduction. Contraceptive<lb/>
pills are universal, infanticide is condoned, homosexuality<lb/>
is officially encouraged, and giving birth more than once<lb/>
is a criminal act. We see this world as it affects the lives of<lb/>
‘Tristram Foxe, a schoolteacher, his wife Beatrice-Joanna, a<lb/>
natural Urmutter, and his brother Derek, Beatrice-Joanna’s<lb/>
lover, who holds high office in the government by pretending<lb/>
to be homosexual. In this world of sterile rationalism, meat<lb/>
is unknown and teeth are atavistic, God has been replaced<lb/>
by ‘Mr Livedog,’ a figure of fun (‘God knows’ becomes<lb/>
‘Dog-nose’), and the brutal policemen are homosexuals<lb/>
who wear black lipstick to match their ties.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As a result of all the organised blasphemy against life,<lb/>
in Burgess’ fable, crops and food animals are mysteriously<lb/>
stricken all over the world, and as rations get more and<lb/>
more meagre, order breaks down. The new phase is<lb/>
heralded by Beatrice-Joanna, who gives birth in a kind of<lb/>
manger to twin sons, perhaps separately fathered by the<lb/>
two men in heer life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the new world of fertility is no better than the world<lb/>
of sterility that it supplants. Soon England is swept by canni-<lb/>
balism (the epicene flesh of policemen is particularly<lb/>
esteemed), there are public sex orgies to make the crops grow,<lb/>
and Christian worship returns, using consecrated human<lb/>
flesh in place of wine and wafer (‘eucharistic ingestion’ is the<lb/>
new slogan). The check on population this time is a return<lb/>
to old-fashioned warfare with rifles, in which armies of men<lb/>
fight armies of women; war is visibly ‘a massive sexual act.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At the end, Tristram, who as a representative man of<lb/>
both new orders has been in prison and the army, is<lb/>
reunited with his wife and her children, but nothing has<lb/>
changed fundamentally. The cycle, now in its Augustinian<lb/>
</p>
<p>
302<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
phase with the emphasis on human depravity, will soon<lb/>
enough swing back to its Pelagian phase, with the emphasis<lb/>
on human perfectibility.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Wanting Seed shows Burgess’ familiar preoccupation<lb/>
with language. His vocabulary rivals that of Wallace<lb/>
Stevens: a woman is ‘bathycolpous’ (deep-bosomed), a<lb/>
male secretary is ‘flavicomous (blond), a Chinese magnate<lb/>
is ‘mactated’ (sacrificially killed), moustaches are ‘cornicu-<lb/>
late’ (horned). The book is full of Joycean jokes: in a long<lb/>
sequence of paired names for the public fertility rites, one<lb/>
pair is “Tommy Eliot with Kitty Elphick,’ which is, of<lb/>
course, Old Possum with one of his Practical Cats; war<lb/>
poetry is read to the army on Saturday mornings, on order<lb/>
of Captain Auden-Isherwood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On her way to the State Provision Store to buy her<lb/>
ration of vegetable dehydrate, synthelac, compressed cereal<lb/>
sheets, and ‘nuts’ or nutrition units, Beatrice-Joanna stops<lb/>
to take a breath of the sea, and Burgess’ beautiful sentence<lb/>
is an incantation of sea creatures: ‘Sand-hoppers, mermaids’<lb/>
purses, sea gooseberries, cuttle bones, wrasse, blenny and<lb/>
bullhead, tern, gannet and herring gull.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like any satirist, Burgess extrapolates an exaggerated future<lb/>
to get at present tendencies he abhors. These include almost<lb/>
everything around. He does not like mindless violence, but<lb/>
he does not like mechanical reconditioning either; he detests<lb/>
sterile peace and fertile war about equally. Beneath Anthony ©<lb/>
Burgess’ wild comedy there is a prophetic (sometimes cranky<lb/>
and shrill) voice warning and denouncing us, but beneath<lb/>
that, on the deepest level, there is love: for mankind, and<lb/>
for mankind’s loveliest invention, the art of language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From the first American edition of<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange, 1963<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="168"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
My novella A Clockwork Orange, especially when it was<lb/>
transformed into a highly coloured and explicit film, has<lb/>
apparently qualified me as a major spokesman on violence.<lb/>
I learned recently that another book of mine, 198s, has<lb/>
become a kind of textbook for the Red Brigades. I can<lb/>
claim, nevertheless, no special interest in violence, except<lb/>
the fascination that it arouses in all human beings. Violence<lb/>
fascinates because it is the obverse of the one thing that<lb/>
humanity shares with God — the ability to create. Creation<lb/>
requires talent and violence does not, but both have the<lb/>
same result — transformation of natural material, excitement<lb/>
bordering on the orgasmatic, a sense of power. If there is<lb/>
shame in the perpetration of violence, as opposed to the<lb/>
quasi-religious elation of producing a work of art, this is<lb/>
easily qualified by a sense of an exalted end of which<lb/>
violence is the means — the building of a better society, for<lb/>
instance. When the perpetrator of violence wears a uniform<lb/>
— that of the state police or of a revolutionary paramilitary<lb/>
force — the violence is wholly excused and takes on the<lb/>
lineaments of sanctity. What was done to Aldo Moro<lb/>
provoked, in the doers, elation and shame at the elation,<lb/>
but the shame was dissolved in a sense of political purpose.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
305<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="169"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
Violence has traditionally been the preserve of the private<lb/>
sector of society and condemned as a criminal act. In our<lb/>
century, however, the State has seen the advantages of<lb/>
using it. Such States as have used it and still use it began<lb/>
as revolutionary groups operating in the private sector —<lb/>
the Fascists, the Nazis, the Communists — but elevation<lb/>
of the revolutionaries to full statehood — in other words,<lb/>
turning them into the forces of official reaction — has<lb/>
sanctified violence as a tool of statecraft.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Violence can only be countered by violence, and we<lb/>
must now accept the enactment of brutality, often for the<lb/>
highest declared purpose, as an ineradicable aspect of<lb/>
contemporary life. I do not mean solely torture and killing,<lb/>
but also violence done to the stability of the community<lb/>
through such devices as inflation, and the more terrible<lb/>
violence, enacted in the name of technological progress,<lb/>
done to the environment. We have all come to terms with<lb/>
violence: it is our daily news and our nightly entertain-<lb/>
ment. Once I saw a public way out of it, now I can only<lb/>
see hope in the refusal of the individual to accept violence<lb/>
as a norm of our society and, in consequence, to be<lb/>
prepared for martyrdom. It is a grim prospect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16 March 1982<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
</body>
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<pb n="1"/>
<p>
Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE<lb/>
The Restored Edition<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edited with an Introduction and<lb/>
Notes by Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Foreword by Martin Amis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="2"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Published by William Heinemann 2012<lb/>
24681097531<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Copyright © Estate of Anthony Burgess 2012<lb/>
Introduction and Notes copyright © Andrew Biswell 2012<lb/>
Foreword copyright © Martin Amis 2012<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or<lb/>
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the<lb/>
publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in<lb/>
which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition,<lb/>
being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edited extract from ‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Kingsley Amis, from the Observer.<lb/>
Copyright © Estate of Kingsley Amis.<lb/>
Review of A Clockwork Orange extracted from ‘New Novels’ by Malcolm Bradbury,<lb/>
Punch, 1962. Reproduced with permission of Punch Limited.<lb/>
All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament, or Enderby’s End by Anthony Burgess’<lb/>
by A. S. Byatt, The Times, 1974. Copyright © A. S. Byatt.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Extract from Reviewery by Christopher Ricks (Penguin Books, 2003), copyright ©<lb/>
Christopher Ricks, 2003. Reproduced by permission of Penguin Books Ltd.<lb/>
Afterword by Stanley Edgar Hyman, copyright © Estate of Stanley Edgar Hyman,<lb/>
2012. Reproduced by permission.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The moral right of the author has been asserted under the Copyright,<lb/>
and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First published in Great Britain in 1962 by<lb/>
William Heinemann<lb/>
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,<lb/>
London swiv 2sa<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rains Riy septal<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be<lb/>
found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/ offices.htm<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CIP catalogue record for this book<lb/>
is available from the British Library<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ISBN 9780434021512<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council®<lb/>
(FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. Our books<lb/>
carrying the FSC label are printed on FSC® certified paper. FSC is the only<lb/>
forest certification scheme endorsed by the leading environmental organisations,<lb/>
including Greenpeace. Our paper procurement policy<lb/>
can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk/environment<lb/>
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<p>
MIX<lb/>
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Paper from<lb/>
responsible sources<lb/>
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Esc FSC? C014496<lb/>
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Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH, PéBneck<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ns<lb/>
Se<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Contents<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FOREWORD by Martin Amis<lb/>
INTRODUCTION by Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ONE<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
TWO<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
THREE<lb/>
Page<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NOTES<lb/>
NADSAT GLOSSARY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PROLOGUE to A Clockwork Orange:<lb/>
A Play with Music by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
EPILOGUE: ‘A Malenky Govoreet about the<lb/>
Molodoy’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ESSAYS, ARTICLES AND REVIEWS<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="3"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Clockwork Marmalade’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Extract from an Unpublished Interview<lb/>
with Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Programme Note for A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
2004 by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘Ludwig Van’, a review of Beethoven by<lb/>
Maynard Solomon by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘Gash Gold-Vermillion’ by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
‘A Clockwork Orange’ by Kingsley Amis<lb/>
‘New Novels’ by Malcolm Bradbury<lb/>
‘Horror Show’ by Christopher Ricks<lb/>
‘All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament,<lb/>
or Enderbys End’ by A. S. Byatt<lb/>
Afterword by Stanley Edgar Hyman<lb/>
A Last Word on Violence by Anthony Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ANNOTATED PAGES from Anthony Burgess’s<lb/>
1961 Typescript of A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
</p>
<p>
245<lb/>
253<lb/>
259<lb/>
</p>
<p>
263<lb/>
267<lb/>
275<lb/>
277<lb/>
279<lb/>
</p>
<p>
293<lb/>
</p>
<p>
297<lb/>
305<lb/>
</p>
<p>
307<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FOREWORD<lb/>
Martin Amis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The day-to-day business of writing a novel often seems to<lb/>
consist of nothing but decisions — decisions, decisions,<lb/>
decisions. Should this paragraph go here? Or should it go<lb/>
there? Can that chunk of exposition be diversified by<lb/>
dialogue? At what point does this information need to be<lb/>
revealed? Ought I to use a different adjective and a different<lb/>
adverb in that sentence? Or no adverb and no adjective?<lb/>
Comma or semicolon? Colon or dash? And so on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
These decisions are minor, clearly enough, and they are<lb/>
processed more or less rationally by the conscious mind.<lb/>
All the major decisions, by contrast, have been reached<lb/>
before you sit down at your desk; and they involve not a<lb/>
moment’s thought. The major decisions are inherent in<lb/>
the original frisson — in the enabling throb or whisper (a<lb/>
whisper that says, Here is a novel you may be able to write).<lb/>
Very mysteriously, it is the unconscious mind that does<lb/>
the heavy lifting. No one knows how it happens. This is<lb/>
why Norman Mailer called his (excellent) book on fiction<lb/>
The Spooky Art.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When, in 1960, Anthony Burgess sat down to write A<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="4"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
knew that the novel would be set in the near future (and<lb/>
that it would take the standard science-fictional route,<lb/>
developing, and fiercely exaggerating, current tendencies).<lb/>
He knew that his vicious anti-hero, Alex, would narrate,<lb/>
and that he would do so in an argot or idiolect that the<lb/>
world had never heard before (he eventually settled on an<lb/>
unfailingly delightful blend of Russian, Romany, and<lb/>
rhyming slang). He knew that it would have something<lb/>
to do with Good and Bad, and Free Will. And he knew,<lb/>
crucially, that Alex would harbour a highly implausible<lb/>
Passion: an ecstatic love of classical music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We see the wayward brilliance of that last decision when<lb/>
we reacquaint ourselves, after half a century, with Burgess’s<lb/>
leering, sneering, sniggering, snivelling young sociopath (a<lb/>
type unimprovably caught by Malcolm McDowell in<lb/>
Stanley Kubrick's uneven but justly celebrated film). ‘It<lb/>
wasn't me, brother,’ Alex whines at his social worker (who<lb/>
has hurried to the local jailhouse): ‘Speak up for me, sir,<lb/>
for I’m not so bad.’ But Alex is so bad; and he knows it.<lb/>
The opening chapters of A Clockwork Orange still deliver<lb/>
the shock of the new: they form a red streak of gleeful evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On their first night on the town Alex and his droogs (or<lb/>
partners in crime) waylay a schoolmaster, rip up the books<lb/>
he is carrying, strip off his clothes, and stomp on his<lb/>
dentures; they rob and belabour a shopkeeper and his wife<lb/>
(‘a fair tap with a crowbar); they give a drunken bum a<lb/>
kicking (‘we cracked into him lovely’); and they have a<lb/>
ruck with a rival gang, using the knife, the chain, the<lb/>
straight razor: this ‘would be real, this would be proper,<lb/>
this would be the nozh, the oozy, the britva, not just fisties<lb/>
and boots . . . and there I was dancing about with my<lb/>
britva like I might be a barber on board a ship on a very<lb/>
rough sea’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Then there was like quiet and we were full of like<lb/>
hate, so [we] smashed what was left to be smashed<lb/>
~ typewriter, lamp, chairs — and Dim, it was typical<lb/>
old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung<lb/>
on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said<lb/>
no. ‘Out out out out,’ I howled. The writer veck and<lb/>
his zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and<lb/>
making noises. But they'd live.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And all this has been accomplished by the time we reach<lb/>
page 30.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before Part 1 ends, fifty-one pages later, with Alex in a<lb/>
rozz-shop smelling ‘of like sick and lavatories and beery<lb/>
rots [mouths] and disinfectant’, our ‘Humble Narrator<lb/>
drugs and ravishes two ten-year-olds, slices up Dim with<lb/>
his britva, and robs and murders an elderly spinster:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
.. . but this baboochka . . . like scratched my litso<lb/>
[face]. So then I screeched: ‘You filthy old soomka<lb/>
[woman]’, and upped with the little malenky [little]<lb/>
like silver statue and cracked her a fine fair tolchock<lb/>
[blow] on the gulliver [head] and that shut her up<lb/>
real horrorshow [good] and lovely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the brief hiatus between these two storms of ‘ultra-<lb/>
violence’ (the novel’s day one and day two), Alex goes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
home—to Municipal Flatblock 18A. And here, fora change,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ix<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="5"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he does nothing worse than keep his parents awake by<lb/>
playing the multi-speaker stereo in his room. First he listens<lb/>
to a new violin concerto, before moving on to Mozart and<lb/>
Bach. Burgess evokes Alex’s sensations in a bravura passage<lb/>
which owes less to nadsat, or teenage pidgin, and more to<lb/>
the modulations of Ulysses:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and<lb/>
behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silver-<lb/>
flamed, and there by the door the timps rolling<lb/>
through my guts and out again crunched like candy<lb/>
thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then,<lb/>
a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery<lb/>
wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now,<lb/>
came the violin solo above all the other strings, and<lb/>
those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here we feel the power of that enabling throb or whisper<lb/>
— the authorial insistence that the Beast would be suscep-<lb/>
tible to Beauty. At a stroke, and without sentimentality,<lb/>
Alex is decisively realigned. He has now been equipped<lb/>
with a soul, and even a suspicion of innocence — a suspi-<lb/>
cion confirmed by the deft disclosure in the final sentences<lb/>
of Part 1: “That was everything. I'd done the lot, now.<lb/>
And me still only fifteen.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the late 1950s, when A Clockwork Orange was just a<lb/>
twinkle in the author's eye, the daily newspapers were monot-<lb/>
onously bewailing the rise of mass delinquency, as the post-<lb/>
war Teddy Boys diverged and multiplied into the Mods and<lb/>
the Rockers (who would later devolve into the Hippies and<lb/>
the Skinheads). Meanwhile, the literary weeklies were much<lb/>
concerned with the various aftershocks of World War II — in<lb/>
particular, the supposedly startling coexistence, in the Third<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reich, of industrialised barbarism and High Culture. This<lb/>
is a debate that the novel boldly joins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lying naked on his bed, and thrilling to Mozart and<lb/>
Bach, Alex fondly recalls his achievements, earlier that<lb/>
night, with the maimed writer and his ravaged wife:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
...and I thought, slooshying [listening] away to the<lb/>
brown gorgeousness of the starry [old] German<lb/>
master, that I would like to have tolchocked them<lb/>
both harder and ripped them to ribbons on their own<lb/>
floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thus Burgess is airing the sinister but not implausible<lb/>
suggestion that Beethoven and Birkenau didn’t merely<lb/>
coexist. They combined and colluded, inspiring mad<lb/>
dreams of supremacism and omnipotence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Part 2, violence comes, not from below, but from<lb/>
above: it is the ‘clean’ and focused violence of the state.<lb/>
Having served two years of his sentence, the entirely incor-<lb/>
rigible Alex is selected for Reclamation Treatment (using<lb/>
‘Ludovico’s Technique’). This turns out to be a crash course<lb/>
of aversion therapy. Each morning he is injected with a<lb/>
strong emetic and wheeled into a screening room, where<lb/>
his head is clamped in a brace and his eyes pinned wide<lb/>
open; and then the lights go down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first Alex is obliged to watch familiar scenes of recre-<lb/>
ational mayhem (tolchocking malchicks, creeching<lb/>
devotchkas, and the like). We then move on to lingering<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="6"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Using Ludwig van like that. He did no harm to<lb/>
anyone. He just wrote music.’ And then I was really<lb/>
sick and they had to bring a bowl that was in the<lb/>
shape of like a kidney . . . ‘It can’t be helped,’ said<lb/>
Dr Branom. ‘Each man kills the thing he loves, as<lb/>
the poet-prisoner said. Here’s the punishment element,<lb/>
perhaps. The Governor ought to be pleased.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From now on Alex will feel intense nausea, not only when<lb/>
he contemplates violence, but also when he hears Ludwig<lb/>
van and the other starry masters. His soul, such as it was,<lb/>
has been excised.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We now embark on the curious apologetics of Part 3.<lb/>
‘Nothing odd will do long,’ said Dr Johnson — meaning<lb/>
that the reader’s appetite for weirdness is very quickly<lb/>
surfeited. Burgess (unlike, say, Pranz Kafka) is sensitive to<lb/>
this near-infallible law; but there’s a case for saying that<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange ought to be even shorter than its 196<lb/>
pages. It was in fact published with two different endings.<lb/>
The American edition omits the final chapter (this is the<lb/>
version used by Kubrick), and closes with Alex recovering<lb/>
from what proves to be a cathartic suicide attempt. He is<lb/>
listening to Beethoven’s Ninth:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When it came to the Scherzo I could viddy myself<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
This is the ‘dark’ ending. In the official version, though,<lb/>
Alex is afforded full redemption. He simply — and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bathetically — ‘outgrows’ the atavisms of youth, and starts<lb/>
itching to get married and settle down; his musical tastes<lb/>
turn to ‘what they call Lieder, just a goloss [voice] and a<lb/>
piano, very quiet and like yearny’; and he carries around<lb/>
with him a photo, scissored out of the newspaper, of a<lb/>
plump baby — ‘a baby gurgling goo goo goo’. So we are<lb/>
asked to accept that Alex has turned all soft and broody<lb/>
— at the age of eighteen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It feels like a startling loss of nerve on Burgess’s part,<lb/>
or a recrudescence (we recall that he was an Augustinian<lb/>
Catholic) of self-punitive religious guilt. Horrified by its<lb/>
own transgressive energy, the novel submits to a Reclamation<lb/>
Treatment sternly supplied by its author. Burgess knew<lb/>
that something was wrong: ‘a work too didactic to be<lb/>
artistic’, he half-conceded, ‘pure art dragged into the arena<lb/>
of morality’. And he shouldn’t have worried: Alex may be<lb/>
a teenager, but readers are grown-ups, and are perfectly<lb/>
at peace with the unregenerate. Besides, A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange is in essence a black comedy. Confronted by evil,<lb/>
comedy feels no need to punish or correct. It answers with<lb/>
corrosive laughter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In his book on Joyce, Joysprick (1973), Burgess made a<lb/>
provocative distinction between what he calls the ‘A’<lb/>
novelist and the ‘B’ novelist: the A novelist is interested<lb/>
in plot, character, and psychological insight, whereas the<lb/>
B novelist is interested, above all, in the play of words.<lb/>
The most famous B novel is Finnegans Wake, which<lb/>
Nabokov aptly described as ‘a cold pudding of a book, a<lb/>
snore in the next room’; and the same might be said of<lb/>
Ada: A Family Chronicle, by far the most B-inclined of<lb/>
Nabokov’s nineteen fictions. Anyway, the B novel, as a<lb/>
genre, is now utterly defunct; and A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
may be its only long-term survivor. It is a book that can<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xiil<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="7"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
still be read with steady pleasure, continuous amusement,<lb/>
and — at times — incredulous admiration. Anthony Burgess,<lb/>
then, is not ‘a minor B novelist’, as he described himself;<lb/>
he is the only B novelist. I think he would have settled for<lb/>
that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
LER CUO NOG G NA NB RGN VACA Gea tal<lb/>
</p>
<p>
INTRODUCTION<lb/>
Andrew Biswell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In 1994, less than a year after Anthony Burgess had died<lb/>
at the age of seventy-six, BBC Scotland commissioned the<lb/>
novelist William Boyd to write a radio play in celebration<lb/>
of his life and work. This was broadcast during the<lb/>
Edinburgh Festival on 21 August 1994, along with a concert<lb/>
performance of Burgess’s music and a recording of his<lb/>
Glasgow Overture. The programme was called ‘An Airful<lb/>
of Burgess’, with the actor John Sessions playing the parts<lb/>
of both Burgess and his fictional alter ego, the poet F. X.<lb/>
Enderby. On the same day, the Sunday Times ran a front-<lb/>
page story about the same radio play under the headline<lb/>
‘BBC in Row Over Festival Play’s Violent Rape Scene’.<lb/>
The newspaper claimed that the broadcast would feature<lb/>
‘a live re-enactment of a rape scene based on the controv-<lb/>
ersial Anthony Burgess work, A Clockwork Orange.’<lb/>
Stanley Kubrick’s film, which was said in the article to<lb/>
have been ‘blamed for carbon-copy crimes’, was also crit-<lb/>
icised for its ‘explicit depiction of gratuitous rape, violence<lb/>
and murder.’ Yet anyone who tuned into the radio broad-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="8"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
than two minutes of material derived from A Clockwork<lb/>
‘Orange, was a dignified tribute to Burgess’s long life of<lb/>
musical and literary creativity. Even in death, it seemed,<lb/>
Burgess (who had often parodied the style of no-nonsense,<lb/>
right-wing columnists in his fiction) could not escape being<lb/>
the subject of under-informed and apocalyptic journalism.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘To understand the development of the controversy which<lb/>
has come to surround A Clockwork Orange in its various<lb/>
manifestations, we must go back more than fifty years to<lb/>
1960, when Anthony Burgess was planning a series of novels<lb/>
about imaginary futures. In the earliest surviving plan for<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange, he outlined a book of around 200<lb/>
pages, to be divided into three sections of seventy pages<lb/>
and set in the year 1980. The anti-hero of this novel, whose<lb/>
working titles included “The Plank in Your Eye’ and ‘A<lb/>
Maggot in the Cherry’, was a criminal named Fred Verity.<lb/>
Part one was to deal with his crimes and eventual convic-<lb/>
tion. In the second part, the imprisoned Fred would<lb/>
undergo a new brainwashing technique and be released<lb/>
from jail. Part three would consider the agitation of liberal<lb/>
politicians who were concerned about freedom and churches<lb/>
concerned about sin. At the novel’s conclusion Fred, cured<lb/>
of the treatment, would return to his life of crime.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other novel Burgess was planning at this time was<lb/>
‘Let Copulation Thrive’ (published in October 1962 as The<lb/>
Wanting Seed), another futuristic fable about an over-<lb/>
populated future in which religion is outlawed and homo-<lb/>
sexuality has become the norm, officially promoted by<lb/>
government policies to control the birth-rate. In Burgess’s<lb/>
imaginary future, men are press-ganged into the armed<lb/>
forces to take part in war games. The true purpose of these<lb/>
conflicts is to turn the bodies of the dead into tinned meat<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to feed a hungry population. What The Wanting Seed and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SAE NOR AN NNER AANA A AOI NANO ACIRU BIR<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange share is an underpinning idea of poli-<lb/>
tics as a constantly swinging pendulum, with the govern-<lb/>
ments in both novels alternating between authoritarian<lb/>
discipline and liberal /aissez-faire. Despite his gifts as a<lb/>
comic novelist, and the cultural optimism he had shown<lb/>
during his years as a school-teacher, Burgess was an<lb/>
Augustinian Catholic at heart, and he could not altogether<lb/>
shake off the belief in original sin (the tendency of human-<lb/>
kind to do evil rather than good) which had been drilled<lb/>
into him by the Manchester Xaverian Brothers when he<lb/>
was a schoolboy. A similar fascination with evil is found<lb/>
in the works of his friend and co-religionist Graham Greene,<lb/>
whose novel Brighton Rock (1938) presents a comparable<lb/>
blend of social decay and teenage delinquency.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before Burgess came to write dystopian novels of his<lb/>
own, he had spent nearly thirty years reading other exam-<lb/>
ples of the genre. In his critical study The Novel Now<lb/>
(published as a pamphlet in 1967 and expanded to book-<lb/>
length in 1971), he devoted a chapter to fictional utopias<lb/>
and dystopias. Twentieth-century literary writers, he<lb/>
argued, had on the whole rejected the socialist utopianism<lb/>
of H. G. Wells, who denied original sin and put his faith<lb/>
in scientific rationalism. Burgess was far more interested<lb/>
in the anti-utopian tradition of Aldous Huxley, who chal-<lb/>
lenged the progressive assumption that scientific progress<lb/>
would automatically bring happiness in speculative novels<lb/>
such as Brave New World (1932) and After Many a Summer<lb/>
(1939). He was no less impressed by the political dystop-<lb/>
ianism of Sinclair Lewis's novel Jt Can't Happen Here (1935),<lb/>
a gloomy prophecy about the rise of a right-wing dictator-<lb/>
ship in America, or by The Aerodrome (1941), Rex Warner's<lb/>
wartime fable about the appeal of handsome young pilots<lb/>
with fascist inclinations. Burgess had read George Orwell’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
xvii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="9"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nineteen Eighty-Four shortly after publication (the title<lb/>
page of his diary for 1951 is headed: ‘Down with Big<lb/>
Brother’), but he tended to disparage Orwell’s novel as a<lb/>
dying man’s prophecy, which was unduly pessimistic about<lb/>
the capacity of working people to resist their ideological<lb/>
oppressors. In his hybrid novel/critical book 1985, Burgess<lb/>
suggested that Orwell had simply been caricaturing tenden-<lb/>
cies that he saw around him in 1948. ‘Perhaps every dysto-<lb/>
pian vision is a figure of the present,’ Burgess wrote, ‘with<lb/>
certain features sharpened and exaggerated to point a moral<lb/>
and a warning.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
British dystopian fiction was enjoying a minor renais-<lb/>
sance in the early 1960s, and Burgess, who was reviewing<lb/>
new novels for the Times Literary Supplement and the<lb/>
Yorkshire Post, was well placed to notice this phenomenon<lb/>
and respond to it in his own imaginative writing. In 1960<lb/>
he read Facial Justice by L. P. Hartley and When the Kissing<lb/>
Had to Stop by Constantine Fitzgibbon. But the novel<lb/>
which caught his attention more than any other was The<lb/>
Unsleep (1961) by Diana and Meir Gillon, a husband-and-<lb/>
wife writing team who also worked together on a number<lb/>
of political non-fiction books. Reviewing this book in the<lb/>
Yorkshire Post on 6 April 1961, Burgess wrote:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[The Unsleep is] much to my taste, a Piece of FF<lb/>
(futfic or future fiction) which, in that post-Orwellian<lb/>
manner which is really a reversion to Brave New World<lb/>
Unrevisited, terrifies not with the ultimate totalitarian<lb/>
nightmare but with a dream of liberalism going mad.<lb/>
In this perhaps-not-so-remote Gillon-England, with<lb/>
its stability (no war, no crime) ensured by advanced<lb/>
psychological techniques, life is for living. Life’s<lb/>
biggest enemy is sleep; sleep, therefore, must be<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XVIii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
liquidated. A couple of jabs of Sta-Wake and you<lb/>
reclaim thirty years from the darkness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But things don’t go quite as expected. There’s too<lb/>
much wakeful leisure: crime and delinquency ensue<lb/>
and there have to be police. Then comes an epidemic<lb/>
of unconsciousness, believed at first to be caused by<lb/>
a virus from Mars. Nature reacts violently to Sta-Wake<lb/>
and warns man, as she’s warned him before, against<lb/>
excessive naughtiness or liberalism.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other book Burgess read while he was preparing to<lb/>
write A Clockwork Orange was Brave New World Revisited<lb/>
(1959), Huxley’s non-fiction sequel to his earlier novel.<lb/>
From Huxley he learned about the emerging technologies<lb/>
of behaviour modification, brainwashing and chemical<lb/>
persuasion. There is no evidence to suggest that Burgess<lb/>
had read Science and Human Behaviour by the psychologist<lb/>
B. F Skinner, but he found a summary of Skinner’s<lb/>
theories in the pages of Huxley's book:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And even today we find a distinguished psychologist,<lb/>
Professor B. F, Skinner of Harvard University, insisting<lb/>
that, ‘as scientific explanation becomes more and more<lb/>
comprehensive, the contribution which may be<lb/>
claimed by the individual himself appears to approach<lb/>
zero. Man’s vaunted creative powers, his achievements<lb/>
in art, science and morals, his capacity to choose and<lb/>
our right to hold him responsible for the consequences<lb/>
of his choice — none of these is conspicuous in the<lb/>
new scientific self-portrait.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As Jonathan Meades has observed, ‘Skinner would be<lb/>
completely forgotten today were it not for Burgess’s hatred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
xix<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="10"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of him,’ which he articulated in fictional form through<lb/>
the character of Professor Balaglas in The Clockwork<lb/>
Testament (1974). In his day, Skinner was well known for<lb/>
his utopian novel Walden Two (1948), in which he imagined<lb/>
a bright technocratic future of teetotal conformity, commu-<lb/>
nal child-rearing (the words ‘mother’ and ‘father’ have<lb/>
become meaningless), utilitarian clothing, and harmonious<lb/>
living in single-sex dormitories. The bright lights and garish<lb/>
posters of advertising have been abolished in Skinner’s<lb/>
ideal community, and history is no longer thought to be<lb/>
worth studying. In Science and Human Behaviour, he<lb/>
dismisses genetics, culture, environment and individual<lb/>
freedom of choice as insignificant factors when it comes<lb/>
to determining human personality. To Burgess, who<lb/>
believed in the primacy of free will (and whose public<lb/>
persona was almost entirely self-created), this was the most<lb/>
revolting kind of nonsense. One of the purposes of his<lb/>
own dystopian novel was to offer a counter-argument to<lb/>
the mechanistic determinism of Skinner and his followers.<lb/>
The prison chaplain in A Clockwork Orange sums up<lb/>
Burgess’s position very concisely: “When a man cannot<lb/>
choose, he ceases to be a man.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess was a talented linguist who had studied Malay<lb/>
to degree standard and made translations of literary works<lb/>
written in French, Russian and Ancient Greek. It was his<lb/>
interest in Russian language and literature rather than<lb/>
politics which took him to Leningrad (now known as St<lb/>
Petersburg) for a working holiday in June and July 1961.<lb/>
He had been sent there by his publisher, William<lb/>
Heinemann, who hoped that he might write a travel book<lb/>
about Soviet Russia. He taught himself the basics of<lb/>
Russian by acquiring copies of Gezting Along in Russian<lb/>
by Mario Pei, Teach Yourself Russian by Maximilian<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fourman, and The Penguin Russian Course. Yet the intended<lb/>
non-fiction project was soon put aside when a different<lb/>
kind of book began to take shape. Before leaving England,<lb/>
Burgess had contemplated writing his novel about teenage<lb/>
hoodlums using British slang of the early 1960s, but he<lb/>
was worried that the language would be out of date before<lb/>
the book was published. Outside the Metropole Hotel in<lb/>
Leningrad, Burgess and his wife witnessed gangs of violent,<lb/>
well-dressed youths who reminded him of the Teddy Boys<lb/>
back home in England. He claimed in his memoirs that<lb/>
this was the moment at which he decided to devise a new<lb/>
language for his novel based on Russian, to be called<lb/>
‘Nadsat’ (this being the Russian suffix meaning ‘teen’). The<lb/>
urban location of the novel ‘could be anywhere,” he wrote<lb/>
later, ‘but I visualised it as a sort of compound of my<lb/>
native Manchester, Leningrad and New York.’ For Burgess,<lb/>
the important idea was that dandified, lawless youth is an<lb/>
international phenomenon, equally visible on both sides<lb/>
of the Iron Curtain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess’s literary agent, Peter Janson-Smith, submitted<lb/>
the typescript of A Clockwork Orange to Heinemann in<lb/>
London on 5 September 1961, with a covering letter<lb/>
explaining that he had been too busy to read it. Heinemann’s<lb/>
chief fiction reader, Maire Lynd, wrote a cautious report,<lb/>
and she noted that ‘Everything hangs on whether the reader<lb/>
can get into the book quickly enough [. . .] Once in, it<lb/>
becomes hard to stop. But the language difficulty, though<lb/>
fun to wrestle with, is great. With luck the book will be a<lb/>
big success and give the teenagers a new language. But it<lb/>
might be an enormous flop. Certainly nothing in between.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
James Michie, Burgess’s editor, circulated a memo on 5<lb/>
October, in which he described the novel as ‘one of the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="11"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
about how to promote the book, which was very different<lb/>
in genre from Burgess’s previous comic novels about Malaya<lb/>
and England. Michie was confident that the invented<lb/>
language would not be too forbidding for most readers,<lb/>
but he identified a risk that certain episodes of sexual<lb/>
violence in A Clockwork Orange might lead to a prosecu-<lb/>
tion under the 1959 Obscene Publications Act. “The author<lb/>
can plead artistic justification, Michie wrote, ‘but a<lb/>
delicate-minded critic could convincingly accuse him of<lb/>
indulging in sadistic fantasies.’ One of Michie’s suggestions<lb/>
was that the possible damage to Burgess’s reputation could<lb/>
be limited by publishing the novel with Peter Davies (an<lb/>
imprint of Heinemann) and under a pseudonym. It is<lb/>
unlikely that Burgess knew anything about these flutters<lb/>
of nervousness among his publishers. By 4 February 1962<lb/>
he was corresponding with William Holden, Heinemann’s<lb/>
publicity director, about a glossary of Nadsat to be circu-<lb/>
lated to the travelling bookshop reps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One other publishing difficulty was created by Burgess<lb/>
himself. At the end of Part 3, Chapter 6, the typescript<lb/>
contains a note in Burgess’s handwriting: ‘Should we end<lb/>
here? An optional “epilogue” follows.’ James Michie<lb/>
decided to include the epilogue (sometimes referred to as<lb/>
the twenty-first chapter) in the UK edition. When. the<lb/>
novel was published in New York by W. W. Norton in<lb/>
1963, the American editor, Eric Swenson, arrived at a<lb/>
different answer to Burgess’s editorial question (‘Should<lb/>
we end here?’). Looking back on these events more than<lb/>
twenty years later, Swenson wrote: “What I remember is<lb/>
that he responded to my comments by telling me that I<lb/>
was right, that he had added the twenty-first upbeat chapter<lb/>
because his British publisher wanted a happy ending. My<lb/>
memory also claims that he urged me to publish an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Xxii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
American edition without that last chapter, which was,<lb/>
again as I remember it, how he had originally ended the<lb/>
novel. We did just that.’ Burgess came to regret having<lb/>
allowed two different versions of his novel to circulate in<lb/>
different territories. In 1986 he wrote: ‘People wrote to me<lb/>
about this — indeed much of my later life has been expended<lb/>
on Xeroxing statements of intention and the frustration<lb/>
of intention.’ Yet it is clear from the 1961 typescript that<lb/>
Burgess’s intentions about the ending of his novel were<lb/>
ambiguous from the start.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange was published by Heinemann on<lb/>
14 May 1962 in an edition of 6,000 copies. The book sold<lb/>
poorly, despite having been praised by critics such as Julian<lb/>
Mitchell in the Spectator and Kingsley Amis in the Observer.<lb/>
A memorandum in the publisher’s archive notes that only<lb/>
3,872 copies had been sold by the mid-1960s. The tone of<lb/>
many early reviews was one of bafflement and distaste for<lb/>
the novel’s linguistic experiments. Writing in the Times<lb/>
Literary Supplement, John Garrett described A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange as ‘a viscous verbiage which is the swag-bellied<lb/>
offspring of decay.’ Robert Taubman in the New Statesman<lb/>
said that it was ‘a great strain to read.’ Diana Josselson,<lb/>
writing in the Kenyon Review, compared A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange unfavourably with The Inheritors, William Golding’s<lb/>
novel about Neanderthals: ‘How much one cares for these<lb/>
hairy creatures, how much one hates their successor, Man.’<lb/>
Malcolm Bradbury, whose more encouraging review<lb/>
appeared in Punch, claimed that the novel was a ‘modern’<lb/>
work in the sense that it dealt with ‘our indirection and<lb/>
our indifference, our violence and our sexual exploitation<lb/>
of one another, our rebellion and our protest.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Despite these mixed responses from the mainstream press,<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange soon began to gather an underground<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XXIil<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="12"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
following. William S. Burroughs, the author of The Naked<lb/>
Lunch (published in Paris in 1959), wrote an enthusiastic<lb/>
recommendation for the Ballantine paperback edition in<lb/>
the United States: ‘I do not know of any other writer who<lb/>
has done as much with language as Mr Burgess has done<lb/>
here — the fact that this is also a very funny book may pass<lb/>
unnoticed.’ In 1965 Andy Warhol and his regular collabo-<lb/>
rator Ronald Tavel made a low-budget 16mm black-and-<lb/>
white film, Vinyl, based very loosely on Burgess’s novel and<lb/>
starring Gerard Malanga and Edie Sedgwick. Described even<lb/>
by its admirers as sixty-six minutes of torture, Vinyl is<lb/>
composed of four shots and apparently improvised dialogue.<lb/>
The film was first shown at the New York Cinematheque<lb/>
on 4 June 1965 and, according to Warhol’s memoir, POPism,<lb/>
it was subsequently projected at least twice in 1966, forming<lb/>
a series of background images for the Velvet Underground’s<lb/>
concerts in New York and at Rutgers University. In April<lb/>
1966, Christopher Isherwood noted in his diary that Brian<lb/>
Hutton (who went on to direct Where Eagles Dare in 1978)<lb/>
had asked him to write a film script based on A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange. In May of the following year, Terry Southern and<lb/>
Michael Cooper, who proposed to cast Mick Jagger in the<lb/>
leading role, submitted their draft script to the British Board<lb/>
of Film Censors, but this version was rejected as ‘an unre-<lb/>
lieved diet of hooliganism by teenagers [. . .] not only<lb/>
undesirable but also dangerous.’ Burgess himself was asked<lb/>
to write another script in January 1969, but nobody could<lb/>
be persuaded to film it. By January 1970 Stanley Kubrick<lb/>
was corresponding with Si Litvinoff and Max Raab, who<lb/>
sold the film rights to Warner Brothers shortly afterwards.<lb/>
In retrospect it is clear that, from its first appearance in<lb/>
print, Burgess’s story had always been waiting to find a<lb/>
wider audience.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kubrick's cinematic adaptation was released in New York<lb/>
in December 1971 and in London in January 1972. Kubrick<lb/>
said that he had been attracted to Burgess’s novel because of<lb/>
the ‘wonderful plot, strong characters and clear philosophy,’<lb/>
and Burgess repaid the compliment by describing the film<lb/>
as ‘a radical reworking of my own novel.’ Forced by the<lb/>
constraints of his visual medium to abandon a good deal of<lb/>
the invented language, Kubrick as director does his best to<lb/>
imply the first-person perspective by playing one of the fight<lb/>
scenes in slow motion (with a soundtrack by Rossini) and<lb/>
shooting the orgy scene at ten times normal speed. But the<lb/>
realism of film inevitably makes the violence of the first<lb/>
forty-five minutes more immediate, which may be one reason<lb/>
why Kubrick chose to omit the second murder in the prison,<lb/>
and to raise the age of the ten-year-old girls who are sexually<lb/>
abused by Alex (they become consenting adults in the film).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is clear from Burgess’s correspondence with his agent<lb/>
that Kubrick was aware of both of the novel’s possible<lb/>
endings, and that his decision to follow the shorter US<lb/>
version of the book was reached only after careful thought.<lb/>
Speaking to Michel Ciment in 1980, Kubrick said: ‘[The]<lb/>
extra chapter depicts the rehabilitation of Alex. But it is,<lb/>
as far as I am concerned, unconvincing and inconsistent<lb/>
with the style and intent of the book [. . .] I certainly<lb/>
never gave any serious consideration to using it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Although Burgess reviewed the film enthusiastically on<lb/>
its first release in 1972, he changed his mind about Kubrick<lb/>
when the director published his own illustrated book,<lb/>
under the title Stanley Kubricks A Clockwork Orange.<lb/>
Burgess, infuriated by the idea that Kubrick was presenting<lb/>
himself as the sole author of the cultural artefact known<lb/>
as A Clockwork Orange, reviewed this book-of-the-film for<lb/>
the Library Journal (on 1 May 1973) in persona as Alex,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="13"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
deploying some new items of Nadsat vocabulary which<lb/>
had not appeared in the novel itself:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our starry droog Kubrick the sinny veck has, my<lb/>
brothers, like brought forth from his like bounty and<lb/>
all that cal this kniggiwig, which is like all real horror-<lb/>
show lomticks from his Great Masterpiece which would<lb/>
make any fine upstanding young malchick smeck from<lb/>
his yarbles and keeshkas. What it like is is lashings of<lb/>
ultraviolence and the old in-out in-out, but not in<lb/>
slovos except where the chellovecks are govoreeting but<lb/>
in veshches you can viddy and not have to send the<lb/>
old Gulliver to spatchka with like being bored when<lb/>
you are on your sharries in a biblio.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you can like viddy as well that the Great Purpose<lb/>
in his jeezny for this veck Kubrick or Zubrick (that<lb/>
being the Arab eemya for a grahzny veshch) which is<lb/>
like now at last being made flesh and all that cal, was<lb/>
to have a Book. And now he has a Book. A Book he<lb/>
doth have, O my malenky brothers, verily he doth.<lb/>
Righty right. It was a book he did wish to like make,<lb/>
and he hath done it, Kubrick or Zubrick the Bookmaker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But, brothers, what makes me smeck like bezoomny<lb/>
is that this like Book will tolchock out into the dark-<lb/>
mans the book what there like previously was, the<lb/>
one by F. Alexander or Sturgess or some such eemya,<lb/>
because who would have slovos when he could viddy<lb/>
real jeezny with his nagoy glazzies?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And so it is like that. Righty right. And real horror-<lb/>
show. And lashings of deng for the carmans of<lb/>
Zubrick. And for your malenky droog not none no<lb/>
more. So gromky shooms of lip-music brrrrrr to thee<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and thine. And all that cal. — Alex.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The other point to note about Kubrick’s film is that it<lb/>
overlooks the prominence of drugs within the subculture<lb/>
of the novel. In Burgess’s unpublished screenplay, which<lb/>
had been rejected by Kubrick, Alex’s bedroom closet<lb/>
contains various horrors, including a child’s skull and<lb/>
hypodermic syringes. In the novel, immediately before<lb/>
Alex rapes the young girls, he injects himself with a drug<lb/>
to increase his potency. And in the Korova Milkbar<lb/>
(‘korova’ being Russian for ‘cow’), where Alex and his<lb/>
droogs gather to plan their crimes, the milk is spiked with<lb/>
an assortment of drugs, such as ‘synthemesc’ (mescaline)<lb/>
and ‘knives’ (amphetamines).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, who had frequently smoked hashish and opium<lb/>
in Malaya in the 1950s, was sometimes said to be one of<lb/>
the pioneers of the literary drug movement. His reputa-<lb/>
tion in this area must have arisen purely from the novel<lb/>
version of A Clockwork Orange, since drugs are almost<lb/>
entirely absent from Kubrick's film. Anyone who had read<lb/>
the novel with attention in or shortly after 1962 would<lb/>
have been able to make the connections between teenage<lb/>
gang culture, fashion, music and the casual use of drugs,<lb/>
and it is likely that these elements were instrumental in<lb/>
spreading the novel’s countercultural reputation. In many<lb/>
ways it looks like a book which might have been calculated<lb/>
to appeal both to the hallucinogenic flower people of the<lb/>
late 1960s and to the more aggressive skinhead and punk<lb/>
subcultures which followed throughout the 1970s. Burgess,<lb/>
who was vociferous in his hatred of hippies (‘bearded<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
XXVILi<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="14"/>
<p>
of bands whose names are drawn directly from the novel:<lb/>
Heaven 17, Moloko, The Devotchkas and Campag Velocet<lb/>
are merely the most obvious examples. Julian Cope, the<lb/>
front man of the Liverpool band The ‘Teardrop Explodes,<lb/>
recalls in his autobiography that he decided to learn Russian<lb/>
after reading Burgess’s novel while he was at school. The<lb/>
drummer of the Sex Pistols claimed that he had only ever<lb/>
tead two books: a biography of the Kray Twins and A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange. The Rolling Stones wrote the sleeve-<lb/>
notes to one of their albums in Nadsat. Blur dressed up<lb/>
as droogs for the video of their song “The Universal’. The<lb/>
décor of Kubrick’s Korova Milkbar is replicated in the<lb/>
nightclub scene in Danny Boyle’s film version of<lb/>
Trainspotting. Even Kylie Minogue put on a white jump-<lb/>
suit, black bowler hat and false eyelash during the stadium<lb/>
tour of her Fever album in 2002.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beyond all this, there is an abiding sense that Burgess’s<lb/>
novel opened up new linguistic possibilities for subsequent<lb/>
generations of British novelists. Martin Amis, J. G. Ballard,<lb/>
Will Self, William Boyd, A. S. Byatt and Blake Morrison<lb/>
are among the more established literary writers who have<lb/>
acknowledged its influence on their work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, who was a prolific amateur composer in addi-<lb/>
tion to his work as a linguist and novelist, made two<lb/>
separate musical stage adaptations of A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
in 1986 and 1990. One of these (with the futuristic title<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange 2004) was performed by the Royal<lb/>
Shakespeare Company at the Barbican Theatre in London<lb/>
in 1990. On this occasion the music was provided by Bono<lb/>
and The Edge from the Irish band Un. Reviewing this<lb/>
‘blandly inoffensive’ RSC production, directed by Ron<lb/>
Daniels, in the Sunday Times, John Peter wrote: “The<lb/>
violence is obviously mimed: it creates a sense of balletic<lb/>
</p>
<p>
XXVIli<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hysteria rather than terror. The acting is coarse, hard and<lb/>
impersonal, but only partly because the script has no room<lb/>
for anything as finicky as character. Alex (Phil Daniels) is<lb/>
yukky but never frightening, and he narrates the events<lb/>
as he goes along, which makes the story come across like<lb/>
a bizarre anecdote. I know that the novel is a first-person<lb/>
narrative too; but there is a vital difference between the<lb/>
implied drama of the printed text and the open drama of<lb/>
the live stage.’ Burgess’s theatrical version of the play has<lb/>
been revived on many subsequent occasions — most recently<lb/>
in London and Edinburgh ~ but at the time of writing<lb/>
(spring 2012) there has been only one complete perfor-<lb/>
mance of his Clockwork Orange music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the final scene of Burgess’s stage version, ‘a man<lb/>
bearded like Stanley Kubrick’ enters, playing Singin’ in the<lb/>
Rain on a trumpet. He is kicked off the stage by the other<lb/>
actors. Burgess’s determination to regain control over his<lb/>
own text is readily apparent in this musical joke. But perhaps<lb/>
his anxiety about authorship was misplaced. Among the<lb/>
younger generation of readers which has come to maturity<lb/>
since his death in 1993, there is little doubt about whose<lb/>
version of A Clockwork Orange is more likely to last.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Note on the Restored Edition<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Readers of this fiftieth anniversary edition will notice that,<lb/>
among other additions, it includes the Prologue and<lb/>
Epilogue written by Burgess in the 1980s. These paratexts<lb/>
have not previously been published alongside the text of<lb/>
the novel. Both of them were written around the time<lb/>
that he was making the first of his stage adaptations,<lb/>
published as A Clockwork Orange: A Play with Music in<lb/>
1987, and they illustrate some of the ways in which he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="15"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
revisited his own novel and entered into dialogue with it.<lb/>
I have restored the music for the prisoners’ hymn in Part<lb/>
2, Chapter 1, as it appears in the typescript. The likely<lb/>
reason for its omission in the 1962 Heinemann and 1963<lb/>
Norton editions is that the cost of reproducing music<lb/>
would have been very high before the introduction of<lb/>
cheap offset lithography.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The 1961 typescript has formed the basis of this restored<lb/>
text, and I have compared each line with the published<lb/>
Heinemann and Norton texts. My principle has been to<lb/>
include as much Nadsat as possible, and on occasion this<lb/>
has involved restoring words and passages which were<lb/>
cancelled in the typescript. Some of Burgess’s handwritten<lb/>
amendments to the 1961 typescript are ambiguous, but in<lb/>
general I have preferred a ‘lost’ Nadsat word (such as<lb/>
‘bugatty, meaning ‘rich, on page 74) to the standard<lb/>
English equivalent as it appeared in the earliest published<lb/>
editions. The 1973 Caedmon audio LB Anthony Burgess<lb/>
Reads A Clockwork Orange, differs in some respects from<lb/>
the printed texts, and I have preferred ‘boor joyce’ from<lb/>
the LP to ‘bourgeois’ as it appears in the typescript. Burgess<lb/>
was not always a careful typist or proofreader, and he was<lb/>
inconsistent in his spelling of ‘otchkies’ (sometimes<lb/>
‘ochkies’) and ‘kupetting’ (sometimes ‘koopeeting’). I have<lb/>
done my best to bring order to the text, but I have been<lb/>
mindful of what Burgess wrote to James Michie (in a letter<lb/>
of 25 February 1962) on the subject of Nadsat spelling:<lb/>
‘One has to remember that it’s a spoken language and is<lb/>
bound to be orthographically a bit vague. But I think it’s<lb/>
spelt like proper now.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The 1963 Norton edition and the subsequent Ballantine<lb/>
paperbacks included an afterword by the literary critic<lb/>
Stanley Edgar Hyman (reprinted here because it is part of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the history of Burgess’s book) and a glossary of Nadsat<lb/>
terms. The expanded glossary in this edition has been<lb/>
compiled with reference to Burgess’s letters to his editors<lb/>
in the Heinemann archive. I am grateful to Tom Avery<lb/>
and Jean Rose for bringing these to my attention.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One of the pleasures of annotating Burgess’s novel is<lb/>
that the breadth of his allusions has become fully apparent<lb/>
for the first time. Those who are familiar with Burgess's<lb/>
critical writings about Shakespeare and T. S. Eliot will not<lb/>
be surprised to find these authors being quoted in the text.<lb/>
But nobody has previously commented on the extent to<lb/>
which Burgess, who was fascinated by the dark corners of<lb/>
slang, was indebted to Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang<lb/>
and Unconventional English. Burgess’s two copies of this<lb/>
work, which are now part of the book collection at the<lb/>
International Anthony Burgess Foundation, have been read<lb/>
so heavily that they are almost falling apart. The embedded<lb/>
quotations from the poems and plays of Gerard Manley<lb/>
Hopkins have not been noticed before, and I have reprinted<lb/>
one of the essays on Hopkins from Urgent Copy to give a<lb/>
sense of the importance of Hopkins to Burgess’s formation<lb/>
as a writer. No doubt there are one or two allusions that<lb/>
I have missed; but I should like the notes to be read.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="16"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="17"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
stealing, fighting—<lb/>
Shakespeare, The Winter’ Tale, Act III, Scene 3<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="18"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="19"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wuat’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There was me, that is Alex, and my three<lb/>
droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim,<lb/>
Dim being really dim, and we sat in the<lb/>
Korova Milkbar making up our rassoo-<lb/>
docks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter<lb/>
bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus<lb/>
mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what<lb/>
these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days<lb/>
and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being<lb/>
much read neither. Well, what they sold there was milk<lb/>
plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor,<lb/>
but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new<lb/>
veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so<lb/>
you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice<lb/>
quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All<lb/>
His Holy Angels And Saints in your left shoe with lights<lb/>
bursting all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with<lb/>
knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you<lb/>
up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one,<lb/>
and that was what we were peeting this evening I’m starting<lb/>
off the story with.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our pockets were full of deng, so there was no real need<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="20"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to tolchock some old veck in an alley and viddy him swim<lb/>
in his blood while we counted the takings and divided by<lb/>
four, nor to do the ultra-violent on some shivering starry<lb/>
grey-haired ptitsa in a shop and go smecking off with the<lb/>
till’s guts. But, as they say, money isn’t everything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The four of us were dressed in the heighth of fashion,<lb/>
which in those days was a pair of black very tight tights<lb/>
with the old jelly mould, as we called it, fitting on the<lb/>
crutch underneath the tights, this being to protect and<lb/>
also a sort of a design you could viddy clear enough in a<lb/>
certain light, so that I had one in the shape of a spider,<lb/>
Pete had a rooker (a hand, that is), Georgie had a very<lb/>
fancy one of a flower, and poor old Dim had a very hound-<lb/>
and-horny one of a clown’s litso (face, that is), Dim not<lb/>
ever having much of an idea of things and being, beyond<lb/>
all shadow of a doubting thomas, the dimmest of we four.<lb/>
Then we wore waisty jackets without lapels but with these<lb/>
very big built-up shoulders (‘pletchoes’ we called them)<lb/>
which were a kind of mockery of having real shoulders<lb/>
like that. Then, my brothers, we had these off-white cravats<lb/>
which looked like whipped-up kartoffel or spud with a<lb/>
sort of a design made on it with a fork. We wore our hair<lb/>
not too long and we had flip horrorshow boots for kicking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There were three devotchkas sitting at the counter all<lb/>
together, but there were four of us malchicks and it was<lb/>
usually like one for all and all for one. These sharps were<lb/>
dressed in the heighth of fashion too, with purple and<lb/>
green and orange wigs on their gullivers, each one not<lb/>
costing less than three or four weeks of those sharps’ wages,<lb/>
I should reckon, and make-up to match (rainbows round<lb/>
the glazzies, that is, and the rot painted very wide). Then<lb/>
they had long black very straight dresses, and on the groody<lb/>
</p>
<p>
8<lb/>
</p>
<p>
part of them they had little badges of like silver with<lb/>
different malchicks’ names on them — Joe and Mike and<lb/>
suchlike. These were supposed to be the names of the<lb/>
different malchicks they'd spatted with before they were<lb/>
fourteen. They kept looking our way and I nearly felt like<lb/>
saying the three of us (out of the corner of my rot, that<lb/>
is) should go off for a bit of pol and leave poor old Dim<lb/>
behind, because it would be just a matter of kupetting<lb/>
Dim a demi-litre of white but this time with a dollop of<lb/>
synthemesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing<lb/>
like the game. Dim was very very ugly and like his name,<lb/>
but he was a horrorshow filthy fighter and very handy<lb/>
with the boot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The chelloveck sitting next to me, there being this long<lb/>
big plushy seat that ran round three walls, was well away<lb/>
with his glazzies glazed and sort of burbling slovos like<lb/>
‘Aristotle wishy washy works outing cyclamen get forficu-<lb/>
late smartish.’ He was in the land all right, well away, in<lb/>
orbit, and I knew what it was like, having tried it like<lb/>
everybody else had done, but at this time I'd got to thinking<lb/>
it was a cowardly sort of a veshch, O my brothers. Youd<lb/>
lay there after you'd drunk the old moloko and then you<lb/>
got the messel that everything all round you was sort of<lb/>
in the past. You could viddy it all right, all of it, very clear<lb/>
— tables, the stereo, the lights, the sharps and the malchicks<lb/>
— but it was like some veshch that used to be there but<lb/>
was not there not no more. And you were sort of hypno-<lb/>
tised by your boot or shoe or a finger-nail as it might be,<lb/>
and at the same time you were sort of picked up by the<lb/>
old scruff and shook like it might be a cat. You got shook<lb/>
and shook till there was nothing left. You lost your name<lb/>
and your body and your self and you just didn’t care, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="21"/>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you waited till your boot or your finger-nail got yellow,<lb/>
then yellower and yellower all the time. Then the lights<lb/>
started cracking like atomics and the boot or finger-nail<lb/>
or, as it might be, a bit of dirt on your trouser-bottom<lb/>
turned into a big big big mesto, bigger than the whole<lb/>
world, and you were just going to get introduced to old<lb/>
Bog or God when it was all over. You came back to here<lb/>
and now whimpering sort of, with your rot all squaring<lb/>
up for a boohoohoo. Now, that’s very nice but very<lb/>
cowardly. You were not put on this earth just to get in<lb/>
touch with God. That sort of thing could sap all the<lb/>
strength and the goodness out of a chelloveck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The stereo was on and you got the idea that the singer's<lb/>
goloss was moving from one part of the bar to another,<lb/>
flying up to the ceiling and then swooping down again<lb/>
and whizzing from wall to wall. It was Berti Laski rasping<lb/>
a real starry oldie called “You Blister My Paint.’ One of<lb/>
the three ptitsas at the counter, the one with the green<lb/>
wig, kept pushing her belly out and pulling it in in time<lb/>
to what they called the music. I could feel the knives in<lb/>
the old moloko starting to prick, and now I was ready for<lb/>
a bit of twenty-to-one. So I yelped, ‘Out out out out! like<lb/>
a doggie, and then I cracked this veck who was sitting<lb/>
next to me and well away and burbling a horrorshow crack<lb/>
on the ooko or earhole, but he didn’t feel it and went on<lb/>
with his “Telephonic hardware and when the farfarculule<lb/>
gets rubadubdub.’ He'd feel it all right when he came to,<lb/>
out of the land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where out?’ said Georgie.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, just to keep walking,’ I said, ‘and viddy what turns<lb/>
up, O my little brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we scatted out into the big winter nochy and walked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby<lb/>
Avenue, and there we found what we were pretty well<lb/>
looking for, a malenky jest to start off the evening with.<lb/>
There was a doddery starry schoolmaster type veck, glasses<lb/>
on and his rot open to the cold nochy air. He had books<lb/>
under his arm and a crappy umbrella and was coming<lb/>
round the corner from the Public Biblio, which not many<lb/>
lewdies used those days. You never really saw many of the<lb/>
older boorjoyce type out after nightfall those days, what<lb/>
with the shortage of police and we fine young malchicki-<lb/>
wicks about, and this prof type chelloveck was the only<lb/>
one walking in the whole of the street. So we goolied up<lb/>
to him, very polite, and I said, ‘Pardon me, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked a malenky bit poogly when he viddied the<lb/>
four of us like that, coming up so quiet and polite and<lb/>
smiling, but he said, “Yes? What is it?’ in a very loud<lb/>
teacher-type goloss, as if he was trying to show us he wasn't<lb/>
poogly. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see you have them books under your arm, brother. It<lb/>
is indeed a rare pleasure these days to come across some-<lb/>
body that still reads, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, all shaky. ‘Is it? Oh, I see.’ And he kept<lb/>
looking from one to the other of we four, finding himself<lb/>
now in the middle of a very smiling and polite square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It would interest me greatly, brother, if<lb/>
you would kindly allow me to see what books those are<lb/>
that you have under your arm. I like nothing better in<lb/>
this world than a good clean book, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Clean, eh?’ And then Pete skvatted<lb/>
these three books from him and handed them round<lb/>
real skorry. Being three, we all had one each to viddy<lb/>
at except for Dim. The one I had was called Elementary<lb/>
Crystallography, so 1 opened it up and said, ‘Excellent,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Il<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="22"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
really first-class,’ keeping turning the pages. Then I said<lb/>
in a very shocked type goloss, ‘But what is this here?<lb/>
What is this filthy slovo? I blush to look at this word.<lb/>
You disappoint me, brother, you do really.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ he tried, ‘but, but.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now,’ said Georgie, ‘here is what I should call real dirt.<lb/>
There’s one slovo beginning with an f and another with<lb/>
ac. He had a book called The Miracle of the Snowflake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said poor old Dim, smotting over Pete’s shoulder<lb/>
and going too far, like he always did, ‘it says here what<lb/>
he done to her, and there’s a picture and all. Why,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘you're nothing but a filthy-minded old skitebird.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘An old man of your age, brother,’ I said, and | started<lb/>
to rip up the book Id got, and the others did the same<lb/>
with the ones they had, Dim and Pete doing a tug-of-war<lb/>
with The Rhombohedral System. The starry prof type began<lb/>
to creech: ‘But those are not mine, those are the property<lb/>
of the municipality, this is sheer wantonness and vandal<lb/>
work,’ or some such slovos. And he tried to sort of wrest<lb/>
the books back off of us, which was like pathetic. “You<lb/>
deserve to be taught a lesson, brother,’ I said, ‘that you<lb/>
do.’ This crystal book I had was very tough-bound and<lb/>
hard to razrez to bits, being real starry and made in the<lb/>
days when things were made to last like, but I managed<lb/>
to rip the pages up and chuck them in handfuls of like<lb/>
snowflakes, though big, all over this creeching old veck,<lb/>
and then the others did the same with theirs, old Dim<lb/>
just dancing about like the clown he was. “There you are,’<lb/>
said Pete. “There’s the mackerel of the cornflake for you,<lb/>
you dirty reader of filth and nastiness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
out his false zoobies, upper and lower. He threw these<lb/>
down on the pavement and then I treated them to the<lb/>
old boot-crush, though they were hard bastards like, being<lb/>
made of some new horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck<lb/>
began to make sort of chumbling shooms — ‘wuf waf wof’<lb/>
_ 50 Georgie let go of holding his goobers apart and just<lb/>
let him have one in the toothless rot with his ringy fist,<lb/>
and that made the old veck start moaning a lot then, then<lb/>
out comes the blood, my brothers, real beautiful. So all<lb/>
we did then was to pull his outer platties off, stripping<lb/>
him down to his vest and long underpants (very starry;<lb/>
Dim smecked his head off near), and then Pete kicks him<lb/>
lovely in his pot, and we let him go. He went sort of<lb/>
staggering off, it not having been too hard of a tolchock<lb/>
really, going ‘Oh oh oh’, not knowing where or what was<lb/>
what really, and we had a snigger at him and then riffled<lb/>
through his pockets, Dim dancing round with his crappy<lb/>
umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn’t much in them. There<lb/>
were a few starry letters, some of them dating right back<lb/>
to 1960, with ‘My dearest dearest’ in them and all that<lb/>
chepooka, and a keyring and a starry leaky pen. Old Dim<lb/>
gave up his umbrella dance and of course had to start<lb/>
reading one of the letters out loud, like to show the empty<lb/>
street he could read. ‘My darling one,’ he recited, in this<lb/>
very high type goloss, ‘I shall be thinking of you while<lb/>
you are away and hope you will remember to wrap up<lb/>
warm when you go out at night.’ Then he let out a very<lb/>
shoomny smeck — ‘Ho ho ho’ — pretending to start wiping<lb/>
his yahma with it. ‘All right,’ I said. “Let it go, O my<lb/>
brothers.’ In the trousers of this starry veck there was only<lb/>
a malenky bit of cutter (money, that is) — not more than<lb/>
three gollies — so we gave all his messy little coin the scatter<lb/>
treatment, it being hen-korm to the amount of pretty polly<lb/>
</p>
<p>
13<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="23"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
we had on us already. Then we smashed the umbrella and<lb/>
razrezzed his platties and gave them to the blowing winds,<lb/>
my brothers, and then we'd finished with the starry teacher<lb/>
type veck. We hadn't done much, I know, but that was<lb/>
only like the start of the evening and I make no appy<lb/>
polly loggies to thee or thine for that. The knives in the<lb/>
milk-plus were stabbing away nice and horrorshow now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The next thing was to do the sammy act, which was<lb/>
one way to unload some of our cutter so we'd have more<lb/>
of an incentive like for some shop-crasting, as well as it<lb/>
being a way of buying an alibi in advance, so we went<lb/>
into the Duke of New York on Amis Avenue and sure<lb/>
enough in the snug there were three or four old baboochkas<lb/>
peeting their black and suds on SA (State Aid). Now we<lb/>
were the very good malchicks, smiling good evening to<lb/>
one and all, though these wrinkled old lighters started to<lb/>
get all shook, their veiny old rookers trembling round their<lb/>
glasses and making the suds spill on the table. “Leave us<lb/>
be, lads,’ said one of them, her face all mappy with being<lb/>
a thousand years old, ‘we're only poor old women.’ But<lb/>
we just made with the zoobies, flash flash flash, sat down,<lb/>
rang the bell, and waited for the boy to come. When he<lb/>
came, all nervous and rubbing his rookers on his grazzy<lb/>
apron, we ordered us four veterans — a veteran being rum<lb/>
and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just then,<lb/>
some liking a dash of lime in it, that being the Canadian<lb/>
variation. Then I said to the boy:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing<lb/>
something. Large Scotchmen all round and something to<lb/>
take away.’ And I poured my pocket of deng all over the<lb/>
table, and the other three did likewise, O my brothers. So<lb/>
double firegolds were brought in for the scared starry<lb/>
lighters, and they knew not what to do or say. One of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
14<lb/>
</p>
<p>
them got out “Thanks, lads,’ but you could see they thought<lb/>
there was something dirty like coming. Anyway, they were<lb/>
each given a bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take<lb/>
away, and I gave money for them to be delivered each a<lb/>
dozen of black and suds that following morning, they to<lb/>
leave their stinking old cheenas’ addresses at the counter.<lb/>
Then with the cutter that was left over we did purchase,<lb/>
my brothers, all the meat pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps<lb/>
and chocbars in that mesto, and those too were for the<lb/>
old sharps. Then we said, “Back in a minoota,’ and the old<lb/>
ptitsas were still saying, “Thanks, lads,’ and ‘God bless you,<lb/>
boys,’ and we were going out without one cent of cutter<lb/>
in our carmans.<lb/>
‘Makes you feel real dobby, that does,’ said Pete. You<lb/>
could viddy that poor old Dim the dim didn't quite pony<lb/>
all that, but he said nothing for fear of being called gloopy<lb/>
and a domeless wonderboy. Well, we went off now round<lb/>
the corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and<lb/>
cancers shop still open. We'd left them alone near three<lb/>
months now and the whole district had been very quiet<lb/>
on the whole, so the armed millicents or rozz patrols werent<lb/>
round there much, being more north of the river these<lb/>
days. We put our maskies on — new jobs these were, real<lb/>
horrorshow, wonderfully done, really; they were like faces<lb/>
of historical personalities (they gave you the name when<lb/>
you bought) and I had Disraeli, Pete had. Elvis Presley,<lb/>
Georgie had Henry VIII and poor old Dim had a poet<lb/>
veck called Peebee Shelley; they were a real like disguise,<lb/>
hair and all, and they were some very special plastic veshch<lb/>
so you could roll up when you'd done with it and hide it<lb/>
in your boot — then the three of us went in, Pete keeping<lb/>
chasso without, not that there was anything to worry about<lb/>
out there. As soon as we launched on the shop we went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I5<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="24"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for Slouse who ran it, a big portwine jelly of a veck who<lb/>
viddied at once what was coming and made straight for<lb/>
the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-<lb/>
oiled pooshka, complete with six dirty rounds. Dim was<lb/>
round that counter skorry as a bird, sending packets of<lb/>
snoutie flying and cracking over a big cut-out showing a<lb/>
sharp with all her zoobies going flash at the customers and<lb/>
her groodies near hanging out to advertise some new brand<lb/>
of cancers. What you could viddy then was a sort of a big<lb/>
ball rolling into the inside of the shop behind the curtain,<lb/>
this being old Dim and Slouse sort of locked in a death<lb/>
struggle. Then you could slooshy panting and snorting<lb/>
and kicking behind the curtain and veshches falling over<lb/>
and swearing and then glass going smash smash smash.<lb/>
Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of froze behind the<lb/>
counter. We could tell she would creech murder given one<lb/>
chance, so I was round that counter very skorry and had<lb/>
a hold of her, and a horrorshow big lump she was too, all<lb/>
nuking of scent and with flipflop big bobbing groodies on<lb/>
her. I'd got my rooker round her rot to stop her belting<lb/>
out death and destruction to the four winds of heaven,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
but this lady doggie gave me a large foul big bite on it<lb/>
and it was me that did the creeching, and then she opened<lb/>
up beautiful with a flip yell for the millicents. Well, then<lb/>
she had to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for the scales, and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for opening cases, and that brought the red out like an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old friend. So we had her down on the floor and a rip of<lb/>
her platties for fun and a gentle bit of the boot to stop<lb/>
</p>
<p>
her moaning. And, viddying her lying there with her<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groodies on show, I wondered should I or not, but that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was for later on in the evening. Then we cleaned the till,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and there was flip horrorshow takings that nochy, and we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had a few packs of the very best top cancers apiece, then<lb/>
off we went, my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A real big heavy great bastard he was,’ Dim kept saying.<lb/>
I didn’t like the look of Dim; he looked dirty and untidy,<lb/>
like a veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of<lb/>
course, but you should never look as though you have<lb/>
been. His cravat was like someone had trampled on it, his<lb/>
maskie had been pulled off and he had floor-dirt on his<lb/>
litso, so we got him in an alleyway and tidied him up a<lb/>
malenky bit, soaking our tashtooks in spit to cheest the<lb/>
dirt off. The things we did for old Dim. We were back in<lb/>
the Duke of New York very skorry, and I reckoned by my<lb/>
watch we hadn't been more than ten minutes away. The<lb/>
starry old baboochkas were still there on the black and<lb/>
suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we said, “Hallo<lb/>
there, girlies, what’s it going to be?’ They started on the<lb/>
old ‘Very kind, lads, God bless you, boys,’ and so we rang<lb/>
the collocoll and brought a different waiter in this time<lb/>
and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my<lb/>
brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted. Then I said<lb/>
to the old baboochkas: ‘We haven’t been out of here, have<lb/>
we? Been here all the time, haven’t we?’ They all caught<lb/>
on real skorry and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s right, lads. Not been out of our sight, you haven’.<lb/>
God bless you, boys,’ drinking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not that it mattered much, really. About half an hour<lb/>
went by before there was any sign of life among the milli-<lb/>
cents, and then it was only two very young rozzes that<lb/>
came in, very pink under their big copper’s shlemmies.<lb/>
One said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You lot know anything about the happenings at Slouse’s<lb/>
shop this night?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Us?’ I said, innocent. “Why, what happened?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
17<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="25"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Stealing and roughing. Two hospitalisations. Where’ve<lb/>
you lot been this evening?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I don't go for that nasty tone,’ I said. “I don’t care much<lb/>
for these nasty insinuations. A very suspicious nature all<lb/>
this betokeneth, my little brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘They've been in here all night, lads,’ the old sharps<lb/>
started to creech out. ‘God bless them, there’s no better<lb/>
lot of boys living for kindness and generosity. Been here<lb/>
all the time they have. Not seen them move we haven't.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘We're only asking,’ said the other young millicent.<lb/>
“We've got our job to do like anyone else.’ But they gave<lb/>
us the nasty warning look before they went out. As they<lb/>
were going out we handed them a bit of lip-music: brrrr-<lb/>
zzzzirtr. But, myself, I couldn't help a bit of disappointment<lb/>
at things as they were those days. Nothing to fight against<lb/>
really. Everything as easy as kiss-my-sharries. Still, the night<lb/>
was still very young.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHEN we got outside of the Duke of<lb/>
New York we viddied, by the main bar's<lb/>
long lighted window, a burbling old pyah-<lb/>
nitsa or drunkie, howling away at the<lb/>
filthy songs of his fathers and going blerp<lb/>
blerp in between as it might be a filthy old orchestra in<lb/>
his stinking rotten guts. One veshch I could never stand<lb/>
was that. I could never stand to see a moodge all filthy<lb/>
and rolling and burping and drunk, whatever his age<lb/>
might be, but more especially when he was real starry<lb/>
like this one was. He was sort of flattened to the wall<lb/>
and his platties were a disgrace, all creased and untidy<lb/>
and covered in cal and mud and filth and stuff. So we<lb/>
got hold of him and cracked him with a few good horror-<lb/>
show tolchocks, but he still went on singing. The song<lb/>
went:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But when Dim fisted him a few times on his filthy drunk-<lb/>
ard’s rot he shut up singing and started to creech: ‘Go on,<lb/>
do me in, you bastard cowards, I don’t want to live anyway,<lb/>
not in a stinking world like this one.’ I told Dim to lay<lb/>
off a bit then, because it used to interest me sometimes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
19<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="26"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to slooshy what some of these starry decreps had to say<lb/>
about life and the world. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh. And what’s stinking about it?’ He cried out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s a stinking world because it lets the young get on to<lb/>
the old like you done, and there’s no law nor order no<lb/>
more.’ He was creeching out loud and waving his rookers<lb/>
and making real horrorshow with the slovos, only the odd<lb/>
blurp blurp coming from his keeshkas, like something was<lb/>
orbiting within, or like some very rude interrupting sort<lb/>
of a moodge making a shoom, so that this old veck kept<lb/>
sort of threatening it with his fists, shouting: ‘It’s not world<lb/>
for an old man any longer, and that means that I’m not<lb/>
one bit scared of you, my boyos, because I’m too drunk<lb/>
to feel the pain if you hit me, and if you kill me [ll be<lb/>
glad to be dead.’ We smecked and then grinned but said<lb/>
nothing, and then he said: “What sort of a world is it at<lb/>
all? Men on the moon and men spinning round the earth<lb/>
like it might be midges round a lamp, and there’s not no<lb/>
attention paid to earthly law nor order no more. So your<lb/>
worst you may do, you filthy cowardly hooligans.’ Then<lb/>
he gave us some lip-music — “Prrrrzzzzrrrr — like we'd done<lb/>
to those young millicents, and then he started singing again:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
O dear dear land, I fought for thee<lb/>
And brought thee peace and victory —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we cracked into him lovely, grinning all over our litsos,<lb/>
but he still went on singing. Then we tripped him so he<lb/>
laid down flat and heavy and a bucketload of beer-vomit<lb/>
came whooshing out. That was disgusting so we gave him<lb/>
the boot, one go each, and then it was blood, not song<lb/>
nor vomit, that came out of his filthy old rot. Then we<lb/>
went on our way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was round by the Municipal Power Plant that we<lb/>
came across Billyboy and his five droogs. Now in those<lb/>
days, my brothers, the teaming up was mostly by fours or<lb/>
fives, these being like auto-teams, four being a comfy<lb/>
number for an auto, and six being the outside limit for<lb/>
gang-size. Sometimes gangs would gang up so as to make<lb/>
like malenky armies for big night-war, but mostly it was<lb/>
best to roam in these like small numbers. Billyboy was<lb/>
something that made me want to sick just to viddy his<lb/>
fat grinning litso, and he always had this von of very stale<lb/>
oil that’s been used for frying over and over, even when<lb/>
he was dressed in his best platties, like now. They viddied<lb/>
us just as we viddied them, and there was like a very quiet<lb/>
kind of watching each other now. This would be real, this<lb/>
would be proper, this would be the nozh, the oozy, the<lb/>
britva, not just fisties and boots. Billyboy and his droogs<lb/>
stopped what they were doing, which was just getting<lb/>
ready to perform something on a weepy young devotchka<lb/>
they had there, not more than ten, she creeching away<lb/>
but with her platties still on, Billyboy holding her by one<lb/>
rooker and his number-one, Leo, holding the other. They'd<lb/>
probably just been doing the dirty slovo part of the act<lb/>
before getting down to a malenky bit of ultra-violence.<lb/>
When they viddied us a-coming they let go of this boo-<lb/>
hooing little ptitsa, there being plenty more where she<lb/>
came from, and she ran with her thin white legs flashing<lb/>
through the dark, still going ‘Oh oh oh.’ I said, smiling<lb/>
very wide and droogie, “Well, if it isn’t fat stinking billygoat<lb/>
Billyboy in poison. How art thou, thou globby bottle of<lb/>
cheap stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles,<lb/>
if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly, thou.’ And then<lb/>
we started.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There were four of us to six of them, like I have already<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="27"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
indicated, but poor old Dim, for all his dimness, was worth<lb/>
three of the others in sheer madness and dirty fighting. Dim<lb/>
had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain round his<lb/>
waist, twice wound round, and he unwound this and began<lb/>
to swing it beautiful in the eyes or glazzies. Pete and Georgie<lb/>
had good sharp nozhes, but I for my own part had a fine<lb/>
starry horrorshow cut-throat britva which, at that time, I<lb/>
could flash and shine artistic. So there we were dratsing<lb/>
away in the dark, the old Luna with men on it just coming<lb/>
up, the stars stabbing away as it might be knives anxious<lb/>
to join in the dratsing. With my britva I managed to slit<lb/>
right down the front of one of Billyboy’s droog’s platties,<lb/>
very very neat and not even touching the plott under the<lb/>
cloth. Then in the dratsing this droog of Billyboy’s suddenly<lb/>
found himself all opened up like a peapod, with his belly<lb/>
bare and his poor old yarbles showing, and then he got very<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and letting in old Dim with his chain snaking whissssssh-<lb/>
hbhhhhhh, so that old Dim chained him right in the glazzies,<lb/>
and this droog of Billyboy’s went tottering off and howling<lb/>
his heart out. We were doing very horrorshow, and soon<lb/>
we had Billyboy’s number-one down underfoot, blinded<lb/>
with old Dim’s chain and crawling and howling about like<lb/>
an animal, but with one fair boot on the gulliver he was<lb/>
out and out and out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of the four of us Dim, as usual, came out the worst in<lb/>
point of looks, that is to say his litso was all bloodied and<lb/>
his platties a dirty mess, but the others of us were still<lb/>
cool and whole. It was stinking fatty Billyboy I wanted<lb/>
now, and there I was dancing about with my britva like<lb/>
I might be a barber on board a ship on a very rough sea,<lb/>
trying to get in at him with a few fair slashes on his unclean<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oily litso. Billyboy had a nozh, a long flick-type, but he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
22<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was a malenky bit too slow and heavy in his movements<lb/>
to vred anyone really bad. And, my brothers, it was real<lb/>
satisfaction to me to waltz — left two three, right two three<lb/>
— and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two<lb/>
curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time,<lb/>
one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter<lb/>
starlight. Down this blood poured in like red curtains, but<lb/>
you could viddy Billyboy felt not a thing, and he went<lb/>
lumbering on like a filthy fatty bear, poking at me with<lb/>
his nozh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents<lb/>
were coming with pooshkas pushing out of the police-<lb/>
auto-windows at the ready. That little weepy devotchka<lb/>
had told them, no doubt, there being a box for calling<lb/>
the rozzes not too far behind the Muni Power Plant. “Get<lb/>
you soon, fear not,’ I called, ‘stinking billygoat. I’ll have<lb/>
your yarbles off lovely.’ Then off they ran, slow and<lb/>
panting, except for Number One Leo out snoring on the<lb/>
ground, away north towards the river, and we went the<lb/>
other way. Just round the next turning was an alley, dark<lb/>
and empty and open at both ends, and we rested there,<lb/>
panting fast then slower, then breathing like normal. It<lb/>
was like resting between the feet of two terrific and very<lb/>
enormous mountains, these being the flatblocks, and in<lb/>
the windows of all of the flats you could viddy like blue<lb/>
dancing light. This would be the telly. Tonight was what<lb/>
they called a worldcast, meaning that the same programme<lb/>
was being viddied by everybody in the world that wanted<lb/>
to, that being mostly the middle-aged middle-class lewdies.<lb/>
There would be some big famous stupid comic chelloveck<lb/>
or black singer, and it was all being bounced off the special<lb/>
telly satellites in outer space, my brothers. We waited<lb/>
panting, and we could slooshy the sirening millicents going<lb/>
</p>
<p>
23<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="28"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
east, so we knew we were all right now. But poor old Dim<lb/>
kept looking up at the stars and planets and the Luna<lb/>
with his rot wide open like a kid who'd never viddied any<lb/>
such thing before, and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's on them, I wonder. What would be up there<lb/>
on things like that?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I nudged him hard, saying: ‘Come, gloopy bastard as<lb/>
thou art. Think thou not on them. There'll be life like<lb/>
down here most likely, with some getting knifed and others<lb/>
doing the knifing. And now, with the nochy still molodoy,<lb/>
let us be on our way, O my brothers.’ The others smecked<lb/>
at this, but poor old Dim looked at me serious, then up<lb/>
again at the stars and the Luna. So we went on our way<lb/>
down the alley, with the worldcast blueing on on either<lb/>
side. What we needed now was an auto, so we turned left<lb/>
coming out of the alley, knowing right away we were in<lb/>
Priestley Place as soon as we viddied the big bronze statue<lb/>
of some starry poet with an apey upper lip and a pipe<lb/>
stuck in a droopy old rot. Going north we came to the<lb/>
filthy old Filmdrome, peeling and dropping to bits through<lb/>
nobody going there much except malchicks like me and<lb/>
my droogs, and then only for a yell or a razrez or a bit of<lb/>
in-out-in-out in the dark. We could viddy from the poster<lb/>
on the Filmdrome’s face, a couple of fly-dirted spots trained<lb/>
on it, that there was the usual cowboy riot, with the arch-<lb/>
angels on the side of the US marshal six-shooting at the<lb/>
rustlers out of hell’s fighting legions, the kind of hound-<lb/>
and-horny veshch put out by Statefilm in those days. The<lb/>
autos parked by the sinny weren't all that horrorshow,<lb/>
crappy starry veshches most of them, but there was a<lb/>
newish Durango 95 that I thought might do. Georgie had<lb/>
one of these polyclefs, as they called them, on his keyring,<lb/>
so we were soon aboard — Dim and Pete at the back,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
24<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
puffing away lordly at their cancers — and I turned on the<lb/>
ignition and started her up and she grumbled away real<lb/>
horrorshow, a nice warm vibraty feeling grumbling all<lb/>
through your guttiwuts. Then I made with the noga, and<lb/>
we backed out lovely, and nobody viddied us take off.<lb/>
We fillied round what was called the backtown for a<lb/>
bit, scaring old vecks and cheenas that were crossing the<lb/>
roads and zigzagging after cats and that. Then we took<lb/>
the road west. There wasn’t much traffic about, so I kept<lb/>
pushing the old noga through the floorboards near, and<lb/>
the Durango 95 ate up the road like spaghetti. Soon it<lb/>
was winter trees and dark, my brothers, with a country<lb/>
dark, and at one place I ran over something big with a<lb/>
snarling toothy rot in the headlamps, then it screamed<lb/>
and squelched under and old Dim at the back near laughed<lb/>
his gulliver off — “Ho ho ho’ — at that. Then we saw one<lb/>
young malchick with his sharp, lubbilubbing under a tree,<lb/>
so we stopped and cheered at them, then we bashed into<lb/>
them both with a couple of half-hearted tolchocks, making<lb/>
them cry, and on we went. What we were after now was<lb/>
the old surprise visit. That was a real kick and good for<lb/>
smecks and lashings of the ultra-violent. We came at last<lb/>
to a sort of a village, and just outside this village was a<lb/>
small sort of a cottage on its own with a bit of a garden.<lb/>
The Luna was well up now, and we could viddy this cottage<lb/>
fine and clear as I eased up and put the brake on, the<lb/>
other three giggling like bezoomny, and we could viddy<lb/>
the name on the gate of this cottage veshch was HOME,<lb/>
a gloopy sort of a name. I got out of the auto, ordering<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
25<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="29"/>
<p>
somebody coming, then a bolt drawn, then the door inched<lb/>
open an inch or so, then I could viddy this one glaz looking<lb/>
out at me and the door was on a chain. ‘Yes? Who is it?”<lb/>
It was a sharp’s goloss, a youngish devotchka by her sound,<lb/>
so I said in a very refined manner of speech, a real gentle-<lb/>
man’s goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Pardon, madam, most sorry to disturb you, but my<lb/>
friend and me were out for a walk, and my friend has<lb/>
taken bad all of a sudden with a very troublesome turn,<lb/>
and he is out there on the road dead out and groaning.<lb/>
Would you have the goodness to let me use your telephone<lb/>
to telephone for an ambulance?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We haven't a telephone,’ said this devotchka. ‘’m sorry,<lb/>
but we haven't. You'll have to go somewhere else.’ From<lb/>
inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack<lb/>
clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing<lb/>
away, and then the typing stopped and there was this<lb/>
chelloveck’s goloss calling: “What is it, dear?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well,” I said, ‘could you of your goodness please let<lb/>
him have a cup of water? It’s like a faint, you see. It seems<lb/>
as though he’s passed out in a sort of a fainting fit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The devotchka sort of hesitated and then said: ‘Wait.’<lb/>
Then she went off, and my three droogs had got out of<lb/>
the auto quiet and crept up horrorshow stealthy, putting<lb/>
their maskies on now, then I put mine on, then it was<lb/>
only a matter of me putting in the old rooker and undoing<lb/>
the chain, me having softened up this devotchka with my<lb/>
gent’s goloss, so that she hadn't shut the door like she<lb/>
should have done, us being strangers of the night. The<lb/>
four of us then went roaring in, old Dim playing the shoot<lb/>
as usual with his jumping up and down and singing out<lb/>
dirty slovos, and it was a nice malenky cottage, I'll say<lb/>
that. We all went smecking into the room with a light on,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
26<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and there was this devotchka sort of cowering, a young<lb/>
pretty bit of sharp with real horrorshow groodies on her,<lb/>
and with her was this chelloveck who was her moodge,<lb/>
youngish too with horn-rimmed otchkies on him, and on<lb/>
a table was a typewriter and all papers scattered everywhere,<lb/>
but there was one little pile of paper like that must have<lb/>
been what he'd already typed, so here was another intel-<lb/>
ligent type bookman type like that we'd fillied with some<lb/>
hours back, but this one was a writer not a reader. Anyway<lb/>
he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is this? Who are you? How dare you enter my<lb/>
house without permission.’ And all the time his goloss was<lb/>
trembling and his rookers too. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Never fear. If fear thou hast in thy heart, O brother,<lb/>
pray banish it forthwith.’ Then Georgie and Pete went<lb/>
out to find the kitchen, while old Dim waited for orders,<lb/>
standing next to me with his rot wide open. “What is this,<lb/>
then?’ I said, picking up the pile like of typing from off<lb/>
of the table, and the horn-rimmed moodge said, dithering:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s just what I want to know. What is this? What<lb/>
do you want? Get out at once before I throw you out.’<lb/>
So poor old Dim, masked like Peebee Shelley, had a good<lb/>
loud smeck at that, roaring like some animal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s a book,’ I said. ‘It’s a book what you are writing.’<lb/>
I made the old goloss very coarse. ‘I have always had the<lb/>
strongest admiration for them as can write books.’ Then<lb/>
I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name — A<lb/>
CLOCKWORK ORANGE ~— and I said, ‘That’s a fair<lb/>
gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?’ Then<lb/>
I read a malenky bit out loud in a sort of very high type<lb/>
preaching goloss: - The attempt to impose upon man, a<lb/>
creature of growth and capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily<lb/>
at the last round the bearded lips of God, to attempt to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
27<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="30"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
impose, I say, laws and conditions appropriate to a mechan-<lb/>
ical creation, against this I raise my swordpen — Dim<lb/>
made the old lip-music at that and I had to smeck myself.<lb/>
Then I started to tear up the sheets and scatter the bits<lb/>
over the floor, and this writer moodge went sort of<lb/>
bezoomny and made for me with his zoobies clenched and<lb/>
showing yellow and his nails ready for me like claws. So<lb/>
that was old Dim’s cue and he went grinning and going<lb/>
er er and a a a for this veck’s dithering rot, crack crack,<lb/>
first left fistie then right, so that our dear old droog the<lb/>
red — red vino on tap and the same in all places, like it’s<lb/>
put out by the same big firm — started to pour and spot<lb/>
the nice clean carpet and the bits of his book that I was<lb/>
still ripping away at, razrez razrez. All this time this<lb/>
devotchka, his loving and faithful wife, just stood like froze<lb/>
by the fireplace, and then she started letting out little<lb/>
malenky creeches, like in time to the like music of old<lb/>
Dim’s fisty work. Then Georgie and Pete came in from<lb/>
the kitchen, both munching away, though with their<lb/>
maskies on, you could do that with them on and no<lb/>
trouble, Georgie with like a cold leg of something in one<lb/>
rooker and half a loaf of kleb with a big dollop of maslo<lb/>
on it in the other, and Pete with a bottle of beer frothing<lb/>
its gulliver off and a horrorshow rookerful of like plum<lb/>
cake. They went haw haw haw, viddying old Dim dancing<lb/>
round and fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
hoo hoo with a very square bloody rot, but it was haw<lb/>
haw haw in a muffled eater’s way and you could see bits<lb/>
of what they were eating. I didn’t like that, it being dirty<lb/>
and slobbery, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Drop that mounch. I gave no permission. Grab hold<lb/>
of this veck here so he can viddy all and not get away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
28<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So they put down their fatty pishcha on the table among<lb/>
all the flying paper and they clopped over to the writer<lb/>
veck whose horn-rimmed otchkies were cracked but still<lb/>
hanging on, with old Dim still dancing round and making<lb/>
ornaments shake on the mantelpiece (I swept them all off<lb/>
then and they couldn’t shake no more, little brothers) while<lb/>
he fillied with the author of A Clockwork Orange, making<lb/>
his litso all purple and dripping away like some very special<lb/>
sort of a juicy fruit. ‘All right, Dim,’ I said. ‘Now for the<lb/>
other veshch, Bog help us all.’ So he did the strong-man<lb/>
on the devotchka, who was still creech creech creeching<lb/>
away in very horrorshow four-in-a-bar, locking her rookers<lb/>
from the back, while I ripped away at this and that and<lb/>
the other, the others going haw haw haw still, and real<lb/>
good horrorshow groodies they were that then exhibited<lb/>
their pink glazzies, O my brothers, while J untrussed and<lb/>
got ready for the plunge. Plunging, I could slooshy cries<lb/>
of agony and this writer bleeding veck that Georgie and<lb/>
Pete held on to nearly got loose howling bezoomny with<lb/>
the filthiest of slovos that I already knew and others he<lb/>
was making up. Then after me it was right old Dim should<lb/>
have his turn, which he did in a beasty snorty howly sort<lb/>
of a way with his Peebee Shelley maskie taking no notice,<lb/>
while I held on to her. Then there was a changeover, Dim<lb/>
and me grabbing the slobbering writer veck who was past<lb/>
struggling really, only just coming out with slack sort of<lb/>
slovos like he was in the land in a milk-plus bar, and Pete<lb/>
and Georgie had theirs. Then there was like quiet and we<lb/>
were full of like hate, so smashed what was left to be<lb/>
smashed — typewriter, lamp, chairs — and Dim, it was<lb/>
typical of old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to<lb/>
dung on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said<lb/>
no. ‘Out out out out,’ I howled. The writer veck and his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
29<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="31"/>
<p>
zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and making<lb/>
noises. But they'd live.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So we got into the waiting auto and I left it to Georgie<lb/>
to take the wheel, me feeling that malenky bit shagged,<lb/>
and we went back to town, running over odd squealing<lb/>
things on the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We yeckated back townwards, my brothers,<lb/>
but just outside, not far from what they<lb/>
called the Industrial Canal, we viddied the<lb/>
fuel needle had like collapsed, like our own<lb/>
ha ha ha needles had, and the auto was<lb/>
coughing kashl kashl kash]. Not to worry overmuch,<lb/>
though, because a rail station kept flashing blue — on off<lb/>
on off — just near. The point was whether to leave the<lb/>
auto to be sobiratted by the rozzes or, us feeling like in a<lb/>
hate and murder mood, to give it a fair tolchock into the<lb/>
starry waters for a nice heavy loud plesk before the death<lb/>
of the evening. This latter we decided on, so we got out<lb/>
and, the brakes off, all four tolchocked it to the edge of<lb/>
the filthy water that was like treacle mixed with human<lb/>
hole products, then one good horrorshow tolchock and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in she went. We had to dash back for fear of the filth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
went, down and lovely. ‘Farewell, old droog,’ called<lb/>
Georgie, and Dim obliged with a clowny great guff — ‘Huh<lb/>
huh huh huh.’ Then we made for the station to ride the<lb/>
one stop to Center, as the middle of town was called. We<lb/>
paid our fares nice and polite and waited gentlemanly and<lb/>
quiet on the platform, old Dim fillying with the slot<lb/>
machines, his carmans being full of small malenky coin,<lb/>
and ready if need be to distribute chocbars to the poor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
31<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="32"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and starving, though there was none such about, and then<lb/>
the old espresso rapido came lumbering in and we climbed<lb/>
aboard, the train looking to be near empty. To pass the<lb/>
three-minute ride we fillied about with what they called<lb/>
the upholstery, doing some nice horrorshow tearing-out<lb/>
of the seats’ guts and old Dim chaining the okno till the<lb/>
glass cracked and sparkled in the winter air, but we were<lb/>
all feeling that bit shagged and fagged and fashed, it having<lb/>
been an evening of some energy expenditure, my brothers,<lb/>
only Dim, like the clowny animal he was, full of the joys-of<lb/>
but looking all dirtied over and too much von of sweat<lb/>
on him, which was one thing I had against old Dim.<lb/>
We got out at Center and walked slow back to the<lb/>
Korova Milkbar, all going yawwwww a malenky bit and<lb/>
exhibiting to moon and star and lamplight our back fill-<lb/>
ings, because we were still only growing malchicks and<lb/>
had school in the daytime, and when we got into the<lb/>
Korova we found it fuller than when we'd left earlier on.<lb/>
But the chelloveck that had been burbling away, in the<lb/>
land, on white and synthemesc or whatever, was still on<lb/>
at it, going: “Urchins of deadcast in the way-ho-hay glill<lb/>
platonic tide weatherborn.’ It was probable that this was<lb/>
his third or fourth lot that evening, for he had that pale<lb/>
inhuman look, like he’d become a thing, and like his litso<lb/>
was really a piece of chalk carved. Really, if he wanted to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of the private cubies at the back and not stayed in the big<lb/>
mesto, because here some of the malchickies would filly<lb/>
about with him a malenky bit, though not too much<lb/>
because there were powerful bruiseboys hidden away in<lb/>
the old Korova who could stop any riot. Anyway, Dim<lb/>
squeezed in next to this veck and, with his big clown’s<lb/>
yawp that showed his hanging grape, he stabbed this veck’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
32<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
foot with his own large filthy sabog. But the veck, my<lb/>
brothers, heard nought, being now all above the body.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tt was nadsats mostly milking and coking and fillying<lb/>
around (nadsats were what we used to call the teens), but<lb/>
there were a few of the more starry ones, vecks and cheenas<lb/>
alike (but not of the boorjoyce, never them) laughing and<lb/>
govoreeting at the bar. You could tell from their barberings<lb/>
and loose platties (big string sweaters mostly) that they'd<lb/>
been on rehearsal at the TV studios round the corner. The<lb/>
devotchkas among them had these very lively litsos and<lb/>
wide big rots, very red, showing a lot of teeth, and smecking<lb/>
away and not caring about the wicked world one whit.<lb/>
And then the disc on the stereo twanged off and out (it<lb/>
was Jonny Zhivago, a Russky koshka, singing ‘Only Every<lb/>
Other Day’), and in the like interval, the short silence<lb/>
before the next one came on, one of these devotchkas —<lb/>
very fair and with a big smiling red rot and in her late<lb/>
thirties I'd say — suddenly came with a burst of singing,<lb/>
only a bar and a half and as though she was like giving<lb/>
an example of something they'd all been govoreeting about,<lb/>
and it was like for a moment, O my brothers, some great<lb/>
bird had flown into the milkbar, and I felt all the little<lb/>
malenky hairs on my plott standing endwise and the shivers<lb/>
crawling up like slow malenky lizards and then down again.<lb/>
Because I knew what she sang. It was from an opera by<lb/>
Friedrich Gitterfenster called Das Bettzeug, and it was the<lb/>
bit where she’s snuffing it with her throat cut, and the<lb/>
slovos are “Better like this maybe’. Anyway, I shivered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But old Dim, as soon as he'd slooshied this dollop of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
pronging twice at the air followed by a clowny guffaw. I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
33<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="33"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
felt myself all of a fever and like drowning in redhot blood,<lb/>
slooshying and viddying Dim’s vulgarity, and I said:<lb/>
‘Bastard. Filthy drooling mannerless bastard.’ Then I leaned<lb/>
across Georgie, who was between me and horrible Dim,<lb/>
and fisted Dim skorry on the rot. Dim looked very<lb/>
surprised, his rot open, wiping the krovvy off of his goober<lb/>
with his rook and in turn looking surprised at the red<lb/>
flowing krovvy and at me. “What for did you do that for?<lb/>
he said in his ignorant way. Not many viddied what I’d<lb/>
done, and those that viddied cared not. The stereo was<lb/>
on again and was playing a very sick electronic guitar<lb/>
veshch. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘For being a bastard with no manners and not the dook<lb/>
of an idea how to comport yourself publicwise, O my<lb/>
brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dim put on a hound-and-horny look of evil, saying, ‘I<lb/>
don’t like you should do what you done then. And I’m<lb/>
not your brother no more and wouldn’t want to be.’ Hed<lb/>
taken a big snotty tashtook from his pocket and was<lb/>
mopping the red flow puzzled, keeping on looking at it<lb/>
frowning as if he thought that blood was for other vecks<lb/>
and not for him. It was like he was singing blood to make<lb/>
up for his vulgarity when that devotchka was singing music.<lb/>
But that devotchka was smecking away ha ha ha now with<lb/>
her droogs at the bar, her red rot working and her zoobies<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
me really Dim had done wrong to. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If you don’t like this and you wouldn’t want that, then<lb/>
you know what to do, little brother.’ Georgie said, in a<lb/>
sharp way that made me look:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. Let’s not be starting.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s clean up to Dim,’ I said. ‘Dim can’t go on all<lb/>
his jeezny being as a little child.’ And I looked sharp at<lb/>
</p>
<p>
34<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
now:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What natural right does he have to think he can give<lb/>
the orders and tolchock me whenever he likes? Yarbles is<lb/>
what I say to him, and I'd chain his glazzies out soon as<lb/>
look.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Watch that,’ I said, as quiet as I could with the stereo<lb/>
bouncing all over the walls and ceiling and the in-the-land<lb/>
veck beyond Dim getting loud now with his ‘Spark nearer,<lb/>
ultoptimate.’ I said, ‘Do watch that, O Dim, if to continue<lb/>
to be on live thou dost wish.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yarbles,’ said Dim, sneering, ‘great bolshy yarblockos<lb/>
to you. What you done then you had no right. I’ll meet<lb/>
you with chain or nozh or britva any time, not having<lb/>
you aiming tolchocks at me reasonless, it stands to reason<lb/>
I won't have it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A nozh scrap any time you say,’ I snarled back. Pete<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh now, don’t, both of you malchicks. Droogs, aren't<lb/>
we? It isnt right droogs should behave thiswise. See, there<lb/>
are some loose-lipped malchicks over there smecking at<lb/>
us, leering like. We mustn’t let ourselves down.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim,’ I said, ‘has got to learn his place. Right?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wait,” said Georgie. “What's all this about place? This<lb/>
is the first I ever hear about lewdies learning their place.’<lb/>
Pete said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If the truth is known, Alex, you shouldn’t have given<lb/>
old Dim that uncalled-for tolchock. T’'ll say it once and<lb/>
no more. I say it with all respect, but if it had been me<lb/>
youd given it to youd have to answer. I say no more.’<lb/>
And he drowned his litso in his milk-glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I could feel myself getting all razdraz inside, but I tried<lb/>
to cover it, saying calm: “There has to bea leader. Discipline<lb/>
</p>
<p>
35<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="34"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
there has to be. Right?’ None of them skazatted a word<lb/>
or nodded even. I got more razdraz inside, calmer out. ‘I,’<lb/>
I said, ‘have been in charge long now. We are all droogs,<lb/>
but somebody has to be in charge. Right? Right?’ They<lb/>
all like nodded, wary like. Dim was osooshing the last of<lb/>
the krovvy off. It was Dim who said now:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, right. Doobidoob. A bit tired, maybe, everybody<lb/>
is. Best not to say more.’ I was surprised and just that<lb/>
malenky bit poogly to sloosh Dim govoreeting that wise.<lb/>
Dim said: “Bedways is rightways now, so best we go home-<lb/>
ways. Right?’ I was very surprised. The other two nodded,<lb/>
going right right right. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You understand about the tolchock on the rot, Dim.<lb/>
It was the music, see. I get all bezoomny when any veck<lb/>
interferes with a ptitsa singing, as it might be. Like that<lb/>
then.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Best we go off homeways and get a bit of spatchka,’<lb/>
said Dim. ‘A long night for growing malchicks. Right?’<lb/>
Right right nodded the other two. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I think it best we go home now. Dim has made a real<lb/>
horrorshow suggestion. If we don’t meet daywise, O my<lb/>
brothers, well then — same time same place tomorrow?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh yes,’ said Georgie. ‘I think that can be arranged.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I might,’ said Dim, ‘be just that malenky bit late. But<lb/>
</p>
<p>
same place and near same time tomorrow surely.’ He was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
any longer now. ‘And,’ he said, ‘it’s to be hoped that there<lb/>
wont be no more of them singing ptitsas in here.’ Then<lb/>
he gave his old Dim guff, a clowny big hohohohoho. It<lb/>
seemed like he was too dim to take much offence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So off we went our several ways, me belching arrrrgh on<lb/>
the cold coke I'd peeted. I had my cut-throat britva handy<lb/>
in case any of Billyboy’s droogs should be around near the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
36<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
flatblock waiting, or for that matter any of the other bandas<lb/>
or gruppas or shaikas that from time to time were at war<lb/>
with one. Where I lived was with my dadda and mum in<lb/>
the flats of Municipal Flatblock 18A, between Kingsley<lb/>
Avenue and Wilsonsway. I got to the big main door with<lb/>
no trouble, though I did pass one young malchick sprawling<lb/>
and creeching and moaning in the gutter, all cut about<lb/>
lovely, and saw in the lamplight also streaks of blood here<lb/>
and there like signatures, my brothers, of the night’s fillying.<lb/>
And too I saw just by 18A a pair of devotchka’s neezhnies<lb/>
doubtless rudely wrenched off in the heat of the moment,<lb/>
O my brothers. And so in. In the hallway was the good<lb/>
old municipal painting on the walls — vecks and ptitsas<lb/>
very well-developed, stern in the dignity of labour, at work-<lb/>
bench and machine with not one stitch of platties on their<lb/>
well-developed plotts. But of course some of the malchicks<lb/>
living in 18A had, as was to be expected, embellished and<lb/>
decorated the said big painting with handy pencil and<lb/>
ballpoint, adding hair and stiff rods and dirty ballooning<lb/>
slovos out of the dignified rots of these nagoy (bare, that<lb/>
is) cheenas and vecks. I went to the lift, but there was no<lb/>
need to press the electric knopka to see if it was working<lb/>
or not, because it had been tolchocked real horrorshow<lb/>
this night, the metal doors all buckled, some feat of rare<lb/>
strength indeed, so I had to walk the ten floors up. I cursed<lb/>
and panted climbing, being tired in plott if not so much<lb/>
in brain. I wanted music very bad this evening, that singing<lb/>
devotchka in the Korova having perhaps started me off. I<lb/>
wanted a big feast of it before getting my passport stamped,<lb/>
my brothers, at sleep’s frontier and the stripy shest lifted<lb/>
to let me through.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I opened the door of 10-8 with my own little klootch,<lb/>
and inside our malenky quarters all was quiet, the pee and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
37<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="35"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
em both being in sleepland, and mum had laid out on<lb/>
the table my malenky bit of supper — a couple of lomticks<lb/>
of tinned spongemeat with a shive or so of kleb and butter,<lb/>
a glass of the old cold moloko. Hohoho, the old moloko,<lb/>
with no knives or synthemesc or drencrom in it. How<lb/>
wicked, my brothers, innocent milk must always seem to<lb/>
me now. Still, I drank and ate growling, being more hungry<lb/>
than I thought at first, and I got a fruitpie from the larder<lb/>
and tore chunks off it to stuff into my greedy rot. Then<lb/>
I tooth-cleaned and clicked, cleaning out the old rot with<lb/>
my yahzick or tongue, then I went into my own little<lb/>
room or den, easing off my platties as I did so. Here was<lb/>
my bed and my stereo, pride of my jeezny, and my discs<lb/>
in their cupboard, and banners and flags on the wall, these<lb/>
being like remembrances of my corrective school life since<lb/>
Iwas eleven, O my brothers, each one shining and blazoned<lb/>
with name or number: SOUTH 4; METRO CORSKOL<lb/>
BLUE DIVISION; THE BOYS OF ALPHA.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The little speakers of my stereo were all arranged round<lb/>
the room, on ceiling, walls, floor, so, lying on my bed<lb/>
slooshying the music, I was like netted and meshed in the<lb/>
orchestra. Now what I fancied first tonight was this new<lb/>
violin concerto by the American Geoffrey Plautus, played<lb/>
by Odysseus Choerilos with the Macon (Georgia)<lb/>
Philharmonic, so I slid it from where it was neatly filed<lb/>
and switched on and waited.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I<lb/>
lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on<lb/>
the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying<lb/>
the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and<lb/>
gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold<lb/>
under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-<lb/>
wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling<lb/>
</p>
<p>
38<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
through my guts and out again crunched like candy<lb/>
thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird<lb/>
of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing<lb/>
in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin<lb/>
solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like<lb/>
a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored,<lb/>
like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee<lb/>
gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. Pee and<lb/>
em in their bedroom next door had learnt now not to<lb/>
knock on the wall with complaints of what they called<lb/>
noise. I had taught them. Now they would take sleep-pills.<lb/>
Perhaps, knowing the joy I had in my night music, they<lb/>
had already taken them. As I slooshied, my glazzies tight<lb/>
shut to shut in the bliss that was better than any synthe-<lb/>
mesc Bog or God, I knew such lovely pictures. There were<lb/>
vecks and ptitsas, both young and starry, lying on the<lb/>
ground screaming for mercy, and I was smecking all over<lb/>
my rot and grinding my boot in their litsos. And there<lb/>
were devotchkas ripped and creeching against the walls<lb/>
and I plunging like a shlaga into them, and indeed when<lb/>
the music, which was one movement only, rose to the top<lb/>
of its big highest tower, then, lying there on my bed with<lb/>
glazzies tight shut and rookers behind my gulliver, I broke<lb/>
and spattered and cried aaaaaaah with the bliss of it. And<lb/>
so the lovely music glided to its glowing close.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After that I had lovely Mozart, the Jupiter, and there<lb/>
were new pictures of different litsos to be ground and<lb/>
splashed, and it was after this that I thought I would have<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
39<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="36"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'd razrezzed that night, a long time ago it seemed, in that<lb/>
cottage called HOME. The name was about a clockwork<lb/>
orange. Listening to the J. S. Bach, I began to pony better<lb/>
what that meant now, and I thought, slooshying away to<lb/>
the brown gorgeousness of the starry German master, that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would like to have tolchocked them both harder and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ripped them to ribbons on their own floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
THE next morning I woke up at oh eight<lb/>
oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still<lb/>
felt shagged and fagged and fashed and<lb/>
bashed and my glazzies were stuck together<lb/>
real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would not go to school. I thought how I would have a<lb/>
malenky bit longer in the bed, an hour or two say, and<lb/>
then get dressed nice and easy, perhaps even having a<lb/>
splosh about in the bath, and then brew a pot of real<lb/>
strong horrorshow chai and make toast for myself and<lb/>
slooshy the radio or read the gazetta, all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I<lb/>
still felt like it, itty off to the old skolliwoll and see what<lb/>
was vareeting in that great seat of gloopy useless learning,<lb/>
O my brothers. I heard my papapa grumbling and tram-<lb/>
pling and then ittying off to the dyeworks where he<lb/>
rabbited, and then my mum called in in a very respectful<lb/>
goloss as she did now I was growing up big and strong:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s gone eight, son. You don’t want to be late again.’<lb/>
So I called back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A bit of a pain in my gulliver. Leave us be and I’ll try<lb/>
to sleep it off and then I'll be right as dodgers for this<lb/>
after.’ I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘TH put your breakfast in the oven then, son. I’ve got<lb/>
to be off myself now.’ Which was true, there being this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="37"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
law for everybody not a child nor with child nor ill to go<lb/>
out rabbiting. My mum worked at one of the Statemarts,<lb/>
as they called them, filling up the shelves with tinned soup<lb/>
and beans and all that cal. So I slooshied her clank a plate<lb/>
in the gas-oven like and then she was putting her shoes<lb/>
on and then getting her coat from behind the door and<lb/>
then sighing again, then she said: ‘I’m off now, son.’ But<lb/>
I let on to be back in sleepland and then I did doze off<lb/>
real horrorshow, and I had a queer and very real like sneety,<lb/>
dreaming for some reason of my droog Georgie. In this<lb/>
sneety he'd got like very much older and very sharp and<lb/>
hard and was govoreeting about discipline and obedience<lb/>
and how all the malchicks under his control had to jump<lb/>
hard at it and throw up the old salute like being in the<lb/>
army, and there was me in line like the rest saying yes sir<lb/>
and no sir, and then I viddied clear that Georgie had these<lb/>
stars on his pletchoes and he was like a general. And then<lb/>
he brought in old Dim with a whip, and Dim was a lot<lb/>
more starry and grey and had a few zoobies missing as<lb/>
you could see when he let out a smeck, viddying me, and<lb/>
then my droog Georgie said, pointing like at me, ‘That<lb/>
man has filth and cal all over his platties,’ and it was true.<lb/>
Then I creeched, “Don’t hit, please don’t, brothers,’ and<lb/>
started to run. And I was running in like circles and Dim<lb/>
was after me, smecking his gulliver off, cracking with the<lb/>
old whip, and each time I got a real horrorshow tolchock<lb/>
with this whip there was like a very loud electric bell<lb/>
ringringringing, and this bell was like a sort of a pain too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then I woke up real skorry, my heart going bap bap<lb/>
bap, and of course there was really a bell going brrrrr, and<lb/>
it was our front-door bell. I let on that nobody was at<lb/>
home, but this brrrrr still ittied on, and then I heard a<lb/>
goloss shouting through the door, ‘Come on then, get out<lb/>
</p>
<p>
42<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
over this over-gown. Then I put my nogas into very comfy<lb/>
woolly toofles, combed my luscious glory, and was ready<lb/>
for P. R. Deltoid. When I opened up he came shambling<lb/>
in looking shagged, a battered old shlapa on his gulliver,<lb/>
his raincoat filthy. ‘Ah, Alex boy,’ he said to me. ‘I met<lb/>
your mother, yes. She said something about a pain some-<lb/>
where. Hence not at school, yes.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A rather intolerable pain in the head, brother, sir,’ I<lb/>
said in my gentleman’s goloss. ‘I think it should clear by<lb/>
this afternoon.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Or certainly by this evening, yes,’ said P. R. Deltoid.<lb/>
The evening is the great time, isn’t it, Alex boy? Sit,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘sit, sit,’ as though this was his domy and me his<lb/>
guest. And he sat in this starry rocking-chair of my dad’s<lb/>
and began rocking, as if that was all he'd come for. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A cup of the old chai, sir? Tea, I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No time,’ he said. And he rocked, giving me the old<lb/>
glint under frowning brows, as if with all the time in the<lb/>
world. “No time, yes,’ he said, gloopy. So I put the kettle<lb/>
on. Then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To what do I owe the extreme pleasure? Is anything<lb/>
wrong, sir?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wrong?’ he said, very skorry and sly, sort of hunched<lb/>
looking at me but still rocking away. Then he caught sight<lb/>
of an advert in the gazetta, which was on the table — a<lb/>
lovely smecking young ptitsa with her groodies hanging<lb/>
</p>
<p>
43<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="38"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
out to advertise, my brothers, the Glories of the Jugoslav<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
shouldn't, yes?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Just a manner of speech,’ I said, ‘sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said P. R. Deltoid, ‘it’s just a manner of speech<lb/>
from me to you that you watch out, little Alex, because<lb/>
next time, as you very well know, it’s not going to be the<lb/>
corrective school any more. Next time it’s going to be the<lb/>
barry place and all my work ruined. If you have no consid-<lb/>
eration for your horrible self you might at least have some<lb/>
for me, who have sweated over you. A big black mark, I<lb/>
tell you in confidence, for every one we don’t reclaim, a<lb/>
confession of failure for every one of you that ends up in<lb/>
the stripy hole.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T've been doing nothing I shouldn't, sir,’ I said. “The<lb/>
millicents have nothing on me, brother, sir | mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Cut out this clever talk about millicents,’ said P. R.<lb/>
Deltoid very weary, but still rocking. ‘Just because the<lb/>
police have not picked you up lately doesn’t, as you very<lb/>
well know, mean you've not been up to some nastiness.<lb/>
There was a bit of a fight last night, wasn’t there? There<lb/>
was a bit of shuffling with nozhes and bike-chains and<lb/>
the like. One of a certain fat boy’s friends was ambu-<lb/>
lanced off late from near the Power Plant and hospital-<lb/>
ised, cut about very unpleasantly, yes. Your name was<lb/>
mentioned. The word has got through to me by the<lb/>
usual channels. Certain friends of yours were named<lb/>
also. There seems to have been a fair amount of assorted<lb/>
nastiness last night. Oh, nobody can prove anything<lb/>
about anybody, as usual. But I’m warning you, little<lb/>
Alex, being a good friend to you as always, the one man<lb/>
</p>
<p>
44<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in this sore and sick community who wants to save you<lb/>
from yourself.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I appreciate all that, sir,’ I said, ‘very sincerely.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, you do, don’t you?’ he sort of sneered. ‘Just watch<lb/>
it, that’s all, yes. We know more than you think, little<lb/>
Alex.’ Then he said, in a goloss of great suffering, but still<lb/>
rocking away, ‘What gets into you all? We study the<lb/>
problem and we've been studying it for damn well near a<lb/>
century, yes, but we get no further with our studies. You've<lb/>
got a good home here, good loving parents, you've got<lb/>
not too bad of a brain. Is it some devil that crawls inside<lb/>
you?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody’s got anything on me, sir,’ I said. ‘I’ve been<lb/>
out of the rookers of the millicents for a long time now.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That’s just what worries me,’ sighed P. R. Deltoid. ‘A<lb/>
bit too long of a time to be healthy. Youre about due now<lb/>
by my reckoning. That’s why ’'m warning you, little Alex,<lb/>
to keep your handsome young proboscis out of the dirt,<lb/>
yes. Do I make myself clear?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘As an unmuddied lake, sir,’ I said. “Clear as an azure<lb/>
sky of deepest summer. You can rely on me, sit.’ And I<lb/>
gave him a nice zooby smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when he'd ookadeeted and I was making this very<lb/>
strong pot of chai, I grinned to myself over this veshch<lb/>
that P. R. Deltoid and his droogs worried about. All right,<lb/>
I do bad, what with crasting and tolchocks and carves<lb/>
with the britva and the old in-out-in-out, and if I get<lb/>
loveted, well, too bad for me, O my little brothers, and<lb/>
you can’t run a country with every chelloveck comporting<lb/>
himself in my manner of the night, So if I get loveted and<lb/>
it’s three months in this mesto and another six in that,<lb/>
and then, as P. R. Deltoid so kindly warns, next time, in<lb/>
spite of the great tenderness of my summers, brothers, it’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
45<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="39"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the great unearthly zoo itself, well, I say, “Fair, but a pity,<lb/>
my lords, because I just cannot bear to be shut in. My<lb/>
endeavour shall be, in such future as stretches out its snowy<lb/>
and lilywhite arms to me before the nozh overtakes or the<lb/>
blood spatters its final chorus in twisted metal and smashed<lb/>
glass on the highroad, to not get loveted again.’ Which is<lb/>
fair speeching. But, brothers, this biting of their toe-nails<lb/>
over what is the cause of badness is what turns me into a<lb/>
fine laughing malchick. They don’t go into what is the<lb/>
cause of goodness, so why of the other shop? If lewdies are<lb/>
good that’s because they like it, and I wouldn't ever inter-<lb/>
fere with their pleasures, and so of the other shop. And I<lb/>
was patronising the other shop. More, badness is of the<lb/>
self, the one, the you or me on our oddy knockies, and<lb/>
that self is made by old Bog or God and is his great pride<lb/>
and radosty. But the not-self cannot have the bad, meaning<lb/>
they of the government and the judges and the schools<lb/>
cannot allow the bad because they cannot allow the self.<lb/>
And is not our modern history, my brothers, the story of<lb/>
brave malenky selves fighting these big machines? I am<lb/>
serious with you, brothers, over this. But what I do I do<lb/>
because I like to do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So now, this smiling winter morning. I drank this very<lb/>
strong chai with moloko and spoon after spoon after spoon<lb/>
of sugar, me having a sladky tooth, and I dragged out of<lb/>
the oven the breakfast my poor old mum had cooked for<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
toast and ate egg and toast and jam, smacking away at it<lb/>
while I read the gazetta. The gazetta was the usual about<lb/>
ultra-violence and bank robberies and strikes and foot-<lb/>
ballers making everybody paralytic with fright by threat-<lb/>
ening to not play next Saturday if they did not get higher<lb/>
wages, naughty malchickiwicks as they were. Also there<lb/>
</p>
<p>
46<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
were more space-trips and bigger stereo TV screens and<lb/>
offers of free packets of soapflakes in exchange for the<lb/>
labels on soup-tins, amazing offer for one week only, which<lb/>
made me smeck. And there was a bolshy big article on<lb/>
Modern Youth (meaning me, so I gave the old bow, grin-<lb/>
ning like bezoomny) by some very clever bald chelloveck.<lb/>
I read this with care, my brothers, slurping away at the<lb/>
old chai, cup after tass after chasha, crunching my lomticks<lb/>
of black toast dipped in jammiwam and eggiweg. This<lb/>
learned veck said the usual veshches, about no parental<lb/>
discipline, as he called it, and the shortage of real horror-<lb/>
show teachers who would lambast bloody beggary out of<lb/>
their innocent poops and make them go boohoohoo for<lb/>
mercy. All this was gloopy and made me smeck, but it<lb/>
was like nice to go on knowing that one was making the<lb/>
news all the time, O my brothers. Every day there was<lb/>
something about Modern Youth, but the best veshch they<lb/>
ever had in the old gazetta was by some starry pop in a<lb/>
doggy collar who said that in his considered opinion and<lb/>
he was govoreeting as a man of Bog IT WAS THE DEVIL<lb/>
THAT WAS ABROAD and was like ferreting his way into<lb/>
like young innocent flesh, and it was the adult world that<lb/>
could take the responsibility for this with their wars and<lb/>
bombs and nonsense. So that was all right. So he knew<lb/>
what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young innocent<lb/>
malchicks could take no blame. Right right right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I’d gone erk erk a couple of razzes on my full<lb/>
innocent stomach, I started to get out the day platties<lb/>
from my wardrobe, turning the radio on. There was music<lb/>
playing, a very nice malenky string quartet, my brothers,<lb/>
by Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have<lb/>
a smeck, though, thinking of what I'd viddied once in one<lb/>
of these like articles on Modern Youth, about how Modern<lb/>
</p>
<p>
47<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="40"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation Of The<lb/>
Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and<lb/>
Great Poetry would like quieten Modern Youth down and<lb/>
make Modern Youth more Civilised. Civilised my syph-<lb/>
ilised yarbles. Music always sort of sharpened me up, O<lb/>
my brothers, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready<lb/>
to make with the old donner and blitzen and have vecks<lb/>
and ptitsas creeching away in my ha ha power. And when<lb/>
I'd cheested up my litso and rookers a bit and done dressing<lb/>
(my day platties were like student-wear: the old blue panta-<lb/>
lonies with sweater with A for Alex) I thought here at least<lb/>
was time to itty off to the disc-bootick (and cutter too,<lb/>
my pockets being full of pretty polly) to see about this<lb/>
long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven Number<lb/>
Nine (the Choral Symphony, that is), recorded on<lb/>
Masterstroke by the Esh Sham Sinfonia under L. Muhaiwizr.<lb/>
So out I went, brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The day was very different from the night. The night<lb/>
belonged to me and my droogs and all the rest of the<lb/>
nadsats, and the starry boorjoyce lurked indoors drinking<lb/>
in the gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry<lb/>
ones, and there always seemed to be more rozzes or milli-<lb/>
cents about during the day, too. I got the autobus from<lb/>
the corner and rode to Center, and then I walked back to<lb/>
Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick I favoured<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
gloopy name of MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow<lb/>
mesto and skorry, most times, at getting the new record-<lb/>
ings. I walked in and the only other customers were two<lb/>
young ptitsas sucking away at ice-sticks (and this, mark,<lb/>
was dead cold winter) and sort of shuffling through the<lb/>
new popdiscs — Johnny Burnaway, Stash Kroh, The Mixers,<lb/>
Lie Quiet Awhile With Ed And Id Molotov, and all the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
48<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rest of that cal. These two ptitsas couldn’t have been more<lb/>
than ten, and they too, like me, it seemed, evidently, had<lb/>
decided to take a morning off from the old skolliwoll.<lb/>
They saw themselves, you could see, as real grown-up<lb/>
devotchkas already, what with the old hipswing when they<lb/>
saw your Faithful Narrator, brothers, and padded groodies<lb/>
and red all ploshed on their goobers. I went up to the<lb/>
counter, making with the polite zooby smile at old Andy<lb/>
behind it (always polite himself, always helpful, a real<lb/>
horrorshow type of a veck, though bald and very very<lb/>
thin). He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Aha, I know what thou wantest, I thinkest. Good news,<lb/>
good news. It have arrived.’ And with like big conductor’s<lb/>
rookers beating time he went to get it. The two young<lb/>
ptitsas started giggling, as they will at that age, and I gave<lb/>
them a like cold glazzy. Andy was back real skorry, waving<lb/>
the great shiny white sleeve of the Ninth, which had on<lb/>
it, brothers, the frowning beetled like thunderbottled litso<lb/>
of Ludwig van himself. ‘Here,’ said Andy. ‘Shall we give<lb/>
it the trial spin? But I wanted it back home on my stereo<lb/>
to slooshy on my oddy knocky, greedy as hell. I fumbled<lb/>
out the deng to pay and one of the little ptitsas said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who you getten, bratty? What bigey, what only? These<lb/>
young devotchkas had their own like way of govoreeting.<lb/>
“The Heaven Seventeen? Luke Sterne? Goggly Gogol?” And<lb/>
both giggled, rocking and hippy. Then an idea hit me and<lb/>
made me near fall over with the anguish and ecstasy of it,<lb/>
O my brothers, so I could not breathe for near ten seconds.<lb/>
I recovered and made with my new-clean zoobies and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What you got back home, little sisters, to play your<lb/>
fuzzy warbles on?’ Because I could viddy the discs they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
49<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="41"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of pushed their lower lips out at that. ‘Come with uncle,’<lb/>
I said, ‘and hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil<lb/>
trombones. You are invited.’ And I like bowed. They<lb/>
giggled again and one said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, but we're so hungry. Oh, but we could so eat.’ The<lb/>
other said, “Yah, she can say that, can’t she just.’ So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eat with uncle. Name your place.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then they viddied themselves as real sophistoes, which<lb/>
was like pathetic, and started talking in big-lady golosses<lb/>
about the Ritz and the Bristol and the Hilton and II<lb/>
Restorante Granturco. But I stopped that with ‘Follow<lb/>
uncle,’ and I led them to the Pasta Parlour just round the<lb/>
corner and let them fill their innocent young litsos on<lb/>
spaghetti and cream-puffs and banana-splits and hot choc-<lb/>
sauce, till I near sicked with the sight of it, I, brothers,<lb/>
lunching but frugally off a cold ham-slice and a growling<lb/>
dollop of chilli. These two young ptitsas were much alike,<lb/>
though not sisters. They had the same ideas or lack of,<lb/>
and the same colour hair — a like dyed strawy. Well, they<lb/>
would grow up real today. Today I would make a day of<lb/>
it. No school this afterlunch, but education certainly, Alex<lb/>
as teacher. Their names, they said, were Marty and Sonietta,<lb/>
bezoomny enough and in the heighth of their childish<lb/>
fashion, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Righty right, Marty and Sonietta. Time for the big spin.<lb/>
Come.’ When we were outside on the cold street they<lb/>
thought they would not go by autobus, oh no, but by<lb/>
taxi, so I gave them the humour, though with a real<lb/>
horrorshow in-grin, and I called a taxi from the rank near<lb/>
Center. The driver, a starry whiskery veck in very stained<lb/>
platties, said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No tearing up, now. No nonsense with them seats. Just<lb/>
re-upholstered they are.’ I quieted his gloopy fears and off<lb/>
</p>
<p>
50<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
we spun to Municipal Flatblock 18A, these two bold little<lb/>
ptitsas giggling and whispering. So, to cut all short, we<lb/>
arrived, O my brothers, and I led the way up to 10-8, and<lb/>
they panted and smecked away the way up, and then they<lb/>
were thirsty, they said, so I unlocked the treasure-chest in<lb/>
my room and gave these ten-year-young devotchkas a real<lb/>
horrorshow Scotchman apiece, though well filled with<lb/>
sneezy pins-and-needles soda. They sat on my bed (yet<lb/>
unmade) and leg-swung, smecking and peeting their high-<lb/>
balls, while I spun their like pathetic malenky discs through<lb/>
my stereo. Like peeting some sweet scented kid’s drink,<lb/>
that was, in like very beautiful and lovely and costly gold<lb/>
goblets. But they went oh oh oh and said, ‘Swoony and<lb/>
‘Hilly’ and other weird slovos that were the heighth of<lb/>
fashion in that youth-group. While I spun this cal for<lb/>
them I encouraged them to drink up and have another,<lb/>
and they were nothing loath, O my brothers. So by the<lb/>
time their pathetic pop-discs had been twice spun each<lb/>
(there were two: ‘Honey Nose’, sung by Ike Yard, and<lb/>
‘Night After Day After Night’, moaned by two horrible<lb/>
yarbleless like eunuchs whose names I forget) they were<lb/>
getting near the pitch of like young ptitsa’s hysterics, what<lb/>
with jumping all over my bed and me in the room with<lb/>
them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was actually done that afternoon there is no need<lb/>
to describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all. Those<lb/>
two were unplatted and smecking fit to crack in no time<lb/>
at all, and they thought it the bolshiest fun to viddy old<lb/>
Uncle Alex standing there all nagoy and pan-handled,<lb/>
squirting the hypodermic like some bare doctor, then<lb/>
giving myself the old jab of growling jungle-cat secretion<lb/>
in the rooker. Then I pulled the lovely Ninth out of its<lb/>
sleeve, so that Ludwig van was now nagoy too, and I set<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="42"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the needle hissing on to the last movement, which was all<lb/>
bliss. There it was then, the bass strings like govoreeting<lb/>
away from under my bed at the rest of the orchestra, and<lb/>
then the male human goloss coming in and telling them<lb/>
all to be joyful, and then the lovely blissful tune all about<lb/>
Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven, and then I felt<lb/>
the old tigers leap in me and then I leapt on these two<lb/>
young ptitsas. This time they thought nothing fun and<lb/>
stopped creeching with high mirth, and had to submit to<lb/>
the strange and weird desires of Alexander the Large which,<lb/>
what with the Ninth and the hypo jab, were choodessny<lb/>
and zammechat and very demanding, O my brothers. But<lb/>
they were both very very drunken and could hardly feel<lb/>
very much.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When the last movement had gone round for the second<lb/>
time with all the banging and creeching about Joy Joy Joy<lb/>
Joy, then these two young ptitsas were not acting the big<lb/>
lady sophisto no more. They were like waking up to what<lb/>
was being done to their malenky persons and saying that<lb/>
they wanted to go home and like I was a wild beast. They<lb/>
looked like they had been in some big bitva, as indeed they<lb/>
had, and were all bruised and pouty. Well, if they would<lb/>
not go to school they must still have their education. And<lb/>
education they had had. They were creeching and going<lb/>
ow ow ow as they put their platties on, and they were like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
dirty and nagoy and fair shagged and fagged on the bed.<lb/>
This young Sonietta was creeching: ‘Beast and hateful<lb/>
animal. Filthy horror.’ So I let them get their things together<lb/>
and get out, which they did, talking about how the rozzes<lb/>
should be got on to me and all that cal. Then they were<lb/>
going down the stairs and I dropped off to sleep, still with<lb/>
the old Joy Joy Joy Joy crashing and howling away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
52<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wauar happened, though, was that I woke<lb/>
5 up late (near seven-thirty by my watch) and,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as it turned out, that was not so clever. You<lb/>
can viddy that everything in this wicked<lb/>
world counts. You can pony that one thing<lb/>
always leads to another. Right right right. My stereo was no<lb/>
longer on about Joy and I Embrace Ye O Ye Millions, so<lb/>
some veck had dealt it the off, and that would be either pee<lb/>
or em, both of them now being quite clear to the slooshying<lb/>
in the living-room and, from the clink clink of plates and<lb/>
slurp slurp of peeting tea from cups, at their tired meal after<lb/>
the day’s rabbiting in factory the one, store the other. The<lb/>
poor old. The pitiable starry. 1 put on my over-gown and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
looked out, in guise of loving only son, to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Hi hi hi, there. A lot better after the day’s rest. Ready<lb/>
now for evening work to earn that little bit.’ For that’s<lb/>
what they said they believed I did these days. ‘Yum yum,<lb/>
mum. Any of that for me?’ It was like some frozen pie<lb/>
that she'd unfroze and then warmed up and it looked not<lb/>
so very appetitish, but I had to say what I said. Dad looked<lb/>
at me with a not-so-pleased suspicious like look but said<lb/>
nothing, knowing he dared not, and mum gave me a tired<lb/>
like little smeck, to thee fruit of my womb, my only son<lb/>
sort of. I danced to the bathroom and had a real skorry<lb/>
cheest all over, feeling dirty and gluey, then back to my<lb/>
</p>
<p>
53<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="43"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
den for the evening’s platties. Then, shining, combed,<lb/>
brushed and gorgeous, I sat to my lomtick of pie. Papapa<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Not that I want to pry, son, but where exactly is it you<lb/>
go to work of evenings?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I chewed, ‘it’s mostly odd things, helping like.<lb/>
Here and there, as it might be.’ I gave him a straight dirty<lb/>
glazzy, as to say to mind his own and I’d mind mine. ‘T<lb/>
never ask for money, do I? Not money for clothes or for<lb/>
pleasures? All right, then, why ask?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My dad was like humble mumble chumble. ‘Sorry, son,’<lb/>
he said. ‘But I get worried sometimes. Sometimes I have<lb/>
dreams. You can laugh if you like, but there’s a lot in<lb/>
dreams. Last night I had this dream with you in it and I<lb/>
didn’t like it one bit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh?’ He had gotten me interessovatted now, dreaming<lb/>
of me like that. I had like a feeling I had had a dream,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
too, but I could not remember proper what. ‘Yes?’ I said,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘It was vivid,’ said my dad. ‘I saw you lying on the street<lb/>
and you had been beaten by other boys. These boys were<lb/>
like the boys you used to go around with before you were<lb/>
sent to that last Corrective School.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh?’ I had an in-grin at that, papapa believing I had<lb/>
real reformed or believing he believed. And then I remem-<lb/>
bered my own dream, which was a dream of that morning,<lb/>
of Georgie giving his general’s orders and old Dim<lb/>
smecking around toothless as he wielded the whip. But<lb/>
dreams go by opposites I was once told. ‘Never worry<lb/>
about thine only son and heir, O my father,’ I said. ‘Fear<lb/>
not. He canst take care of himself, verily.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And,’ said my dad, ‘you were like helpless in your blood<lb/>
and you couldn't fight back.’ That was real opposites, so I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
54<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had another quiet malenky grin within and then I took all<lb/>
the deng out of my carmans and tinkled it on the saucy<lb/>
tablecloth. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Here, dad, it’s not much. It’s what I earned last night.<lb/>
But perhaps for the odd peet of Scotchman in the snug<lb/>
somewhere for you and mum.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Thanks, son,’ he said. ‘But we don’t go out much now.<lb/>
We darent go out much, the streets being what they are.<lb/>
Young hooligans and so on. Still, thanks. I'll bring her home<lb/>
a bottle of something tomorrow.’ And he scooped this ill-<lb/>
gotten pretty into his trouser carmans, mum being at the<lb/>
cheesting of the dishes in the kitchen. And I went out with<lb/>
loving smiles all round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I got to the bottom of the stairs of the flatblock<lb/>
I was somewhat surprised. I was more than that. I opened<lb/>
my rot like wide in the old stony gapes. They had come<lb/>
to meet me. They were waiting by the all scrawled over<lb/>
municipal wall painting of the nagoy dignity of labour,<lb/>
bare vecks and cheenas stern at the wheels of industry, like<lb/>
I said, with all this dirt pencilled from their rots by naughty<lb/>
malchicks. Dim had a big thick like stick of black grease-<lb/>
paint and was tracing filthy slovos real big over our munic-<lb/>
ipal painting and doing the old Dim guff — wuh huh huh<lb/>
~ while he did it. But he turned round when Georgie and<lb/>
Pete gave me the well hello, showing off their shining<lb/>
droogy zoobies, and he horned out, ‘He are here, he have<lb/>
arrived, hooray,’ and did a clumsy turnitoe bit of dancing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We got worried,’ said Georgie. “There we were, a-waiting<lb/>
and peeting away at the old knify moloko, and you had<lb/>
not turned up. So then Pete here thought how you might<lb/>
have been like offended by some veshch or other, so round<lb/>
we come to your abode. That’s right, Pete, right?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, yes, right,’ said Pete.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
55<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="44"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Appy polly loggies,’ I said, careful. ‘I had something of<lb/>
a pain in the gulliver so had to sleep. I was not wakened<lb/>
when I gave orders for wakening. Still, here we all are,<lb/>
ready for what the old nochy offers, yes?’ I seemed to have<lb/>
picked up that yes? from P. R. Deltoid, my Post-Corrective<lb/>
Adviser. Very strange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sorry about the pain,’ said Georgie, like very concerned.<lb/>
‘Using the gulliver too much like, maybe. Giving orders<lb/>
and discipline and such, perhaps. Sure the pain is gone?<lb/>
Sure you'll not be happier going back to the bed?’ And<lb/>
they all had a bit of a malenky grin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s get things nice and sparkling clear.<lb/>
This sarcasm, if I may call it such, does not become you,<lb/>
O my little friends. Perhaps you have been having a bit of<lb/>
a quiet govoreet behind my back, making your own little<lb/>
jokes and such-like. As I am your droog and leader, surely<lb/>
I am entitled to know what goes on, eh? Now then, Dim,<lb/>
what does that great big horsy gape of a grin portend?’ For<lb/>
Dim had his rot open in a sort of bezoomny soundless<lb/>
smeck. Georgie got in very skorry with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, no more picking on Dim, brother. That's part<lb/>
of the new way.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘New way?’ I said. “What's this about a new way? There’s<lb/>
been some very large talk behind my sleeping back and<lb/>
no error. Let me slooshy more.’ And I sort of folded my<lb/>
rookers and leaned comfortable to listen against the broken<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
56<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
who has ideas. What ideas has he had?’ And he kept his<lb/>
very bold glazzies turned full on me. ‘It’s all the small<lb/>
stuff, malenky veshches like last night. We’re growing up,<lb/>
brothers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘More,’ I said, not moving. ‘Let me slooshy more.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said Georgie, ‘if you must have it, have it then.<lb/>
We itty round, shop-crasting and the like, coming out<lb/>
with a pitiful rookerful of cutter each. And there’s Will<lb/>
the English in the Muscleman coffee mesto saying he can<lb/>
fence anything that any malchick cares to try to crast. The<lb/>
shiny stuff, the ice,’ he said, still with these like cold<lb/>
glazzies on me. “The big big big money is available is what<lb/>
Will the English says.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So,’ I said, very comfortable out but real razdraz within.<lb/>
‘Since when have you been consorting and comporting<lb/>
with Will the English?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now and again,’ said Georgie, ‘I get around all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky. Like last Sabbath for instance. I can live my<lb/>
own jeezny, droogie, right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t really care for any of this, my brothers. ‘And<lb/>
what will you do,’ I said, ‘with the big big big deng or<lb/>
money as you so highfaluting call it? Have you not every<lb/>
veshch you need? If you need an auto you pluck it from<lb/>
the trees. If you need pretty polly you take it. Yes? Why<lb/>
this sudden shilarny for being the big bloated capitalist?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ said Georgie, ‘you think and govoreet sometimes<lb/>
like a little child.” Dim went huh huh huh at that.<lb/>
‘Tonight,’ said Georgie, ‘we pull a mansize crast.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So my dream had told the truth, then. Georgie the<lb/>
general saying what we should do and what not do, Dim<lb/>
with the whip as mindless grinning bulldog. But I played<lb/>
with great care, the greatest, saying, smiling: “Good. Real<lb/>
horrorshow. Initiative comes to them as wait. I have taught<lb/>
</p>
<p>
57<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="45"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
sharpen us up, boy, but you especially, we having the start<lb/>
of you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have govoreeted my thoughts for me,’ I smiled<lb/>
away. ‘I was about to suggest the dear old Korova. Good<lb/>
good good. Lead, little Georgie.’ And I made like a deep<lb/>
bow, smiling like bezoomny but thinking all the time. But<lb/>
when we got into the street I viddied that thinking is for<lb/>
the gloopy ones and that the oomny ones use like inspira-<lb/>
tion and what Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that<lb/>
came to my aid. There was an auto ittying by and it had<lb/>
its radio on, and I could just slooshy a bar or so of Ludwig<lb/>
van (it was the Violin Concerto, last movement), and I<lb/>
viddied right at once what to do. I said, in like a thick<lb/>
deep goloss, ‘Right, Georgie, now,’ and I whished out my<lb/>
cut-throat britva. Georgie said, ‘Uh? but he was skorry<lb/>
enough with his nozh, the blade coming sleesh out of the<lb/>
handle, and we were on to each other. Old Dim said, “Oh,<lb/>
no, not right that isn’t,’ and made to uncoil the chain<lb/>
around his tally, but Pete said, putting his rooker firm on<lb/>
old Dim, ‘Leave them. It’s right like that.’ So then Georgie<lb/>
and Your Humble did the old quiet cat-stalk, looking for<lb/>
openings, knowing each other’s style a bit too horrorshow<lb/>
really, Georgie now and then going lurch lurch with his<lb/>
shining nozh but not no wise connecting. And all the time<lb/>
lewdies passed by and viddied all this but minded their<lb/>
own, it being perhaps a common street-sight. But then I<lb/>
counted odin dva tree and went ak ak ak with the britva,<lb/>
though not at litso or glazzies but at Georgie’s nozh-holding<lb/>
rooker and, my little brothers, he dropped. He did. He<lb/>
</p>
<p>
58<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
dropped his nozh with a tinkle tankle on the hard winter<lb/>
sidewalk. I had just ticklewickled his fingers with my britva,<lb/>
and there he was looking at the malenky dribble of krovvy<lb/>
that was redding out in the lamplight. ‘Now,’ I said, and<lb/>
it was me that was starting, because Pete had given old<lb/>
Dim the soviet not to uncoil the oozy from round his tally<lb/>
and Dim had taken it, ‘now, Dim, let’s thou and me have<lb/>
all this now, shall us?’ Dim went, ‘Aaaaaaarhgh,’ like some<lb/>
bolshy bezoomny animal, and snaked out the chain from<lb/>
his waist real horrorshow and skorry, so you had to admire.<lb/>
Now the right style for me here was to keep low like in<lb/>
frog-dancing to protect litso and glazzies, and this I did,<lb/>
brothers, so that poor old Dim was a malenky bit surprised,<lb/>
him being accustomed to the straight face-on lash lash lash.<lb/>
Now I will say that he whished me horrible on the back<lb/>
so that it stung like bezoomny, but that pain told me to<lb/>
dig in skorry once and for all and be done with old Dim.<lb/>
So I swished with the britva at his left noga in its very<lb/>
tight tight and I slashed two inches of cloth and drew a<lb/>
malenky drop of krovvy to make Dim real bezoomny. Then<lb/>
while he went hauwwww hauwww hauwww like a doggie<lb/>
I tried the same style as for Georgie, banking all on one<lb/>
move — up, cross, cut — and I felt the britva go just deep<lb/>
enough in the meat of old Dim’s wrist and he dropped his<lb/>
snaking oozy yelping like a little child. Then he tried to<lb/>
drink in all the blood from his wrist and howl at the same<lb/>
time, and there was too much krovvy to drink and he went<lb/>
bubble bubble bubble, the red like fountaining out lovely,<lb/>
but not for very long. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, my droogies, now we should know. Yes, Pete?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I never said anything,’ said Pete. ‘I never govoreeted<lb/>
one slovo. Look, old Dim’s bleeding to death.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Never,’ I said. “One can die but once. Dim died before<lb/>
</p>
<p>
9<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="46"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he was born. That red red krovvy will soon stop.’ Because<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
a clean tashtook from my carman to wrap around poor<lb/>
old dying Dim’s rooker, howling and moaning as he was,<lb/>
and the krovvy stopped like I said it would, O my brothers.<lb/>
So they knew now who was master and leader, sheep,<lb/>
thought I.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It did not take long to quieten these two wounded<lb/>
soldiers down in the snug of the Duke of New York, what<lb/>
with large brandies (bought with their own cutter, me<lb/>
having given all to my dad) and a wipe with tashtooks<lb/>
dipped in the water-jug. The old ptitsas we'd been so<lb/>
horrorshow to last night were there again, going, “Thanks,<lb/>
lads’ and “God bless you, boys’ like they couldn’t stop,<lb/>
though we had not repeated the old sammy act with them.<lb/>
But Pete said, “What’s it to be, girls?’ and bought black<lb/>
and suds for them, him seeming to have a fair amount of<lb/>
pretty polly in his carmans, so they were on louder than<lb/>
ever with their “God bless and keep you all, lads’ and “We'd<lb/>
never split on you, boys’ and “The best lads breathing,<lb/>
that’s what you are.’ At last I said to Georgie:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now we're back to where we were, yes? Just like before<lb/>
and all forgotten, right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right right right,’ said Georgie. But old Dim still looked<lb/>
a bit dazed and he even said, ‘I could have got that big<lb/>
bastard, see, with my oozy, only some veck got in the way,’<lb/>
as though he'd been dratsing not with me but with some<lb/>
other malchick. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, Georgieboy, what did you have in mind?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,,’ said Georgie, ‘not tonight. Not this nochy, please.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're a big strong chelloveck,’ I said, ‘like us all. We're<lb/>
not little children, are we, Georgieboy? What, then, didst<lb/>
thou in thy mind have?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I could have chained his glazzies real horrorshow,’ said<lb/>
Dim, and the old baboochkas were still on with their<lb/>
“Thanks, lads’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It was this house, see,’ said Georgie. “The one with the<lb/>
two lamps outside. The one with the gloopy name, like.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What gloopy name?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“The Mansion or the Manse or some such piece of gloop.<lb/>
Where this very starry ptitsa lives with her cats and all<lb/>
these very starry valuable veshches.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Such as?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Gold and silver and like jewels. It was Will the English<lb/>
who like said.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I viddy,’ I said. ‘I viddy horrorshow.’ I knew where he<lb/>
meant — Oldtown, just beyond Victoria Flatblock. Well,<lb/>
the real horrorshow leader knows always when like to give<lb/>
and show generous to his like unders. “Very good, Georgie,’<lb/>
I said. ‘A good thought, and one to be followed. Let us<lb/>
at once itty.’ And as we were going out the old baboochkas<lb/>
said, “We'll say nothing, lads. Been here all the time you<lb/>
have, boys.’ So I said, ‘Good old girls. Back to buy more<lb/>
in ten minutes.’ And so I led my three droogs out to my<lb/>
doom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="47"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just past the Duke of New York going<lb/>
east was offices and then there was<lb/>
the starry beat-up biblio and then was the<lb/>
bolshy flatblock called Victoria Flatblock<lb/>
after some victory or other, and then you<lb/>
came to the like starry type houses of the town in what<lb/>
was called Oldtown. You got some of the real horrorshow<lb/>
ancient domies here, my brothers, with starry lewdies living<lb/>
in them, thin old barking like colonels with sticks and old<lb/>
ptitsas who were widows and deaf starry damas with cats<lb/>
who, my brothers, had felt not the touch of any chelloveck<lb/>
in the whole of their pure like jeeznies. And here, true,<lb/>
there were starry veshches that would fetch their share of<lb/>
cutter on the tourist market — like pictures and jewels and<lb/>
other starry pre-plastic cal of that type. So we came nice<lb/>
and quiet to this domy called the Manse, and there were<lb/>
globe lights outside on iron stalks, like guarding the front<lb/>
door on each side, and there was a light like dim on in<lb/>
one of the rooms on the ground level, and we went to a<lb/>
nice patch of street dark to watch through the window<lb/>
what was ittying on. This window had iron bars in front<lb/>
of it, like the house was a prison, but we could viddy nice<lb/>
and clear what was ittying on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was ittying on was that this starry ptitsa, very<lb/>
grey in the voloss and with a very liny like litso, was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
63<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="48"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pouring the old moloko from a milk-bottle into saucers<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
could tell there were plenty of mewing kots and koshkas<lb/>
writhing about down there. And we could viddy one or<lb/>
two, great fat scoteenas, jumping up on to the table with<lb/>
their rots open going mare mare mare. And you could<lb/>
viddy this old baboochka talking back to them, govoreeting<lb/>
in like scoldy language to her pussies. In the room you<lb/>
could viddy a lot of old pictures on the walls and starry<lb/>
very elaborate clocks, also some like vases and ornaments<lb/>
that looked starry and dorogoy. Georgie whispered, ‘Real<lb/>
horrorshow deng to be gotten for them, brothers. Will the<lb/>
English is real anxious.’ Pete said, ‘How in?’ Now it was<lb/>
up to me, and skorry, before Georgie started telling us<lb/>
how. ‘First veshch,’ I whispered, ‘is to try the regular way,<lb/>
the front. I will go very polite and say that one of my<lb/>
droogs has had a like funny fainting turn on the street.<lb/>
Georgie can be ready to show, when she opens, thatwise.<lb/>
Then to ask for water or to phone the doc. Then in easy.’<lb/>
Georgie said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘She may not open.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We'll try it, yes?’ And he sort of shrugged his pletchoes,<lb/>
making with a frog’s rot. So I said to Pete and old Dim,<lb/>
“You two droogies get either side of the door. Right?” They<lb/>
nodded in the dark right right right. ‘So,’ I said to Georgie,<lb/>
and I made bold straight for the front door. There was a<lb/>
bellpush and I pushed, and brrrrrr brrrrrr sounded down<lb/>
the hall inside. A like sense of slooshying followed, as<lb/>
though the ptitsa and her koshkas all had their ears back<lb/>
at the brrrerr brrrrrr, wondering. So I pushed the old<lb/>
zvonock a malenky bit more urgent. I then bent down to<lb/>
the letter-slit and called through in a refined like goloss,<lb/>
‘Help, madam, please. My friend has just had a funny turn<lb/>
</p>
<p>
64<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
on the street. Let me phone a doctor, please.’ Then I could<lb/>
viddy a light being put on in the hall, and then I could<lb/>
hear the old baboochka’s nogas going flip flap in flipflap<lb/>
slippers to nearer the front door, and I got the idea, I don’t<lb/>
know why, that she had a big fat pussycat under each arm.<lb/>
Then she called out in a very surprising deep like goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Go away. Go away or I shoot.’ Georgie heard that and<lb/>
wanted to giggle. I said, with like suffering and urgency<lb/>
in my gentleman's goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, please help, madam. My friend’s very ill.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Go away,’ she called. “I know your dirty tricks, making<lb/>
me open the door and then buy things I don’t want. Go<lb/>
away, I tell you.’ That was real lovely innocence, that was.<lb/>
‘Go away,’ she said again, ‘or V’ll set my cats on to you.’<lb/>
A malenky bit bezoomny she was, you could tell that,<lb/>
through spending her jeezny all on her oddy knocky. Then<lb/>
I looked up and I viddied that there was a sash-window<lb/>
above the front door and that it would be a lot more<lb/>
skorry to just do the old pletcho climb and get in that<lb/>
way. Else there'd be this argument all the long nochy. So<lb/>
I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Very well, madam. If you won't help I must take my<lb/>
suffering friend elsewhere.’ And I winked my droogies all<lb/>
away quiet, only me crying out, ‘All right, old friend, you<lb/>
will surely meet some good samaritan some place other.<lb/>
This old lady perhaps cannot be blamed for being suspi-<lb/>
cious with so many scoundrels and rogues of the night<lb/>
about. No, indeed not.’ Then we waited again in the dark<lb/>
and I whispered, ‘Right. Return to door. Me stand on<lb/>
Dims pletchoes. Open that window and me enter, droogies.<lb/>
Then to shut up that old ptitsa and open up for all. No<lb/>
trouble.’ For I was like showing who was leader and the<lb/>
chelloveck with the ideas. ‘See,’ I said. ‘Real horrorshow<lb/>
</p>
<p>
65<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="49"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bit of stonework over that door, a nice hold for my nogas.’<lb/>
They viddied all that, admiring perhaps I thought, and<lb/>
said and nodded Right right right in the dark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So back tiptoe to the door. Dim was our heavy strong<lb/>
malchick and Pete and Georgie like heaved me up on to<lb/>
Dim’s bolshy manly pletchoes. All this time, O thanks to<lb/>
worldcasts on the gloopy TV and, more, lewdies’ night-<lb/>
fear through lack of night-police, dead lay the street. Up<lb/>
there on Dim’s pletchoes I viddied that this stonework<lb/>
above the door would take my boots lovely. I kneed up,<lb/>
brothers, and there I was. The window, as I had expected,<lb/>
was closed, but I outed with my britva and cracked the<lb/>
glass of the window smart with the bony handle thereof.<lb/>
All the time below my droogies were hard breathing. So<lb/>
I put in my rooker through the crack and made the lower<lb/>
half of the window sail up open silver-smooth and lovely.<lb/>
And I was, like getting into the bath, in. And there were<lb/>
my sheep down below, their rots open as they looked up,<lb/>
O brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was in bumpy darkness, with beds and cupboards and<lb/>
bolshy heavy stoolies and piles of boxes and books about.<lb/>
But I strode manful towards the door of the room I was<lb/>
in, seeing a like crack of light under it. The door went<lb/>
squeeeeeeeeeeak and then I was on a dusty corridor with<lb/>
other doors. All this waste, brothers, meaning all these<lb/>
rooms and but one starry sharp and her pussies, but perhaps<lb/>
the kots and koshkas had like separate bedrooms, living<lb/>
on cream and fish-heads like royal queens and princes. I<lb/>
could hear the like muffled goloss of this old ptitsa down<lb/>
below saying, ‘Yes yes yes, that’s it,’ but she would be<lb/>
govoreeting to these mewing sidlers going maaaaaaah for<lb/>
more moloko. Then I saw the stairs going down to the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hall and I thought to myself that I would show these fickle<lb/>
</p>
<p>
66<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and worthless droogs of mine that I was worth the whole<lb/>
three of them and more. I would do all-on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. I would perform the old ultra-violence on the<lb/>
starry ptitsa and on her pusspots if need be, then I would<lb/>
take fair rookerfuls of what looked like real polezny stuff<lb/>
and go waltzing to the front door and open up showering<lb/>
gold and silver on my waiting droogs. They must learn<lb/>
all about leadership.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So down I ittied, slow and gentle, admiring in the stair-<lb/>
well grahzny pictures of old time — devotchkas with long<lb/>
hair and high collars, the like country with trees and horses,<lb/>
the holy bearded veck all nagoy hanging on a cross. There<lb/>
was a real musty von of pussies and pussyfish and starry<lb/>
dust in this domy, different from the flatblocks. And then<lb/>
I was downstairs and I could viddy the light in this front<lb/>
room where she had been doling moloko to the kots and<lb/>
koshkas. More, I could viddy these great over-stuffed<lb/>
scoteenas going in and out with their tails waving and like<lb/>
rubbing themselves on the door-bottom. On a like big<lb/>
wooden chest in the dark hall I could viddy a nice malenky<lb/>
statue that shone in the light of the room, so I crasted<lb/>
this for my own self, it being like of a young thin devotchka<lb/>
standing on one noga with her rookers out, and I could<lb/>
see this was made of silver. So I had this when I ittied<lb/>
into the lit-up room, saying, ‘Hi hi hi. At last we meet.<lb/>
Our brief govoreet through the letter-hole was not, shall<lb/>
we say, satisfactory, yes? Let us admit not, oh verily not,<lb/>
you stinking starry old sharp.’ And I like blinked in the<lb/>
light at this room and the old ptitsa in it. It was full of<lb/>
kots and koshkas all crawling to and fro over the carpet,<lb/>
with bits of fur floating in the lower air, and these fat<lb/>
scoteenas were all different shapes and colours, black,<lb/>
white, tabby, ginger, tortoise-shell, and of all ages, too, so<lb/>
</p>
<p>
67<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="50"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that there were kittens fillying about with each other and<lb/>
there were pussies full-grown and there were real dribbling<lb/>
starry ones very bad-tempered. Their mistress, this old<lb/>
ptitsa, looked at me fierce like a man and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How did you get in? Keep your distance, you villainous<lb/>
young toad, or I shall be forced to strike you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had a real horrorshow smeck at that, viddying that<lb/>
she had in her veiny rooker a crappy wood walking-stick<lb/>
which she raised at me threatening. So, making with my<lb/>
shiny zoobies, I ittied a bit nearer to her, taking my time,<lb/>
and on the way I saw on a like sideboard a lovely little<lb/>
veshch, the loveliest malenky veshch any malchick fond<lb/>
of music like myself could ever hope to viddy with his<lb/>
own two glazzies, for it was like the gulliver and pletchoes<lb/>
of Ludwig van himself, what they call a bust, a like stone<lb/>
veshch with stone long hair and blind glazzies and the big<lb/>
flowy cravat. I was off for that right away, saying, “Well,<lb/>
how lovely and all for me.’ But ittying towards it with my<lb/>
glazzies like full on it and my greedy rooker held out, I<lb/>
did not see the milk saucers on the floor and into one I<lb/>
went and sort of lost balance. “Whoops,” I said, trying to<lb/>
steady, but this old ptitsa had come up behind me very<lb/>
sly and with great skorriness for her age and then she went<lb/>
crack crack on my gulliver with her bit of a stick. So I<lb/>
found myself on my rookers and knees trying to get up<lb/>
and saying, ‘Naughty naughty naughty.’ And then she was<lb/>
going crack crack again, saying, “Wretched little slummy<lb/>
bed-bug, breaking into real people’s houses.’ I didn’t like<lb/>
this crack crack eegra, so I grasped hold of one end of her<lb/>
stick as it came down again and then she lost her balance<lb/>
and was trying to steady herself against the table, but then<lb/>
the table-cloth came off with a milk-jug and a milk-bottle<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
68<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
directions, then she was down on the floor grunting, going,<lb/>
‘Blast you, boy, you shall suffer.’ Now all the cats were<lb/>
getting spoogy and running and jumping in a like cat-<lb/>
panic, and some were blaming each other, hitting out<lb/>
cat-tolchocks with the old naga and ptaaaaa and grrrrr and<lb/>
kraaaaark. I got up on to my nogas, and there was this<lb/>
nasty vindictive starry forella with her wattles ashake and<lb/>
grunting as she like tried to lever herself up from the floor,<lb/>
so I gave her a malenky fair kick in the litso, and she<lb/>
didn't like that, crying, “Waaaaah,’ and you could viddy<lb/>
her veiny mottled litso going purplewurple where I’d<lb/>
landed the old noga.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I stepped back from the kick I must have like trod<lb/>
on the tail of one of these dratsing creeching pusspots,<lb/>
because I slooshied a gromky yauuuuuuuuw and found<lb/>
that like fur and teeth and claws had like fastened them-<lb/>
selves round my leg, and there I was cursing away and<lb/>
trying to shake it off holding this silver malenky statue in<lb/>
one rooker and trying to climb over this old ptitsa on the<lb/>
floor to reach lovely Ludwig van in frowning like stone.<lb/>
And then I was into another saucer brimful of creamy<lb/>
moloko and near went flying again, the whole veshch really<lb/>
a very humorous one if you could imagine it sloochatting<lb/>
to some other veck and not to Your Humble Narrator.<lb/>
And then the starry ptitsa on the floor reached over all<lb/>
the dratsing yowling pusscats and grabbed at my noga,<lb/>
still going “Waaaaah’ at me, and, my balance being a bit<lb/>
gone, I went really crash this time, on to sploshing moloko<lb/>
and skriking koshkas, and the old forella started to fist me<lb/>
on the litso, both of us being on the floor, creeching,<lb/>
‘Thrash him, beat him, pull out his finger-nails, the<lb/>
poisonous young beetle,’ addressing her pusscats only, and<lb/>
then, as if like obeying the starry old ptitsa, a couple of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
69<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="51"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
koshkas got on to me and started scratching like bezoomny.<lb/>
So then I got real bezoomny myself, brothers, and hit out<lb/>
at them, but this baboochka said, “Toad, don’t touch my<lb/>
kitties,’ and like scratched my litso. So then I creeched:<lb/>
‘You filthy old soomka,’ and upped with the little malenky<lb/>
like silver statue and cracked her a fine fair tolchock on<lb/>
the gulliver and that shut her up real horrorshow and<lb/>
lovely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now as I got up from the floor among all the crarking<lb/>
kots and koshkas what should I slooshy but the shoom of<lb/>
the old police-auto siren in the distance, and it dawned<lb/>
on me skorry that the old forella of the pusscats had been<lb/>
on the phone to the millicents when I thought she'd been<lb/>
govoreeting to the mewlers and mowlers, her having got<lb/>
her suspicions skorry on the boil when I'd rung the old<lb/>
zvonock pretending for help. So now, slooshying this fear-<lb/>
some shoom of the rozz-van, I belted for the front door<lb/>
and had a rabbiting time undoing all the locks and chains<lb/>
and bolts and other protective veshches. Then I got it<lb/>
open, and who should be on the doorstep but old Dim,<lb/>
me just being able to viddy the other two of my so-called<lb/>
droogs belting off. ‘Away,’ I creeched to Dim. “The rozzes<lb/>
are coming.’ Dim said, ‘You stay to meet them huh huh<lb/>
huh,’ and then I viddied that he had his oozy out, and<lb/>
then he upped with it and it snaked whishhhhh and he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
just closing them up in time. Then I was howling around<lb/>
trying to viddy with this howling great pain, and Dim<lb/>
said, ‘I don’t like you should do what you done, old droogy.<lb/>
Not right it wasn’t to get on to me like the way you done,<lb/>
brat.’ And then I could slooshy his bolshy lumpy boots<lb/>
beating off, him going huh huh huh into the darkmans,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and it was only about seven seconds after that I slooshied<lb/>
</p>
<p>
7O<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the millicent-van draw up with a filthy great dropping<lb/>
siren-howl, like some bezoomny animal snuffing it. I was<lb/>
howling too and like yawing about and I banged my<lb/>
gulliver smack on the hall-wall, my glazzies being tight<lb/>
shut and the juice astream from them, very agonising. So<lb/>
there I was like groping in the hallway as the millicents<lb/>
arrived. I couldn't viddy them, of course, but I could<lb/>
slooshy and damn near smell the von of the bastards, and<lb/>
soon I could feel the bastards as they got rough and did<lb/>
the old twist-arm act, carrying me out. I could also slooshy<lb/>
one millicent goloss saying from like the room I'd come<lb/>
out of with all the kots and koshkas in it, ‘She’s been<lb/>
nastily knocked but she’s breathing,’ and there was loud<lb/>
mewing all the time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A real pleasure this is,’ I heard another millicent goloss<lb/>
say as I was tolchocked very rough and skorry into the<lb/>
auto. ‘Little Alex all to our own selves.’ I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘’m blind, Bog bust and bleed you, you grahzny<lb/>
bastards.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Language, language,’ like smecked a goloss, and then<lb/>
I got a like backhand tolchock with some ringy rooker or<lb/>
other full on the rot. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Bog murder you, you vonny stinking bratchnies.<lb/>
Where are the others? Where are my stinking traitorous<lb/>
droogs? One of my cursed grahzny bratties chained me<lb/>
on the glazzies. Get them before they get away. It was<lb/>
all their idea, brothers. They like forced me to do it. I’m<lb/>
innocent, Bog butcher you.’ By this time they were all<lb/>
having like a good smeck at me with the heighth of like<lb/>
callousness, and they'd tolchocked me into the back of<lb/>
the auto, but I still kept on about these so-called droogs<lb/>
of mine and then I viddied it would be no good, because<lb/>
they'd all be back now in the snug of the Duke of New<lb/>
</p>
<p>
71<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="52"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
York forcing black and suds and double Scotchmen down<lb/>
the unprotesting gorloes of those stinking starry ptitsas<lb/>
and they saying, “Thanks, lads. God bless you, boys. Been<lb/>
here all the time you have, lads. Not been out of our<lb/>
sight you haven't.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All the time we were sirening off to the rozz-shop, me<lb/>
being wedged between two millicents and being given the<lb/>
odd thump and malenky tolchock by these smecking<lb/>
bullies. Then I found I could open up my glaz-lids a<lb/>
malenky bit and viddy like through all tears a kind of<lb/>
streamy city going by, all the lights like having run into<lb/>
one another. I could viddy now through smarting glazzies<lb/>
these two smecking millicents at the back with me and<lb/>
the thin-necked driver and the fat-necked bastard next to<lb/>
him, this one having a sarky like govoreet at me, saying,<lb/>
“Well, Alex boy, we all look forward to a pleasant evening<lb/>
together, don’t we not?’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How do you know my name, you stinking vonny bully?<lb/>
May Bog blast you to hell, grahzny bratchny as you are,<lb/>
you sod.’ So they all had a smeck at that and I had my<lb/>
ooko like twisted by one of these stinking millicents at<lb/>
the back with me. The fat-necked not-driver said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Everybody knows little Alex and his droogs. Quite a<lb/>
famous young boy our Alex has become.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's those others,’ I creeched. “Georgie and Dim and<lb/>
Pete. No droogs of mine, the bastards.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said the fat-neck, ‘you've got the evening in front<lb/>
of you to tell the whole story of the daring exploits of<lb/>
those young gentlemen and how they led poor little inno-<lb/>
cent Alex astray.’ Then there was the shoom of another<lb/>
like police siren passing this auto but going the other way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Is that for those bastards?’ I said. ‘Are they being picked<lb/>
up by you bastards?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That,’ said fat-neck, ‘is an ambulance. Doubtless for<lb/>
your old lady victim, you ghastly wretched scoundrel.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tt was all their fault,’ I creeched, blinking my smarting<lb/>
glazzies. “The bastards will be peeting away in the Duke<lb/>
of New York. Pick them up, blast you, you vonny sods.’<lb/>
And then there was more smecking and another malenky<lb/>
tolchock, O my brothers, on my poor smarting rot. And<lb/>
then we arrived at the stinking rozz-shop and they helped<lb/>
me get out of the auto with kicks and pulls and they<lb/>
tolchocked me up the steps and I knew I was going to<lb/>
get nothing like fair play from these stinking grahzny<lb/>
bratchnies, Bog blast them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="53"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tuey dragged me into this very bright-lit<lb/>
whitewashed cantora, and it had a strong<lb/>
von that was a mixture of like sick and<lb/>
lavatories and beery rots and disinfectant,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all coming from the barry places near by.<lb/>
You could hear some of the plennies in their cells cursing<lb/>
and singing and I fancied I could slooshy one belting out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I will go back to my darling, my darling,<lb/>
When you, my darling, are gone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there were the golosses of millicents telling them to<lb/>
shut it and you could even slooshy the zvook of like<lb/>
somebody being tolchocked real horrorshow and going<lb/>
owwwwwwwww, and it was like the goloss of a drunken<lb/>
starry ptitsa, not a man. With me in this cantora were<lb/>
four millicents, all having a good loud peet of chai, a big<lb/>
pot of it being on the table and they sucking and belching<lb/>
away over their dirty bolshy mugs. They didn’t offer me<lb/>
any. All that they gave me, my brothers, was a crappy<lb/>
starry mirror to look into, and indeed I was not your<lb/>
handsome young Narrator any longer but a real strack of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
75<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="54"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
said, ‘Love’s young nightmare, like.’ And then a top milli-<lb/>
cent came in with like stars on his pletchoes to show me<lb/>
he was high high high, and he viddied me and said, ‘Hm.’<lb/>
So then they started. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I won't say one single solitary slovo unless I have my<lb/>
lawyer here. I know the law, you bratchnies. Of course<lb/>
they all had a good gromky smeck at that and the stellar<lb/>
top millicent said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Righty right, boys, we'll start off by showing him that<lb/>
we know the law, too, but that knowing the law’s not<lb/>
everything.’ He had a like gentleman's goloss and spoke<lb/>
in a very weary sort of a way, and he nodded with a like<lb/>
droogy smile at one very big fat bastard. This big fat<lb/>
bastard took off his tunic and you could viddy he had a<lb/>
real big starry pot on him, then he came up to me not<lb/>
too skorry and I could get the von of the milky chai he'd<lb/>
been peeting when he opened his rot in a like very tired<lb/>
leery grin at me. He was not too well shaved for a rozz<lb/>
and you could viddy like patches of dried sweat on his<lb/>
shirt under the arms, and you could get this von of like<lb/>
earwax from him as he came close. Then he clenched his<lb/>
stinking red rooker and let me have it right in the belly,<lb/>
which was unfair, and all the other millicents smecked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
on with this weary like bored grin. I had to lean against<lb/>
the whitewashed wall so that all the white got on to my<lb/>
platties, trying to drag the old breath back and in great<lb/>
agony, and then I wanted to sick up the gluey pie I’d had<lb/>
before the start of the evening. But I couldn’t stand that<lb/>
sort of veshch, sicking all over the floor, so I held it back.<lb/>
Then I saw that this fatty bruiseboy was turning to his<lb/>
millicent droogs to have a real horrorshow smeck at what<lb/>
he'd done, so I raised my right noga and before they could<lb/>
</p>
<p>
76<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
creech at him to watch out I’d kicked him smart and lovely<lb/>
on the shin. And he creeched murder, hopping around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But after that they all had a turn, bouncing me from<lb/>
one to the other like some very weary bloody ball, O my<lb/>
brothers, and fisting me in the yarbles and the rot and the<lb/>
belly and dealing out kicks, and then at last I had to sick<lb/>
up on the floor and, like some real bezoomny veck, I even<lb/>
said, ‘Sorry, brothers, that was not the right thing at all.<lb/>
Sorry sorry sorry.’ But they handed me starry bits of gazetta<lb/>
and made me wipe it, then they made me make with the<lb/>
sawdust. And then they said, almost like dear old droogs,<lb/>
that I was to sit down and we'd all have a quiet like govo-<lb/>
reet. And then P. R. Deltoid came in to have a viddy, his<lb/>
office being in the same building, looking very tired and<lb/>
erahzny, to say, ‘So it’s happened, Alex boy, yes?’ Then he<lb/>
turned to the millicents to say, ‘Evening, inspector.<lb/>
Evening, sergeant. Evening, evening, all. Well, this is the<lb/>
end of the line for me, yes. Dear dear, this boy does look<lb/>
messy, doesn’t he? Just look at the state of him.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Violence makes violence,’ said the top millicent in a<lb/>
very holy type goloss. “He resisted his lawful arresters.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘End of the line, yes,’ said P. R. Deltoid again. He looked<lb/>
at me with very cold glazzies like I had become like a<lb/>
thing and was no more a bleeding very tired battered<lb/>
chelloveck. ‘I suppose I'll have to be in court tomorrow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It wasn’t me, brother, sir,’ I said, a malenky bit weepy.<lb/>
‘Speak up for me, sir, for I’m not so bad. I was led on by<lb/>
the treachery of the others, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sings like a linnet,’ said the top rozz, sneery. ‘Sings the<lb/>
roof off lovely, he does that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tl speak,’ said cold P. R. Deltoid. ‘Til be there<lb/>
tomorrow, don’t worry.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If you'd like to give him a bash in the chops, sir,’ said<lb/>
</p>
<p>
77<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="55"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the top millicent, ‘don’t mind us. We'll hold him down.<lb/>
He must be another great disappointment to you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
P. R. Deltoid then did something I never thought any<lb/>
man like him who was supposed to turn us baddiwads<lb/>
into real horrorshow malchicks would do, especially with<lb/>
all those rozzes around. He came a bit nearer and he spat.<lb/>
He spat. He spat full in my litso and then wiped his wet<lb/>
spitty rot with the back of his rooker. And I wiped and<lb/>
wiped and wiped my spat-on litso with my bloody<lb/>
tashtook, saying, “Thank you, sir, thank you.’ And then<lb/>
P. R. Deltoid walked out without another slovo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The millicents now got down to making this long state-<lb/>
ment for me to sign, and I thought to myself, Hell and<lb/>
blast you all, if all you bastards are on the side of the<lb/>
Good then I’m glad I belong to the other shop. ‘All right,’<lb/>
I said to them, ‘you grahzny bratchnies as you are, you<lb/>
vonny sods. Take it, take the lot. ’m not going to crawl<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
From my last corrective? Horrorshow, horrorshow, here it<lb/>
is, then.’ So I gave it to them, and I had this shorthand<lb/>
millicent, a very quiet and scared type chelloveck, no real<lb/>
rozz at all, covering page after page after page after. I gave<lb/>
them the ultra-violence, the crasting, the dratsing, the old<lb/>
in-out in-out, the lot, right up to this night’s veshch with<lb/>
the bugatty starry ptitsa with the mewing kots and koshkas.<lb/>
And I made sure my so-called droogs were in it, right up<lb/>
to the shiyah. When I'd got through the lot the shorthand<lb/>
millicent looked a bit faint, poor old veck. The top rozz<lb/>
said to him, in a kind type goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, son, you go off and get a nice cup of chai for<lb/>
yourself and then type all that filth and rottenness out<lb/>
with a clothes-peg on your nose, three copies. Then they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
78<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
can be brought to our handsome young friend here for<lb/>
signature. And you,’ he said to me, ‘can now be shown to<lb/>
your bridal suite with running water and all conveniences.<lb/>
All right,’ in this weary goloss to two of the real tough<lb/>
rozzes, ‘take him away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I was kicked and punched and bullied off to the<lb/>
cells and put in with about ten or twelve other plennies,<lb/>
a lot of them drunk. There were real oozhassny animal<lb/>
type vecks among them, one with his nose all ate away<lb/>
and his rot open like a big black hole, one that was lying<lb/>
on the floor snoring away and all like slime dribbling all<lb/>
the time out of his rot, and one that had like done all cal<lb/>
in his pantalonies. Then there were two like queer ones<lb/>
who both took a fancy to me, and one of them made a<lb/>
jump on to my back, and I had a real nasty bit of dratsing<lb/>
with him and the von on him, like of meth and cheap<lb/>
scent, made me want to sick again, only my belly was<lb/>
empty now, O my brothers. Then the other queer one<lb/>
started putting his rookers on to me, and then there was<lb/>
a snarling bit of dratsing between these two, both of them<lb/>
wanting to get at my plott. The shoom became very loud,<lb/>
so that a couple of millicents came along and cracked into<lb/>
these two with like truncheons, so that both sat quiet then,<lb/>
looking like into space, and there was the old krovvy going<lb/>
drip drip drip down the litso of one of them. There were<lb/>
bunks in this cell, but all filled. I climbed up to the top<lb/>
of one tier of bunks, there being four in a tier, and there<lb/>
was a starry drunken veck snoring away, most probably<lb/>
heaved up there to the top by the millicents. Anyway, I<lb/>
heaved him down again, him not being all that heavy, and<lb/>
he collapsed on top of a fat drunk chelloveck on the floor,<lb/>
and both woke and started creeching and punching<lb/>
pathetic at each other. So I lay down on this vonny bed,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
79<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="56"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my brothers, and went to very tired and exhausted and<lb/>
hurt sleep. But it was not really like sleep, it was like<lb/>
passing out to another better world. And in this other<lb/>
better world, O my brothers, I was in like a big field with<lb/>
all flowers and trees, and there was a like goat with a man’s<lb/>
litso playing away on a like flute. And then there rose like<lb/>
the sun Ludwig van himself with thundery litso and cravat<lb/>
and wild windy voloss, and then I heard the Ninth, last<lb/>
movement, with the slovos all a bit mixed-up, like they<lb/>
knew themselves they had to be mixed-up, this being a<lb/>
dream:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boy, thou uproarious shark of heaven,<lb/>
Slaughter of Elysium,<lb/>
Hearts on fire, aroused, enraptured,<lb/>
We will tolchock you on the rot and kick<lb/>
your grahzny vonny bum.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the tune was right, as I knew when I was being woke<lb/>
up two or ten minutes or twenty hours or days or years<lb/>
later, my watch having been taken away. There was a<lb/>
millicent like miles and miles down below and he was<lb/>
prodding at me with a long stick with a spike on the end,<lb/>
saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wake up, son. Wake up, my beauty. Wake to real<lb/>
trouble.’ I said: |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Why? Who? Where? What is it?? And the tune of the<lb/>
Joy ode in the Ninth was singing away real lovely and<lb/>
horrorshow within. The millicent said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come down and find out. There’s some real lovely news<lb/>
for you, my son.’ So I scrambled down, very stiff and sore<lb/>
and not like real awake, and this rozz, who had a strong<lb/>
von of cheese and onions on him, pushed me out of the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
80<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
filthy snoring cell, and then along corridors, and all the<lb/>
time the old tune Joy Thou Glorious Spark Of Heaven<lb/>
was sparking away within. Then we came to a very neat<lb/>
like cantora with typewriters and flowers on the desks,<lb/>
and at the like chief desk the top millicent was sitting,<lb/>
looking very serious and fixing a like very cold glazzy on<lb/>
my sleepy litso. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well. What makes, bratty? What gives, this<lb/>
fine bright middle of the nochy?’ He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T'll give you just ten seconds to wipe that stupid grin<lb/>
off of your face. Then I want you to listen.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well, what?’ I said, smecking. ‘Are you not satisfied<lb/>
with beating me near to death and having me spat upon<lb/>
and making me confess to crimes for hours on end and<lb/>
then shoving me among bezoomnies and vonny perverts<lb/>
in that grahzny cell? Have you some new torture for me,<lb/>
you bratchny?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ir'll be your own torture,’ he said, serious. ‘I hope to<lb/>
God it'll torture you to madness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then, before he told me, I knew what it was. The<lb/>
old ptitsa who had all the kots and koshkas had passed<lb/>
on to a better world in one of the city hospitals. I’d cracked<lb/>
her a bit too hard, like. Well, well, that was everything. I<lb/>
thought of all those kots and koshkas mewing for moloko<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="57"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="58"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
weepy and like tragic part of the story<lb/>
beginning, my brothers and only friends,<lb/>
in Staja (State Jail, that is) Number 84F<lb/>
You will have little desire to slooshy all the cally and<lb/>
horrible raskazz of the shock that sent my dad beating his<lb/>
bruised and krovvy rookers against unfair like Bog in His<lb/>
Heaven, and my mum squaring her rot for owwwww<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
owwwww owwwww in her mother’s grief at her only child<lb/>
and son of her bosom like letting everybody down real<lb/>
horrorshow. Then there was the starry very grim magistrate<lb/>
in the lower court govoreeting some very hard slovos<lb/>
against your Friend and Humble Narrator, after all the<lb/>
cally and grahzny slander spat forth by P. R. Deltoid and<lb/>
the rozzes, Bog blast them. Then there was being remanded<lb/>
in filthy custody among vonny perverts and prestoopnicks.<lb/>
Then there was the trial in the higher court with judges<lb/>
and a jury, and some very very nasty slovos indeed govo-<lb/>
reeted in a very like solemn way, and then Guilty and my<lb/>
mum boohoohooing when they said Fourteen Years, O<lb/>
my brothers. So here I was now, two years just to the day<lb/>
of being kicked and clanged into Staja 84F, dressed in the<lb/>
heighth of prison fashion, which was a one-piece suit of<lb/>
a very filthy like cal colour, and the number sewn on the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
85<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="59"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groody part just above the old tick-tocker and on the back<lb/>
as well, so that going and coming I was 6655321 and not<lb/>
your little droog Alex not no longer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It had not been like edifying, indeed it had not, being<lb/>
in this grahzny hellhole and like human zoo for two years,<lb/>
being kicked and tolchocked by brutal bully warders and<lb/>
meeting vonny leering like criminals, some of them real<lb/>
perverts and ready to dribble all over a luscious young<lb/>
malchick like your story-teller. And there was having to<lb/>
rabbit in the workshop at making matchboxes and itty<lb/>
round and round and round the yard for like exercise, and<lb/>
in the evenings sometimes some starry prof type veck would<lb/>
give a talk on beetles or the Milky Way or the Glorious<lb/>
Wonders of the Snowflake, and I had a good smeck at this<lb/>
last one, because it reminded me of that time of the<lb/>
tolchocking and Sheer Vandalism with that ded coming<lb/>
from the public biblio on a winter's night when my droogs<lb/>
were still not traitors and I was like happy and free. Of<lb/>
those droogs I had slooshied but one thing, and that was<lb/>
one day when my pee and em came to visit and I was told<lb/>
that Georgie was dead. Yes, dead, my brothers. Dead as a<lb/>
bit of dog-cal on the road. Georgie had led the other two<lb/>
into a like very bugatty chelloveck’s house, and there they<lb/>
had kicked and tolchocked the owner on the floor, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and then old Dim had cracked at some very precious orna-<lb/>
ments, like statues and so on, and this rich beat-up chell-<lb/>
oveck had raged like real bezoomny and gone for them all<lb/>
with a very heavy iron bar. His being all razdraz had given<lb/>
him like gigantic strength, and Dim and Pete had got out<lb/>
through the window but Georgie had tripped on the carpet<lb/>
and then bought this terrific swinging iron bar crack and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
86<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
splooge on the gulliver, and that was the end of traitorous<lb/>
Georgie. The starry murderer had got off with Self Defence,<lb/>
as was really right and proper. Georgie being killed, though<lb/>
it was more than one year after me being caught by the<lb/>
millicents, it all seemed right and proper and like Fate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was in the Wing Chapel, it being Sunday morning, and<lb/>
the prison charlie was govoreeting the Word of the Lord. It<lb/>
was my rabbit to play the starry stereo, putting on solemn<lb/>
music before and after and in the middle too when hymns<lb/>
were sung, I was at the back of the Wing Chapel (there were<lb/>
four altogether in Staja 84F) near where the warders or<lb/>
chassos were standing with their rifles and their dirty bolshy<lb/>
blue brutal jowls, and I could viddy all the plennies sitting<lb/>
down slooshying the Slovo of the Lord in their horrible cal-<lb/>
coloured prison platties, and a sort of filthy von rose from<lb/>
them, not like real unwashed, not grazzy, but like a special<lb/>
real stinking von which you only got with the criminal types,<lb/>
my brothers, a like dusty, greasy, hopeless sort of a von. And<lb/>
I was thinking that perhaps I had this von too, having become<lb/>
a real plenny myself, though still very young. So it was very<lb/>
important to me, O my brothers, to get out of this stinking<lb/>
grahzny zoo as soon as I could. And, as you will viddy if<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
most of you, or are you going to attend to the Divine<lb/>
Word and realise the punishments that await the unre-<lb/>
pentant sinner in the next world, as well as in this? A lot<lb/>
of blasted idiots you are, most of you, selling your birth-<lb/>
right for a saucer of cold porridge. The thrill of theft, of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
violence, the urge to live easy — is it worth it when we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
87<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="60"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
have undeniable proof, yes yes, incontrovertible evidence<lb/>
that hell exists? I know, I know, my friends, I have been<lb/>
informed in visions that there is a place, darker than any<lb/>
prison, hotter than any flame of human fire, where souls<lb/>
of unrepentant criminal sinners like yourselves — and don’t<lb/>
leer at me, damn you, don't laugh — like yourselves, I say,<lb/>
scream in endless and intolerable agony, their noses choked<lb/>
with the smell of filth, their mouths crammed with burning<lb/>
ordure, their skin peeling and rotting, a fireball spinning<lb/>
in their screaming guts. Yes, yes, yes, I know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At this point, brothers, a plenny somewhere or other<lb/>
near the back row let out a shoom of lip-music — ‘Prrrrrp’<lb/>
— and then the brutal chassos were on the job right away,<lb/>
rushing real skorry to what they thought was the scene of<lb/>
the shoom, then hitting out nasty and delivering tolchocks<lb/>
left and right. Then they picked out one poor trembling<lb/>
plenny, very thin and malenky and starry too, and dragged<lb/>
him off, but all the time he kept creeching, ‘It wasn’t me,<lb/>
it was him, see,’ but that made no difference. He was<lb/>
tolchocked real nasty and then dragged out of the Wing<lb/>
Chapel creeching his gulliver off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Now,’ said the prison charlie, ‘listen to the Word of the<lb/>
Lord.’ Then he picked up the big book and flipped over the<lb/>
pages, keeping on wetting his fingers to do this by licking<lb/>
them splurge splurge. He was a bolshy great burly bastard<lb/>
with a very red litso, but he was very fond of myself, me<lb/>
being young and also now very interested in the big book.<lb/>
It had been arranged as part of my like further education to<lb/>
read in the book and even have music on the chapel stereo<lb/>
while I was reading, O my brothers. And that was real horror-<lb/>
show. They would like lock me in and let me slooshy holy<lb/>
music by J. S. Bach and G. E Handel, and I would read of<lb/>
these starry yahoodies tolchocking each other and then peeting<lb/>
</p>
<p>
88<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
their Hebrew vino and getting on to the bed with their wives’<lb/>
like handmaidens, real horrorshow. That kept me going,<lb/>
brothers. I didn't so much kopat the later part of the book,<lb/>
which is more like all preachy govoreeting than fighting and<lb/>
the old in-out. But one day the charles said to me, squeezing<lb/>
me like tight with his bolshy beefy rooker, ‘Ah 6655321, think<lb/>
on the divine suffering. Meditate on that, my boy.’ And all<lb/>
the time he had this rich manny von of Scotch on him, and<lb/>
then he went off to his little cantora to peet some more. So<lb/>
I read all about the scourging and the crowning with thorns<lb/>
and then the cross veshch and all that cal, and I viddied better<lb/>
that there was something in it. While the stereo played bits<lb/>
of lovely Bach I closed my glazzies and viddied myself helping<lb/>
out and even taking charge of the tolchocking and the nailing<lb/>
in, being dressed in a like toga that was the heighth of Roman<lb/>
fashion. So being in Staja 84F was not all that wasted, and<lb/>
the Governor himself was very pleased to hear that I had<lb/>
taken to like Religion, and that was where I had my hopes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This Sunday morning the charlie read out from the book<lb/>
about chellovecks who slooshied the slovo and didn’t take<lb/>
a blind bit being like a domy built on sand, and then the<lb/>
rain came splash and the old boomaboom cracked the sky<lb/>
and that was the end of that domy. But I thought only a<lb/>
very dim veck would build his domy upon sand, and a right<lb/>
lot of real sneering droogs and nasty neighbours a veck like<lb/>
that would have, them not telling him how dim he was<lb/>
doing that sort of building. Then the charles creeched,<lb/>
‘Right, you lot. We'll end with Hymn Number 435 in the<lb/>
Prisoners’ Hymnal.’ Then there was a crash and plop and<lb/>
a whish whish whish while the plennies picked up and<lb/>
dropped and lickturned the pages of their grazzy malenky<lb/>
hymnbooks, and the bully fierce warders creeched, ‘Stop<lb/>
talking there, bastards. ’'m watching you, 920537.’ Of course<lb/>
</p>
<p>
89<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="61"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had the disc ready on the stereo, and then I let the simple<lb/>
music for organ only come belting out with a growwwwo-<lb/>
wwwwowwww. [hen the plennies started to sing real horrible:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
4<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fal | *<lb/>
Bx & é Z 2 jt [ ty | l } TT | }<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SY ort [tT [TI t I ir I<lb/>
) i ‘ pT " : ‘<lb/>
Weak tea are we, new brewed, But stir- ring make all strong. We<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
| 4<lb/>
[ { f<lb/>
{ | f<lb/>
I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ppt —<lb/>
eS<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eat no an- gel's food, Our times of trial are long.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Weak tea are we, new brewed,<lb/>
But stirring make all strong.<lb/>
We eat no angel’s food,<lb/>
Our times of trial are long.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They sort of howled and wept these stupid slovos with the<lb/>
charlie like whipping them on with ‘Louder, damn you, sing<lb/>
up,’ and the warders creeching, ‘Just you wait, 7749222’ and<lb/>
‘One on the turnip coming up for you, filth.” Then it was<lb/>
all over and the charlie said, ‘May the Holy Trinity keep you<lb/>
always and make you good, amen,’ and the shamble out<lb/>
began to a nice choice bit of Symphony No. 2 by Adrian<lb/>
Schweigselber, chosen by your Humble Narrator, O my<lb/>
brothers. What a lot they were, I thought, as I stood there<lb/>
by the starry chapel stereo, viddying them all shuffle out<lb/>
going marrrrre and baaaaaa like animals and up-your-piping<lb/>
with their grahzny fingers at me, because it looked like I was<lb/>
very special favoured. When the last one had slouched out,<lb/>
his rookers hanging like an ape and the one warder left giving<lb/>
him a fair loud tolchock on the back of the gulliver, and<lb/>
when I had turned off the stereo, the charlie came up to<lb/>
me, puffing away at a cancer, still in his starry bogman’s<lb/>
platties, all lacy and white like a devotchka’s. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Thank you as always, little 6655321. And what news<lb/>
have you got for me today?’ The idea was, I knew, that<lb/>
this charlie was after becoming a very great holy chello-<lb/>
veck in the world of Prison Religion, and he wanted a<lb/>
real horrorshow testimonial from the Governor, so he<lb/>
would go and govoreet quietly to the Governor now and<lb/>
then about what dark plots were brewing among the<lb/>
plennies, and he would get a lot of this cal from me. A<lb/>
lot of it would be all like made up, but some of it would<lb/>
be true, like for instance the time it had come through<lb/>
to our cell on the waterpipes knock knock knockiknocki-<lb/>
knock knockknock that big Harriman was going to<lb/>
break. He was going to tolchock the warder at sloptime<lb/>
and get out in the warder’s platties. Then there was going<lb/>
to be a big throwing about of the horrible pishcha we<lb/>
got in the dining-hall, and I knew about that and told.<lb/>
Then the charlie passed it on and was complimented<lb/>
like by the Governor for his Public Spirit and Keen Ear.<lb/>
So this time I said, and this was not true:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, sir, it has come through on the pipes that a<lb/>
consignment of cocaine has arrived by irregular means and<lb/>
that a cell somewhere along Tier 5 is to be the centre of<lb/>
distribution.’ I made all that up as I went along, like I<lb/>
made up many of these stories, but the prison charlie was<lb/>
very grateful, saying, “Good, good, good. I shall pass that<lb/>
on to Himself,’ this being what he called the Governor.<lb/>
Then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sit, I have done my best, have I not?’ I always used my<lb/>
very polite gentleman's goloss govoreeting with those at<lb/>
the top. ‘I’ve tried, sir, haven't I?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I think,’ said the charlie, ‘that on the whole you have,<lb/>
6655321. Youve been very helpful and, I consider, shown<lb/>
a genuine desire to reform. You will, if you continue in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
9gI<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="62"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
this manner, earn your remission with no trouble at all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But sir,’ I said, “how about this new thing they're talking<lb/>
about? How about this new like treatment that gets you<lb/>
out of prison in no time at all and makes sure that you<lb/>
never get back in again?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, very like wary. “Where did you hear this?<lb/>
Who's been telling you these things?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These things get around, sir, I said. “Two warders talk,<lb/>
as it might be, and somebody can’t help hearing what they<lb/>
say. And then somebody picks up a scrap of newspaper in<lb/>
the workshops and the newspaper says all about it. How<lb/>
about you putting me in for this thing, sir, if | may make<lb/>
so bold as to make the suggestion?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You could viddy him thinking about that while he puffed<lb/>
away at his cancer, wondering how much to say to me<lb/>
about what he knew about this veshch I mentioned. Then<lb/>
he said, ‘I take it youre referring to Ludovico’s Technique.’<lb/>
He was still very wary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I don’t know what it’s called, sir,’ I said. ‘All I know is<lb/>
that it gets you out quickly and makes sure that you don’t<lb/>
get in again.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That is so,’ he said, his eyebrows like all beetling while<lb/>
he looked down at me. “That is quite so, 6655321. Of<lb/>
course, it’s only in the experimental stage at the moment.<lb/>
It’s very simple but very drastic.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But it’s being used here, isn’t it, sir?” I said. ‘Those new<lb/>
like white buildings by the South Wall, sir. We've watched<lb/>
those being built, sir, when we’ve been doing our exercise.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s not been used yet,’ he said, ‘not in this prison,<lb/>
6655321. Himself has grave doubts about it. I must confess<lb/>
I share those doubts. The question is whether such a<lb/>
technique can really make a man good. Goodness comes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
92<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man.’ He<lb/>
would have gone on with a lot more of this cal, but we<lb/>
could slooshy the next lot of plennies marching clank clank<lb/>
down the iron stairs to come for their bit of Religion. He<lb/>
said, “We'll have a little chat about this some other time.<lb/>
Now youd better start the voluntary.’ So I went over to<lb/>
the starry stereo and put on J. S. Bach’s Wachet Auf Choral<lb/>
Prelude and in these grahzny vonny bastard criminals and<lb/>
perverts came shambling like a lot of broke-down apes,<lb/>
the warders or chassos like barking at them and lashing<lb/>
them. And soon the prison charlie was asking them, ‘What’s<lb/>
it going to be then, eh?’ And that’s where you came in.<lb/>
We had four of these lomticks of like Prison Religion<lb/>
that morning, but the charles said no more to me about<lb/>
this Ludovico’s Technique, whatever it was, O my brothers.<lb/>
When Id finished my rabbit with the stereo he just govo-<lb/>
reeted a few slovos of thanks and then I was privodeeted<lb/>
back to the cell on Tier 6 which was my very vonny and<lb/>
crammed home. The chasso was not really too bad of a<lb/>
veck and he did not tolchock or kick me in when hed<lb/>
opened up, he just said, “Here we are, sonny, back to the<lb/>
old waterhole.’ And there I was with my new type droogs,<lb/>
all very criminal but, Bog be praised, not given to perver-<lb/>
sions of the body. There was Zophar on his bunk, a very<lb/>
thin and brown veck who went on and on and on in his<lb/>
like cancery goloss, so that nobody bothered to slooshy.<lb/>
What he was saying now like to nobody was ‘And at that<lb/>
time you couldn't get hold of a poggy’ (whatever that was,<lb/>
brothers) ‘not if you was to hand over ten million<lb/>
archibalds, so what do I do eh, I goes down to Turkey’s<lb/>
and says I’ve got this sproog on that morrow, see, and<lb/>
what can he do?’ It was all this very old-time real criminal’s<lb/>
slang he spoke. Also there was Wall, who had only one<lb/>
</p>
<p>
93<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="63"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
glazzy, and he was tearing bits of his toe-nails off in honour<lb/>
of Sunday. Also there was Big Jew, a very fat sweaty veck<lb/>
lying flat on his bunk like dead. In addition there was<lb/>
Jojohn and The Doctor. Jojohn was very mean and keen<lb/>
and wiry and had specialised in like Sexual Assault, and<lb/>
The Doctor had pretended to be able to cure syph and<lb/>
gon and gleet but he had only injected water, also he had<lb/>
killed off two devotchkas instead, like he had promised,<lb/>
of getting rid of their unwanted loads for them. They were<lb/>
a terrible grahzny lot really, and I didn’t enjoy being with<lb/>
them, O my brothers, any more than you do now, but it<lb/>
won't be for much longer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now what I want you to know is that this cell was<lb/>
intended for only three when it was built, but there were<lb/>
six of us there, all jammed together sweaty and tight. And<lb/>
that was the state of all the cells in all the prisons in those<lb/>
days, brothers, and a dirty cally disgrace it was, there not<lb/>
being decent room for a chelloveck to stretch his limbs.<lb/>
And you will hardly believe what I say now, which is that<lb/>
on this Sunday they brosatted in another plenny. Yes, we<lb/>
had our horrible pishcha of dumplings and vonny stew and<lb/>
were smoking a quiet cancer each on our bunks when this<lb/>
veck was thrown into our midst. He was a chinny starry<lb/>
veck and it was him who started creeching complaints before<lb/>
we even had a chance to viddy the position. He tried to<lb/>
like shake the bars, creeching, ‘I demand my sodding rights,<lb/>
this one’s full up, it’s a bleeding imposition, that’s what it<lb/>
is.” But one of the chassos came back to say that he had to<lb/>
make the best of it and share a bunk with whoever would<lb/>
let him, otherwise it would have to be the floor. ‘And,’ said<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WELL, it was the letting-in of this new<lb/>
</p>
<p>
getting out of the old Staja, for he was<lb/>
such a nasty quarrelsome type of plenny,<lb/>
with a very dirty mind and filthy inten-<lb/>
tions, that trouble nachinatted that very same day. He was<lb/>
also very boastful and started to make with a very sneery<lb/>
litso at us all and a loud and proud goloss. He made out<lb/>
that he was the only real horrorshow prestoopnick in the<lb/>
whole zoo, going on that he'd done this and done the<lb/>
other and killed ten rozzes with one crack of his rooker<lb/>
and all that cal. But nobody was very impressed, O my<lb/>
brothers. So then he started on me, me being the youngest<lb/>
there, trying to say that as the youngest I ought to be the<lb/>
one to zasnoot on the floor and not him. But all the others<lb/>
were for me, creeching, “Leave him alone, you grahzny<lb/>
bratchny,’ and then he began the old whine about how<lb/>
nobody loved him. So that same nochy I woke up to find<lb/>
this horrible plenny actually lying with me on my bunk,<lb/>
which was on the bottom of the three-tier and also very<lb/>
narrow, and he was govoreeting dirty like love-slovos and<lb/>
stroke stroke stroking away. So then I got real bezoomny<lb/>
and lashed out, though I could not viddy all that horror-<lb/>
show, there being only this malenky little red light outside<lb/>
on the landing. But I knew it was this one, the vonny<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a chelloveck that was really the start of my<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
95<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="64"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bastard, and then when the trouble really got under way<lb/>
and the lights were turned on I could viddy his horrible<lb/>
litso with all krovvy dripping from his rot where I'd hit<lb/>
out with my clawing rooker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What sloochatted then, of course, was that my cell-mates<lb/>
woke up and started to join in, tolchocking a bit wild in<lb/>
the near dark, and the shoom seemed to wake up the<lb/>
whole tier, so that you could slooshy a lot of creeching<lb/>
and banging about with tin mugs on the wall, as though<lb/>
all the plennies in all the cells thought a big break was<lb/>
about to commence, O my brothers. So then the lights<lb/>
came on and the chassos came along in their shirts and<lb/>
trousers and caps, waving big sticks. We could viddy each<lb/>
other’s flushed litsos and the shaking of fisty rookers, and<lb/>
there was a lot of creeching and cursing. Then I put in<lb/>
my complaint and every chasso said it was probably Your<lb/>
Humble Narrator, brothers, that started it all anyway, me<lb/>
having no mark of a scratch on me but this horrible plenny<lb/>
dripping red red krovvy from the rot where I'd got him<lb/>
with my clawing rooker. That made me real bezoomny. I<lb/>
said I would not sleep another nochy in that cell if the<lb/>
Prison Authorities were going to allow horrible vonny<lb/>
stinking perverted prestoopnicks to leap on my plott when<lb/>
I was in no position to defend myself, being asleep. “Wait<lb/>
till the morning,’ they said. ‘Is it a private room with bath<lb/>
and television that your honour requires? Well, all that<lb/>
will be seen to in the morning. But for the present, little<lb/>
droog, get your bleeding gulliver down on your straw-filled<lb/>
podooshka and let’s have no more trouble from anyone.<lb/>
Right right right?’ Then off they went with stern warnings<lb/>
for all, then soon after the lights went out, and then I said<lb/>
I would sit up all the rest of the nochy, saying first to this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
96<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wish it. I fancy it no longer. You have made it filthy and<lb/>
cally with your horrible vonny plott lying on it already.’<lb/>
But then the others joined in. Big Jew said, still sweating<lb/>
from the bit of a bitva we'd had in the dark:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Not having that we're not, brotherth. Don’t give in to<lb/>
the thquirt.’ So this new one said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Crash your dermott, yid,’ meaning to shut up, but it<lb/>
was very insulting. So then Big Jew got ready to launch<lb/>
a tolchock. The Doctor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come on gentlemen, we don’t want any trouble, do<lb/>
we?’ in his very high-class goloss, but this new prestoopnick<lb/>
was really asking for it. You could viddy that he thought<lb/>
he was a very big bolshy veck and it was beneath his<lb/>
dignity to be sharing a cell with six and having to sleep<lb/>
on the floor till I made this gesture at him. In his sneery<lb/>
way he tried to take off The Doctor, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwww, yew wahnt noo moor trabble, is that it,<lb/>
Archiballs?? So Jojohn, mean and keen and wiry, said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If we can't have sleep let’s have some education. Our<lb/>
new friend here had better be taught a lesson.’ Although<lb/>
he like specialised in Sexual Assault he had a nice way of<lb/>
govoreeting, quiet and like precise. So the new plenny<lb/>
sneered:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Kish and kosh and koosh, you little terror.’ So then it<lb/>
all really started, but in a queer like gentle way, with<lb/>
nobody raising his goloss much. The new plenny creeched<lb/>
a malenky bit at first, but then Wall fisted his rot while<lb/>
Big Jew held him up against the bars so that he could be<lb/>
viddied in the malenky red light from the landing, and<lb/>
he just went oh oh oh. He was not a very strong type of<lb/>
veck, being very feeble in his trying to tolchock back, and<lb/>
I suppose he made up for this by being shoomny in the<lb/>
goloss and very boastful. Anyway, seeing the old krovvy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
97<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="65"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
flow red in the red light, I felt the old joy like rising up<lb/>
in my keeshkas and I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Leave him to me, go on, let me have him now, brothers.’<lb/>
So Big Jew said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yeth, yeth, boyth, that’th fair. Thlosh him then, Alekth.’<lb/>
So they all stood around while I cracked at this prestoop-<lb/>
nick in the near dark. I fisted him all over, dancing about<lb/>
with my boots on though unlaced, and then I tripped him<lb/>
and he went crash crash on to the floor. I gave him one<lb/>
real horrorshow kick on the gulliver and he went ohhhhh,<lb/>
then he sort of snorted off to like sleep, and The Doctor<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Very well, I think that will be enough of a lesson,’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
was of being in some very big orchestra, hundreds and<lb/>
hundreds strong, and the conductor was a like mixture of<lb/>
Ludwig van and G. F. Handel, looking very deaf and blind<lb/>
and weary of the world. I was with the wind instruments,<lb/>
but what I was playing was like a white pinky bassoon<lb/>
made of flesh and growing out of my plott, right in the<lb/>
middle of my belly, and when I blew into it I had to<lb/>
smeck ha ha ha very loud because it like tickled, and then<lb/>
Ludwig van G. FE. got very razdraz and bezoomny. Then<lb/>
he came right up to my litso and creeched loud in my<lb/>
ooko, and then I woke up like sweating. Of course, what<lb/>
the loud shoom really was was the prison buzzer going<lb/>
brrerr brrrrr brrrrr. It was winter morning and my glazzies<lb/>
were all cally with sleepglue, and when I opened up they<lb/>
were very sore in the electric light that had been switched<lb/>
on all over the zoo. Then I looked down and viddied this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
98<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
new prestoopnick lying on the floor, very bloody and<lb/>
bruisy and still out out out. Then I remembered about<lb/>
last night and that made me smeck a bit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when I got off the bunk and moved him with my<lb/>
bare noga, there was a feel of like stiff coldness, so I went<lb/>
over to The Doctor’s bunk and shook him, him always<lb/>
being very slow at waking up in the morning. But he was<lb/>
off his bunk skorry enough this time, and so were the<lb/>
others, except for Wall who slept like dead meat. “Very<lb/>
unfortunate,’ The Doctor said. ‘A heart attack, that’s what<lb/>
it must have been.’ Then he said, looking round at us all,<lb/>
“You really shouldn't have gone for him like that. It was<lb/>
most ill-advised really.’ Jojohn said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come come, doc, you weren’ all that backward your-<lb/>
self in giving him a sly bit of fist.’ Then Big Jew turned<lb/>
on me, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Alexth, you were too impetuouth. That latht kick wath<lb/>
a very very nathty one.’ I began to get razdraz about this<lb/>
and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who started it, eh? I only got in at the end, didn’t I?’<lb/>
I pointed at Jojohn and said, ‘It was your idea.’ Wall snored<lb/>
a bit loud, so I said, “Wake that vonny bratchny up. It<lb/>
was him that kept on at his rot while Big Jew here had<lb/>
him up against the bars.’ The Doctor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody will deny having a gentle little hit at the man,<lb/>
to teach him a lesson so to speak, but it’s apparent that<lb/>
you, my dear boy, with the forcefulness and, shall I say,<lb/>
heedlessness of youth, dealt him the coo de grass. It’s a<lb/>
great pity.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Traitors, I said “Traitors and liars,’ because I could<lb/>
viddy it was all like before, two years before, when my<lb/>
so-called droogs had left me to the brutal rookers of the<lb/>
millicents. There was no trust anywhere in the world, O<lb/>
</p>
<p>
99<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="66"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my brothers, the way I could see it. And Jojohn went and<lb/>
woke up Wall, and Wall was only too ready to swear that<lb/>
it was Your Humble Narrator that had done the real dirty<lb/>
tolchocking and brutality. When the chassos came along,<lb/>
and then the Chief Chasso, and the Governor himself, all<lb/>
these cell-droogs of mine were very shoomny with tales<lb/>
of what I'd done to oobivat this worthless pervert whose<lb/>
krovvy-covered plott lay sacklike on the floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was a very queer day, O my brothers. The dead<lb/>
plott was carried off, and then everybody in the whole<lb/>
prison had to stay locked up till further orders, and there<lb/>
was no pishcha given out, not even a mug of hot chai.<lb/>
We just all sat there, and the warders or chassos sort of<lb/>
strode up and down the tier, now and then creeching “Shut<lb/>
it or ‘Close that hole’ whenever they slooshied even a<lb/>
whisper from any of the cells. Then about eleven o'clock<lb/>
in the morning there was a sort of like stiffening and<lb/>
excitement and like the von of fear spreading from outside<lb/>
the cell, and then we could viddy the Governor and the<lb/>
Chief Chasso and some very bolshy important-looking<lb/>
chellovecks walking by real skorry, govoreeting like<lb/>
bezoomny. They seemed to walk right to the end of the<lb/>
tier, then they could be slooshied walking back again, more<lb/>
slow this time, and you could slooshy the Governor, a<lb/>
very sweaty fatty fair-haired veck, saying slovos like “But,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
the whole lot stopped at our cell and the Chief Chasso<lb/>
opened up. You could viddy who was the real important<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
real horrorshow platties on him, the most lovely suit,<lb/>
brothers, I had ever viddied, absolutely in the heighth of<lb/>
fashion. He just sort of looked right through us poor<lb/>
plennies, saying, in a very beautiful real educated goloss,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Government cannot be concerned any longer with<lb/>
outmoded penological theories. Cram criminals together<lb/>
and see what happens. You get concentrated criminality,<lb/>
crime in the midst of punishment. Soon we may be needing<lb/>
all our prison space for political offenders.’ I didn't pony<lb/>
this at all, brothers, but after all he was not govoreeting<lb/>
to me. Then he said, ‘Common criminals like this unsa-<lb/>
voury crowd’ — (that meant me, brothers, as well as the<lb/>
others, who were real prestoopnicks and treacherous with<lb/>
it) — ‘can best be dealt with on a purely curative basis. Kill<lb/>
the criminal reflex, that’s all. Full implementation in a<lb/>
year’s time. Punishment means nothing to them, you can<lb/>
see that. They enjoy their so-called punishment. They start<lb/>
murdering each other.’ And he turned his stern blue glazzies<lb/>
on me. So I said, bold:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘With respect, sir, I object very strongly to what you<lb/>
said then. I am not a common criminal, sir, and I am not<lb/>
unsavoury. The others may be unsavoury but I am not.’<lb/>
The Chief Chasso went all purple and creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You shut your bleeding hole, you. Don’t you know who<lb/>
this is?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said this big veck. Then he turned<lb/>
to the Governor and said, ‘You can use him as a trail-<lb/>
blazer. He’s young, bold, vicious. Brodsky will deal with<lb/>
him tomorrow and you can sit in and watch Brodsky. It<lb/>
works all right, don’t worry about that. This vicious young<lb/>
hoodlum will be transformed out of all recognition.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And those hard slovos, brothers, were like the beginning<lb/>
of my freedom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="67"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
TuaT very same evening I was dragged<lb/>
</p>
<p>
chassos to viddy the Governor in his holy<lb/>
of holies holy office. The Governor looked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very weary at me and said, ‘I don’t suppose<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you know who that was this morning, do you, 6655321?<lb/>
And without waiting for me to say no he said, “That was<lb/>
no less a personage than the Minister of the Interior, the<lb/>
new Minister of the Interior and what they call a very<lb/>
new broom. Well, these new ridiculous ideas have come<lb/>
at last and orders are orders, though I may say to you in<lb/>
confidence that I do not approve. I most emphatically do<lb/>
not approve. An eye for an eye, I say. If someone hits you<lb/>
you hit back, do you not? Why then should not the State,<lb/>
very severely hit by you brutal hooligans, not hit back<lb/>
also? But the new view is to say no. The new view is that<lb/>
we turn the bad into the good. All of which seems to me<lb/>
grossly unjust. Hm?’ So I said, trying to be like respectful<lb/>
and accommodating:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir’ And then the Chief Chasso, who was standing all<lb/>
ted and burly behind the Governor's chair, creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Shut your filthy hole, you scum.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said the like tired and fagged-out<lb/>
Governor. ‘You, 6655321, are to be reformed. Tomorrow<lb/>
you go to this man Brodsky. It is believed that you will<lb/>
</p>
<p>
103<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="68"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
be able to leave State Custody in a little over a fortnight.<lb/>
In a little over a fortnight you will be out again in the big<lb/>
free world, no longer a number. I suppose,’ and he snorted<lb/>
a bit here, ‘that prospect pleases you?’ I said nothing so<lb/>
the Chief Chasso creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Answer, you filthy young swine, when the Governor<lb/>
asks you a question.’ So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I’ve done my<lb/>
best here, really I have. I’m very grateful to all concerned.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Don’t be,’ like sighed the Governor. “This is not a<lb/>
reward. This is far from being a reward. Now, there is a<lb/>
form here to be signed. It says that you are willing to have<lb/>
the residue of your sentence commuted to submission to<lb/>
what is called here, ridiculous expression, Reclamation<lb/>
Treatment. Will you sign?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Most certainly I will sign,’ I said, ‘sir. And very many<lb/>
thanks.’ So I was given an ink-pencil and I signed my<lb/>
name nice and flowy. The Governor said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right. That’s the lot, I think.’ The Chief Chasso said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Prison Chaplain would like a word with him, sir.’<lb/>
So I was marched out and off down the corridor towards<lb/>
the Wing Chapel, tolchocked on the back and the gulliver<lb/>
all the way by one of the chassos, but in a very like yawny<lb/>
and bored manner. And I was marched across the Wing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
to go in. The charles was sitting at his desk, smelling loud<lb/>
and clear of a fine manny von of expensive cancers and<lb/>
Scotch. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, little 6655321, be seated.’ And to the chassos, “Wait<lb/>
outside, eh?? Which they did. Then he spoke in a very<lb/>
like earnest way to me, saying: “One thing I want you to<lb/>
understand, boy, is that this is nothing to do with me.<lb/>
Were it expedient, I would protest about it, but it is not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
104<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
expedient. There is the question of my own career, there<lb/>
is the question of the weakness of my own voice when set<lb/>
against the shout of certain more powerful elements in<lb/>
the polity. Do I make myself clear?’ He didn't, brothers,<lb/>
but I nodded that he did. “Very hard ethical questions are<lb/>
involved,’ he went on. ‘You are to be made into a good<lb/>
boy, 6655321. Never again will you have the desire to<lb/>
commit acts of violence or to offend in any way whatso-<lb/>
ever against the State’s Peace. I hope you take all that in.<lb/>
I hope you are absolutely clear in your own mind about<lb/>
that.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, it will be nice to be good, sir” But I had a real<lb/>
horrorshow smeck at that inside, brothers. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tt may not be nice to be good, little 6655321. It may<lb/>
be horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I<lb/>
realise how self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall<lb/>
have many sleepless nights about this. What does God<lb/>
want? Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness?<lb/>
Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better<lb/>
than a man who has the good imposed upon him? Deep<lb/>
and hard questions, little 6655321. But all I want to say to<lb/>
you now is this: if at any time in the future you look back<lb/>
to these times and remember me, the lowest and humblest<lb/>
of all God’s servitors, do not, I pray, think evil of me in<lb/>
your heart, thinking me in any way involved in what is<lb/>
now about to happen to you. And now, talking of praying,<lb/>
I realise sadly that there will be little point in praying for<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
105<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="69"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
then he began to cry. But I didn’t really take much notice<lb/>
</p>
<p>
_ of that, brothers, only having a bit of a quiet smeck inside,<lb/>
because you could viddy that he had been peeting away<lb/>
at the old whisky, and now he took a bottle from a<lb/>
cupboard in his desk and started to pour himself a real<lb/>
horrorshow bolshy slog into a very greasy and grahzny<lb/>
glass. He downed it and then said, ‘All may be well, who<lb/>
knows? God works in a mysterious way.’ Then he began<lb/>
to sing away at a hymn in a real loud rich goloss. Then<lb/>
the door opened and the chassos came in to tolchock me<lb/>
back to my vonny cell, but the old charles still went on<lb/>
singing this hymn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, the next morning I had to say goodbye to the old<lb/>
Staja, and I felt a malenky bit sad as you always will when<lb/>
you have to leave a place you've like got used to. But I<lb/>
didn’t go very far, O my brothers. I was punched and<lb/>
kicked along to the new white building just beyond the<lb/>
yard where we used to do our bit of exercise. This was a<lb/>
very new building and it had a new cold like sizy smell<lb/>
which gave you a bit of the shivers. I stood there in the<lb/>
horrible bolshy bare hall and I got new vons, sniffing away<lb/>
there with my like very sensitive morder or sniffer. These<lb/>
were like hospital vons, and the chelloveck the chassos<lb/>
handed me over to had a white coat on, as he might be<lb/>
a hospital man. He signed for me, and one of the brutal<lb/>
chassos who had brought me said, ‘You will watch this<lb/>
one, sir. A right brutal bastard he has been and will be<lb/>
again, in spite of all his sucking up to the Prison Chaplain<lb/>
and reading the Bible.’ But this new chelloveck had<lb/>
real horrorshow blue glazzies which like smiled when he<lb/>
govoreeted. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, we don’t anticipate any trouble. We're going to be<lb/>
friends, aren't we?’ And he smiled with his glazzies and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
106<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
this one was very nice too, and I was led off to a very nice<lb/>
white clean bedroom with curtains and a bedside lamp,<lb/>
and just the one bed in it, all for Your Humble Narrator.<lb/>
So I had a real horrorshow inner smeck at that, thinking<lb/>
I was really a very lucky young malchickiwick. I was told<lb/>
to take off my horrible prison platties and I was given a<lb/>
really beautiful set of pyjamas, O my brothers, in plain<lb/>
green, the heighth of bedwear fashion. And I was given a<lb/>
nice warm dressing-gown too and lovely toofles to put my<lb/>
bare nogas in, and I thought, “Well, Alex boy, little 6655321<lb/>
as was, you have copped it lucky and no mistake. You are<lb/>
really going to enjoy it here.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After I had been given a nice chasha of real horrorshow<lb/>
coffee and some old gazettas and mags to look at while<lb/>
peeting it, this first veck in white came in, the one who<lb/>
had like signed for me, and he said: ‘Aha, there you are,’<lb/>
a silly sort of a veshch to say but it didn’t sound silly, this<lb/>
veck being so like nice. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Dr Branom.<lb/>
I'm Dr Brodsky’s assistant. With your permission, I'll just<lb/>
give you the usual brief overall examination.’ And he took<lb/>
the old stetho out of his right carman. ‘We must make<lb/>
sure youre quite fit, mustn’t we? Yes indeed, we must.’ So<lb/>
while I lay there with my pyjama top off and he did this,<lb/>
that and the other, I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What exactly is it, sir, that you're going to do?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said Dr Branom, his cold stetho going all down my<lb/>
back, ‘it’s quite simple, really. We just show you some films.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Films?’ I said. I could hardly believe my ookos, brothers,<lb/>
as you may well understand. ‘You mean,’ I said, ‘it will<lb/>
be just like going to the pictures?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
107<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="70"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“They'll be special films,’ said this Dr Branom. ‘Very<lb/>
special films. You'll be having your first session this after-<lb/>
noon. Yes,’ he said, getting up from bending over me, ‘you<lb/>
seem to be quite a fit young boy. A bit under-nourished,<lb/>
perhaps. That will be the fault of the prison food. Put<lb/>
your pyjama top back on. After every meal,’ he said, sitting<lb/>
on the edge of the bed, we shall be giving you a shot in<lb/>
the arm. That should help.’ I felt really grateful to this<lb/>
very nice Dr Branom. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Vitamins, sir, will it be?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Something like that,’ he said, smiling real horrorshow<lb/>
and friendly. ‘Just a jab in the arm after every meal.’ Then<lb/>
he went out. I lay on the bed thinking this was like real<lb/>
heaven, and I read some of the mags theyd given me —<lb/>
Worldsport, Sinny (this being a film mag) and Goal. Then<lb/>
I lay back on the bed and shut my glazzies and thought<lb/>
how nice it was going to be out there again, Alex with<lb/>
perhaps a nice easy job during the day, me being now too<lb/>
old for the old skolliwoll, and then perhaps getting a new<lb/>
like gang together for the nochy, and the first rabbit would<lb/>
be to get old Dim and Pete, if they had not been got<lb/>
already by the millicents. This time I would be very careful<lb/>
not to get loveted. They were giving another like chance,<lb/>
me having done murder and all, and it would not be like<lb/>
fair to get loveted again, after going to all this trouble to<lb/>
show me films that were going to make me a real good<lb/>
malchick. I had a real horrorshow smeck at everybody's<lb/>
like innocence, and I was smecking my gulliver off when<lb/>
they brought in my lunch on a tray. The veck who brought<lb/>
it was the one whod led me to this malenky bedroom<lb/>
when I came into the mesto, and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's nice to know somebody’s happy.’ It was really a very<lb/>
nice appetising bit of pishcha they'd laid out on the tray<lb/>
</p>
<p>
108<lb/>
</p>
<p>
— two or three lomticks of like hot roastbeef with mashed<lb/>
kartoffel and vedge, then there was also ice cream and a<lb/>
nice hot chasha of chai. And there was even a cancer to<lb/>
smoke and a matchbox with one match in. So this looked<lb/>
like it was the life, O my brothers. Then, about half an<lb/>
hour after while I was lying a bit sleepy on the bed, a<lb/>
woman nurse came in, a real nice young devotchka with<lb/>
real horrorshow groodies (I had not seen such for two<lb/>
years) and she had a tray and a hypodermic. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, the old vitamins, eh?’ And I clickclicked at her but<lb/>
she took no notice. All she did was to slam the needle<lb/>
into my left arm, and then swishhhh in went the vitamin<lb/>
stuff. Then she went out again, clack clack on her high-<lb/>
heeled nogas. Then the white-coated veck who was like a<lb/>
male nurse came in with a wheelchair. I was a malenky<lb/>
bit surprised to viddy that. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What giveth then, brother? I can walk, surely, to wher-<lb/>
ever we have to itty to.’ But he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Best I push you there.’ And indeed, O my brothers,<lb/>
when I got off the bed I found myself a malenky bit weak.<lb/>
It was the under-nourishment like Dr Branom had said,<lb/>
all that horrible prison pishcha. But the vitamins in the<lb/>
after-meal injection would put me right. No doubt at all<lb/>
about that, I thought.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="71"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHERE I was wheeled to, brothers, was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
True enough, one wall was all covered with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
silver screen, and direct opposite was a wall<lb/>
with square holes in for the projector to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
project through, and there were stereo speakers stuck all<lb/>
over the mesto. But against the right-hand one of the other<lb/>
walls was a bank of all like little meters, and in the middle<lb/>
of the floor facing the screen was like a dentist’s chair with<lb/>
all lengths of wire running from it, and I had to like crawl<lb/>
from the wheelchair to this, being given some help by<lb/>
another like male nurse veck in a white coat. Then I noticed<lb/>
that underneath the projection holes was like all frosted<lb/>
glass and I thought I viddied shadows of like people moving<lb/>
behind it and I thought I slooshied somebody cough kashl<lb/>
kashl kashl. But then all I could like notice was how weak<lb/>
I seemed to be, and I put that down to changing over from<lb/>
prison pishcha to this new rich pishcha and the vitamins<lb/>
injected into me. ‘Right,’ said the wheelchair-wheeling veck,<lb/>
‘now I'll leave you. The show will commence as soon as Dr<lb/>
Brodsky arrives. Hope you enjoy it.’ To be truthful, brothers,<lb/>
I did not really feel that I wanted to viddy any film-show<lb/>
this afternoon. I was just not in the mood. I would have<lb/>
liked much better to have a nice quiet spatchka on the bed,<lb/>
nice and quiet and all on my oddy knocky. I felt very limp.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="72"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What happened now was that one white-coated veck<lb/>
strapped my gulliver to a like head-rest, singing to himself<lb/>
all the time some vonny cally pop-song. “What’s this for?’<lb/>
I said. And this veck replied, interrupting his like song an<lb/>
instant, that it was to keep my gulliver still and make me<lb/>
look at the screen. ‘But,’ I said, I want to look at the<lb/>
screen. I’ve been brought here to viddy films and viddy<lb/>
films I shall” And then the other white-coat veck (there<lb/>
were three altogether, one of them a devotchka who was<lb/>
like sitting at the bank of meters and twiddling with knobs)<lb/>
had a bit of a smeck at that. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You never know. Oh, you never know. Trust us, friend.<lb/>
It’s better this way.’ And then I found they were strapping<lb/>
my rookers to the chair-arms and my nogas were like stuck<lb/>
to a foot-rest. It seemed a bit bezoomny to me but I let<lb/>
them get on with what they wanted to get on with. If I<lb/>
was to be a free young malchick again in a fortnight’s time<lb/>
I would put up with much in the meantime, O my<lb/>
brothers. One veshch I did not like, though, was when<lb/>
they put like clips on the skin of my forehead, so that my<lb/>
top glaz-lids were pulled up and up and up and I could<lb/>
not shut my glazzies no matter how I tried. I tried to<lb/>
smeck and said: “This must be a real horrorshow film if<lb/>
youre so keen on my viddying it.’ And one of the white-<lb/>
coat vecks said, smecking:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Horrorshow is right, friend. A real show of horrors.’<lb/>
And then I had like a cap stuck on my gulliver and I could<lb/>
viddy all wires running away from it, and they stuck a<lb/>
like suction pad on my belly and one on the old tick-<lb/>
tocker, and I could just about viddy wires running away<lb/>
from those. Then there was the shoom of a door opening<lb/>
and you could tell some very important chelloveck was<lb/>
coming in by the way the white-coated under-vecks went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all stiff. And then I viddied this Dr Brodsky. He was a<lb/>
malenky veck, very fat, with all curly hair curling all over<lb/>
his gulliver, and on his spuddy nose he had very thick<lb/>
otchkies. I could just viddy that he had a real horrorshow<lb/>
suit on, absolutely the heighth of fashion, and he had a<lb/>
like very delicate and subtle von of operating theatres<lb/>
coming from him. With him was Dr Branom, all smiling<lb/>
as though to give me confidence. ‘Everything ready?’ said<lb/>
Dr Brodsky in a very breathy goloss. Then I could slooshy<lb/>
voices saying Right right right from like a distance, then<lb/>
nearer to, then there was a quiet like humming shoom as<lb/>
though things had been switched on. And then the lights<lb/>
went out and there was Your Humble Narrator And Friend<lb/>
sitting alone in the dark, all on his frightened oddy knocky,<lb/>
not able to move nor shut his glazzies nor anything. And<lb/>
then, O my brothers, the film-show started off with some<lb/>
very gromky atmosphere music coming from the speakers,<lb/>
very fierce and full of discord. And then on the screen the<lb/>
picture came on, but there was no title and no credits.<lb/>
What came on was a street, as it might have been any<lb/>
street in any town, and it was a real dark nochy and the<lb/>
lamps were lit. It was a very good like professional piece<lb/>
of sinny, and there were none of these flickers and blobs<lb/>
you get, say, when you viddy one of these dirty films in<lb/>
somebody's house in a back street. All the time the music<lb/>
bumped out, very like sinister. And then you could viddy<lb/>
an old man coming down the street very starry, and then<lb/>
there leaped out on this starry veck two malchicks dressed<lb/>
in the heighth of fashion, as it was at this time (still thin<lb/>
trousers but no like cravat any more, more of a real tie),<lb/>
and they started to filly with him. You could slooshy his<lb/>
screams and moans, very realistic, and you could even get<lb/>
the like heavy breathing and panting of the two tolchocking<lb/>
</p>
<p>
113<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="73"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
malchicks. They made a real pudding out of this starry<lb/>
veck, going crack crack crack at him with their fisty rookers,<lb/>
tearing his platties off and then finishing up by booting<lb/>
his nagoy plott (this lay all krovvy-red in the grahzny mud<lb/>
of the gutter) and then running off very skorry. Then there<lb/>
was a close-up gulliver of this beaten-up starry veck, and<lb/>
the krovvy flowed beautiful red. It’s funny how the colours<lb/>
of the like real world only seem really real when you viddy<lb/>
them on the screen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now all the time I was watching this I was beginning<lb/>
to get very aware of a like not feeling all that well, and<lb/>
this I put down to the under-nourishment and my stomach<lb/>
not quite ready for the rich pishcha and vitamins I was<lb/>
getting here. But I tried to forget this, concentrating on<lb/>
the next film which came on at once, my brothers, without<lb/>
any break at all. This time the film like jumped right away<lb/>
on a young devotchka who was being given the old in-out<lb/>
by first one malchick then another then another then<lb/>
another, she creeching away very gromky through the<lb/>
speakers and like very pathetic and tragic music going on<lb/>
at the same time. This was real, very real, though if you<lb/>
thought about it properly you couldn't imagine lewdies<lb/>
actually agreeing to having all this done to them in a film,<lb/>
and if these films were made by the Good or the State<lb/>
you couldn’t imagine them being allowed to take these<lb/>
films without like interfering with what was going on. So<lb/>
it must have been very clever what they called cutting or<lb/>
editing or some such veshch. For it was very real. And<lb/>
when it came to the sixth or seventh malchick leering and<lb/>
smecking and then going into it and the devotchka<lb/>
creeching on the sound-track like bezoomny, then I began<lb/>
to feel sick. I had like pains all over and felt I could sick<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up and at the same time not sick up, and I began to feel<lb/>
</p>
<p>
114<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like in distress, O my brothers, being fixed rigid too on<lb/>
this chair. When this bit of film was over I could slooshy<lb/>
the goloss of this Dr Brodsky from over by the switchboard<lb/>
saying, ‘Reaction about twelve point five? Promising,<lb/>
promising.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we shot straight into another lomtick of film, and<lb/>
this time it was of just a human litso, a very like pale<lb/>
human face held still and having different nasty veshches<lb/>
done to it. I was sweating a malenky bit with the pain in<lb/>
my guts and a horrible thirst and my gulliver going throb<lb/>
throb throb, and it seemed to me that if I could not viddy<lb/>
this bit of film I would perhaps be not so sick. But I could<lb/>
not shut my glazzies, and even if I tried to move my glaz-<lb/>
balls about I still could not get like out of the line of fire<lb/>
of this picture. So I had to go on viddying what was being<lb/>
done and hearing the most ghastly creechings coming from<lb/>
this litso. I knew it could not really be real, but that made<lb/>
no difference. I was heaving away but could not sick,<lb/>
viddying first a britva cut out an eye, then slice down the<lb/>
cheek, then go rip rip rip all over, while red krovvy shot<lb/>
on to the camera lens. Then all the teeth were like wrenched<lb/>
out with a pair of pliers, and the creeching and the blood<lb/>
were terrific. Then I slooshied this very pleased goloss of<lb/>
Dr Brodsky going, “Excellent, excellent, excellent.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The next lomtick of film was of an old woman who<lb/>
kept a shop being kicked about amid very gromky laughter<lb/>
by a lot of malchicks, and these malchicks broke up the<lb/>
shop and then set fire to it. You could viddy this poor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
II5<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="74"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
disappearing in the flames, and then you could slooshy<lb/>
the most gromky and agonised and agonising screams that<lb/>
ever came from a human goloss. So this time I knew I<lb/>
had to sick up, so I creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I want to be sick. Please let me be sick. Please bring<lb/>
something for me to be sick into.’ But this Dr Brodsky<lb/>
called back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Imagination only. You've nothing to worry about. Next<lb/>
film coming up.’ That was perhaps meant to be a joke,<lb/>
for I heard a like smeck coming from the dark. And then<lb/>
I was forced to viddy a most nasty film about Japanese<lb/>
torture. It was the 1939-45 War, and there were soldiers<lb/>
being fixed to trees with nails and having fires lit under<lb/>
them and having their yarbles cut off, and you even viddied<lb/>
a gulliver being sliced off a soldier with a sword, and then<lb/>
with his head rolling about and the rot and the glazzies<lb/>
looking alive still, the plott of this soldier actually ran<lb/>
about, krovvy like a fountain out of the neck, and then<lb/>
it dropped, and all the time there was very very loud<lb/>
laughter from the Japanese. The pains I felt now in my<lb/>
belly and the headache and the thirst were terrible, and<lb/>
they all seemed to be coming out of the screen. So I<lb/>
creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I po not wish to describe, brothers, what<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to viddy that afternoon. The like minds of<lb/>
this Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom and the<lb/>
others in white coats, and remember there<lb/>
was this devotchka twiddling with the knobs and watching<lb/>
the meters, they must have been more cally and filthy than<lb/>
any prestoopnick in the Staja itself Because I did not think<lb/>
it was possible for any veck to even think of making films<lb/>
of what I was forced to viddy, all tied to this chair and my<lb/>
glazzies made to be wide open. All I could do was to creech<lb/>
very gromky for them to turn it off, turn it off, and that<lb/>
like part drowned the noise of dratsing and fillying and<lb/>
also the music that went with it all. You can imagine it<lb/>
was like a terrible relief when I'd viddied the last bit of<lb/>
film and this Dr Brodsky said, in a very yawny and bored<lb/>
like goloss, ‘I think that should be enough for Day One,<lb/>
don't you, Branom?’ And there I was with the lights<lb/>
switched on, my gulliver throbbing like a bolshy big engine<lb/>
that makes pain, and my rot all dry and cally inside, and<lb/>
feeling I could like sick up every bit of pishcha I had ever<lb/>
eaten, O my brothers, since the day I was like weaned. ‘All<lb/>
right,’ said this Dr Brodsky, ‘he can be taken back to his<lb/>
bed.’ Then he like patted me on the pletcho and said,<lb/>
‘Good, good. A very promising start,’ grinning all over his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
5 other horrible veshches I was like forced<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
117<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="75"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
litso, then he like waddled out, Dr Branom after him, but<lb/>
Dr Branom gave me a like very droogy and sympathetic<lb/>
type smile as though he had nothing to do with all this<lb/>
veshch but was like forced into it as I was.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyhow, they freed my plott from the chair and they let<lb/>
go the skin above my glazzies so that I could open and shut<lb/>
them again, and I shut them, O my brothers, with the pain<lb/>
and throb in my gulliver, and then I was like carried to the<lb/>
old wheelchair and taken back to my malenky bedroom, the<lb/>
under-veck who wheeled me singing away at some hound-<lb/>
and-horny popsong so that I like snarled, ‘Shut it, thou,’ but<lb/>
he only smecked and said: ‘Never mind, friend,’ and then<lb/>
sang louder. So I was put into the bed and still felt bolnoy<lb/>
but could not sleep, but soon I started to feel that soon |<lb/>
might start to feel that J might soon start feeling just a malenky<lb/>
bit better, and then I was brought some nice hot chai with<lb/>
plenty of moloko and sakar and, peeting that, I knew that<lb/>
that like horrible nightmare was in the past and all over. And<lb/>
then Dr Branom came in, all nice and smiling. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, by my calculations you should be starting to feel<lb/>
all right again. Yes?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir, I said, like wary. I did not quite kopat what he<lb/>
was getting at govoreeting about calculations, seeing that<lb/>
getting better from feeling bolnoy is like your own affair<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and droogy, on the bed’s edge and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dr Brodsky is pleased with you. You had a very positive<lb/>
response. Tomorrow, of course, there'll be two sessions,<lb/>
morning and afternoon, and I should imagine that you'll<lb/>
be feeling a bit limp at the end of the day. But we have<lb/>
to be hard on you, you have to be cured.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You mean I have to sit through —? You mean I have to<lb/>
look at —? Oh, no,’ I said. ‘It was horrible.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
118<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Of course it was horrible,’ smiled Dr Branom. Violence<lb/>
is a very horrible thing. That's what you're learning now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
understand why or how or what —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Life is a very wonderful thing,’ said Dr Branom in a<lb/>
very like holy goloss. “The processes of life, the make-up<lb/>
of the human organism, who can fully understand these<lb/>
miracles? Dr Brodsky is, of course, a remarkable man.<lb/>
What is happening to you now is what should happen to<lb/>
any normal healthy human organism contemplating the<lb/>
actions of the forces of evil, the workings of the principle<lb/>
of destruction. You are being made sane, you are being<lb/>
made healthy.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That I will not have, I said, ‘nor can understand at<lb/>
all. What you've been doing is to make me feel very very<lb/>
ill.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Do you feel ill now?’ he said, still with the old droogy<lb/>
smile on his litso. ‘Drinking tea, resting, having a quiet<lb/>
chat with a friend — surely you're not feeling anything but<lb/>
well?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I like listened and felt for pain and sickness in my<lb/>
gulliver and plott, in a like cautious way, but it was true,<lb/>
brothers, that I felt real horrorshow and even wanting my<lb/>
dinner. ‘I don’t get it,’ I said. “You must be doing some-<lb/>
thing to me to make me feel ill.” And I sort of frowned<lb/>
about that, thinking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You felt ill this afternoon,’ he said, ‘because you're getting<lb/>
better. When we're healthy we respond to the presence of<lb/>
the hateful with fear and nausea. You're becoming healthy,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
119<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="76"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that’s all. You'll be healthier still this time tomorrow.’ Then<lb/>
he patted me on the noga and went out, and [ tried to<lb/>
puzzle the whole veshch out as best I could. What it seemed<lb/>
to me was that the wires and other veshches that were fixed<lb/>
to my plott perhaps were making me feel ill, and that it<lb/>
was all a trick really. I was still puzzling out all this and<lb/>
wondering whether I should refuse to be strapped down<lb/>
to this chair tomorrow and start a real bit of dratsing with<lb/>
them all, because I had my rights, when another chelloveck<lb/>
came in to see me. He was a like smiling starry veck who<lb/>
said he was what he called the Discharge Officer, and he<lb/>
carried a lot of bits of paper with him. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where will you go when you leave here?’ I hadn’t really<lb/>
thought about that sort of veshch at all, and it only now<lb/>
really began to dawn on me that I'd be a fine free malchick<lb/>
very soon, and then IJ viddied that would only be if I<lb/>
played it everybody's way and did not start any dratsing<lb/>
and creeching and refusing and so on. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, I shall go home. Back to my pee and em.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Your —?’ He didn’t get nadsat-talk at all, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To my parents in the dear old flatblock.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see,’ he said. ‘And when did you last have a visit from<lb/>
your parents?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A month,’ I said, ‘very near. They like suspended visiting-<lb/>
day for a bit because of one prestoopnick getting some<lb/>
blasting-powder smuggled in across the wires from his ptitsa.<lb/>
A real cally trick to play on the innocent, like punishing<lb/>
them as well. So it’s like near a month since I had a visit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I see,’ said this veck. ‘And have your parents been<lb/>
informed of your transfer and impending release?’ That<lb/>
had a real lovely zvook that did, that slovo release. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No.’ Then I said, ‘It will be a nice surprise for them,<lb/>
that, won't it? Me just walking through the door and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
horrorshow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right,’ said the Discharge Officer veck, ‘we'll leave it at<lb/>
that. So long as you have somewhere to live. Now, there's<lb/>
the question of your having a job, isn’t there?” And he showed<lb/>
me this long list of jobs I could have, but I thought, well,<lb/>
there would be time enough for that. A nice malenky holiday<lb/>
first. I could do a crasting job soon as I got out and fill the<lb/>
old carmans with pretty polly, but I would have to be very<lb/>
careful and I would have to do the job all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky. I did not trust so-called droogs any more. So I told<lb/>
this veck to leave it a bit and we would govoreet about it<lb/>
again. He said right right right, then got ready to leave. He<lb/>
showed himself to be a very queer sort of a veck, because<lb/>
what he did now was to like giggle and then say, “Would<lb/>
you like to punch me in the face before I go?’ I did not<lb/>
think I could possibly have slooshied that right, so I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Would you,’ he giggled, ‘like to punch me in the face<lb/>
before I go?’ I frowned like at that, very puzzled, and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘just to see how your'e getting on.’ And<lb/>
he brought his litso real near, a fat grin all over his rot.<lb/>
So I fisted up and went smack at this litso, but he pulled<lb/>
himself away real skorry, grinning still, and my rooker just<lb/>
punched air. Very puzzling, this was, and I frowned as he<lb/>
left, smecking his gulliver off. And then, my brothers, I<lb/>
felt real sick again, just like in the afternoon, just for a<lb/>
couple of minootas. It then passed off skorry, and when<lb/>
they brought my dinner in I found I had a fair appetite<lb/>
and was ready to crunch away at the roast chicken. But<lb/>
it was funny that starry chelloveck asking for a tolchock<lb/>
in the litso. And it was funny feeling sick like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="77"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was even funnier was when I went to sleep that<lb/>
night, O my brothers. I had a nightmare, and, as you<lb/>
might expect, it was of one of those bits of film I’d viddied<lb/>
in the afternoon. A dream or nightmare is really only like<lb/>
a film inside your gulliver, except that it is as though you<lb/>
could walk into it and be part of it. And this is what<lb/>
happened to me. It was a nightmare of one of the bits of<lb/>
film they showed me near the end of the afternoon like<lb/>
session, all of smecking malchicks doing the ultra-violent<lb/>
on a young ptitsa who was creeching away in her red red<lb/>
krovvy, her platties all razrezzed real horrorshow. I was in<lb/>
this fillying about, smecking away and being like the<lb/>
ringleader, dressed in the heighth of nadsat fashion. And<lb/>
then at the heighth of all this dratsing and tolchocking I<lb/>
felt like paralysed and wanting to be very sick, and all the<lb/>
other malchicks had a real gromky smeck at me. Then I<lb/>
was dratsing my way back to being awake all through my<lb/>
own krovvy, pints and quarts and gallons of it, and then<lb/>
I found myself in my bed in this room. I wanted to be<lb/>
sick, so I got out of the bed all trembly so as to go off<lb/>
down the corridor to the old vaysay. But, behold, brothers,<lb/>
the door was locked. And turning round I viddied for like<lb/>
the first raz that there were bars on the window. And so,<lb/>
as I reached for the like pot in the malenky cupboard<lb/>
beside the bed, I viddied that there would be no escaping<lb/>
from any of all this. Worse, I did not dare to go back into<lb/>
my own sleeping gulliver. I soon found I did not want to<lb/>
be sick after all, but then I was poogly of getting back<lb/>
into bed to sleep. But soon I fell smack into sleep and did<lb/>
not dream any more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘STOP it, stop it, stop it,’ I kept on creeching<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can stand no more.’ It was the next day,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
out. “Turn it off, you grahzny bastards, for<lb/>
6 brothers, and I had truly done my best<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
morning and afternoon to play it their way<lb/>
and sit like a horrorshow smiling cooperative malchick in<lb/>
the chair of torture while they flashed nasty bits of ultra-<lb/>
violence on the screen, my glazzies clipped open to viddy<lb/>
all, my plott and rookers and nogas fixed to the chair so<lb/>
I could not get away. What I was being made to viddy<lb/>
now was not really a veshch I would have thought to be<lb/>
too bad before, it being only three or four malchicks crasting<lb/>
in a shop and filling their carmans with cutter, at the same<lb/>
time fillying about with the creeching starry ptitsa running<lb/>
the shop, tolchocking her and letting the red red krovvy<lb/>
flow. But the throb and like crash crash crash crash in my<lb/>
gulliver and the wanting to sick and the terrible dry rasping<lb/>
thirstiness in my rot, all were worse than yesterday. ‘Oh,<lb/>
I’ve had enough,’ I cried. ‘It’s not fair, you vonny sods,’<lb/>
and I tried to struggle out of the chair but it was not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
123<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="78"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
viddy had been made by the Germans. It opened with<lb/>
German eagles and the Nazi flag with that like crooked<lb/>
cross that all malchicks at school love to draw, and then<lb/>
there were very haughty and nadmenny like German<lb/>
officers walking through streets that were all dust and<lb/>
bomb-holes and broken buildings. Then you were allowed<lb/>
to viddy lewdies being shot against walls, officers giving<lb/>
the orders, and also horrible nagoy plotts left lying in<lb/>
gutters, all like cages of bare ribs and white thin nogas.<lb/>
Then there were lewdies being dragged off creeching,<lb/>
though not on the sound-track, my brothers, the only<lb/>
sound being music, and being tolchocked while they were<lb/>
dragged off. Then I noticed, in all my pain and sickness,<lb/>
what music it was that like crackled and boomed on the<lb/>
sound-track, and it was Ludwig van, the last movement<lb/>
of the Fifth Symphony, and I creeched like bezoomny at<lb/>
that. “Stop! I creeched. “Stop, you grahzny disgusting sods.<lb/>
It’s a sin, that’s what it is, a filthy unforgivable sin, you<lb/>
bratchnies!’ They didn’t stop right away, because there was<lb/>
only a minute or two more to go — lewdies being beaten<lb/>
up and all blood, then more firing squads, then the old<lb/>
Nazi flag and THE END. But when the lights came on<lb/>
this Dr Brodsky and also Dr Branom were standing in<lb/>
front of me, and Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What's all this about sin, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That,’ I said, very sick. “Using Ludwig van like that.<lb/>
He did no harm to anyone. Beethoven just wrote music.’<lb/>
And then I was really sick and they had to bring a bowl<lb/>
that was in the shape of like a kidney.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Music,’ said Dr Brodsky, like musing. “So you're keen<lb/>
on music. I know nothing about it myself. It’s a useful<lb/>
emotional heightener, that’s all I know. Well, well. What<lb/>
do you think about that, eh, Branom?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
124<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It can’t be helped,’ said Dr Branom. ‘Each man kills the<lb/>
thing he loves, as the poet-prisoner said. Here’s the punish-<lb/>
ment element, perhaps. The Governor ought to be pleased.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Give me a drink,’ I said, ‘for Bog’s sake.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Loosen him,’ ordered Dr Brodsky. ‘Fetch him a carafe<lb/>
of ice-cold water.’ So then these under-vecks got to work<lb/>
and soon I was peeting gallons and gallons of water and<lb/>
it was like heaven, O my brothers. Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You seem a sufficiently intelligent young man. You<lb/>
seem, too, to be not without taste. You've just got this<lb/>
violence thing, haven’t you? Violence and theft, theft being<lb/>
an aspect of violence.’ I didn’t govoreet a single slovo,<lb/>
brothers. I was still feeling sick, though getting a malenky<lb/>
bit better now. But it had been a terrible day. ‘Now, then,’<lb/>
said Dr Brodsky, ‘how do you think this is done? Tell me,<lb/>
what do you think we're doing to you?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're making me feel ill,’ I said. ‘I’m ill when I look<lb/>
at those filthy pervert films of yours. But it’s not really the<lb/>
films that’s doing it. But I feel that if you'll stop these<lb/>
films Pll stop feeling ill’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Right, said Dr Brodsky. ‘It’s association, the oldest<lb/>
educational method in the world. And what really causes<lb/>
you to feel ill?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These grahzny sodding veshches that come out of my<lb/>
gulliver and my plott,’ I said, ‘that’s what it is.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Quaint,’ said Dr Brodsky, like smiling, ‘the dialect of the<lb/>
tribe. Do you know anything of its provenance, Branom?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Odd bits of old rhyming slang,’ said Dr Branom, who<lb/>
did not look quite so much like a friend any more. ‘A bit<lb/>
of gipsy talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav.<lb/>
Propaganda. Subliminal penetration.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right, all right,’ said Dr Brodsky, like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
125<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="79"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
me, ‘it isn’t the wires. It’s nothing to do with what’s fastened<lb/>
to you. Those are just for measuring your reactions. What<lb/>
is it, then?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I viddied then, of course, what a bezoomny shoot I was<lb/>
not to notice that it was the hypodermic needle shots in<lb/>
the rooker. ‘Oh,’ I creeched, ‘oh, I viddy all now. A filthy<lb/>
cally vonny trick. An act of treachery, sod you, and you<lb/>
wont do it again.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tm glad you've raised your objections now,’ said Dr<lb/>
Brodsky. “Now we can be perfectly clear about it. We can<lb/>
get this stuff of Ludovico’s into your system in many<lb/>
different ways. Orally, for instance. But the subcutaneous<lb/>
method is the best. Don’t fight against it, please. There’s<lb/>
no point in your fighting. You can’t get the better of us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Grahzny bratchnies,’ I said, like snivelling. Then I said,<lb/>
‘I don’t mind about the ultra-violence and all that cal. I<lb/>
can put up with that. But it’s not fair on the music. It’s<lb/>
not fair I should feel ill when I’m slooshying lovely Ludwig<lb/>
van and G. F. Handel and others. All that shows youre<lb/>
an evil lot of bastards and I shall never forgive you, sods.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They both looked a bit like thoughtful. Then Dr<lb/>
Brodsky said: “Delimitation is always difficult. The world<lb/>
is one, life is one. The sweetest and most heavenly of<lb/>
activities partake in some measure of violence — the act of<lb/>
love, for instance; music, for instance. You must take your<lb/>
chance, boy. The choice has been all yours.’ I didn’t under-<lb/>
stand all these slovos, but now I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You needn't take it any further, sir.” I'd changed my<lb/>
tune a malenky bit in my cunning way. ‘You've proved to<lb/>
me that all this dratsing and ultra-violence and killing is<lb/>
wrong wrong and terribly wrong. I’ve learned my lesson,<lb/>
sirs. | see now what I’ve never seen before. I’m cured,<lb/>
praise God.’ And I raised my glazzies in a like holy way<lb/>
</p>
<p>
126<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to the ceiling. But both these doctors shook their gullivers<lb/>
like sadly and Dr Brodsky said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You're not cured yet. There’s still a lot to be done. Only<lb/>
when your body reacts promptly and violently to violence,<lb/>
as to a snake, without further help from us, without medi-<lb/>
cation, only then —’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But, sir, sirs, I see that it’s wrong. It’s wrong because<lb/>
it’s against like society, it’s wrong because every veck on<lb/>
earth has the right to live and be happy without being<lb/>
beaten and tolchocked and knifed. I’ve learned a lot, oh<lb/>
really I have.’ But Dr Brodsky had a loud long smeck at<lb/>
that, showing all his white zoobies, and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The heresy of an age of reason,’ or some such slovos.<lb/>
‘T see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong.<lb/>
No, no, my boy, you must leave it all to us. But be cheerful<lb/>
about it. It will soon be all over. In less than a fortnight<lb/>
now youll be a free man.’ Then he patted me on the<lb/>
pletcho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Less than a fortnight, O my brothers and friends, it was<lb/>
like an age. It was like from the beginning of the world<lb/>
to the end of it. To finish the fourteen years with remis-<lb/>
sion in the Staja would have been nothing to it. Every day<lb/>
it was the same. When the devotchka with the hypodermic<lb/>
came round, though, four days after this govoreeting with<lb/>
Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom, I said, ‘Oh, no you wont,’<lb/>
and tolchocked her on the rooker, and the syringe went<lb/>
tinkle clatter on to the floor. That was like to viddy what<lb/>
they would do. What they did was to get four or five real<lb/>
bolshy white-coated bastards of under-vecks to hold me<lb/>
down on the bed, tolchocking me with grinny litsos close<lb/>
to mine, and then this nurse ptitsa said, “You wicked<lb/>
naughty little devil, you,’ while she jabbed my rooker with<lb/>
another syringe and squirted this stuff in real brutal and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
127<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="80"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nasty. And then I was wheeled off exhausted to this like<lb/>
hell sinny as before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every day, my brothers, these films were like the same,<lb/>
all kicking and tolchocking and red red krovvy dripping<lb/>
off of litsos and plotts and spattering all over the camera<lb/>
lenses. It was usually grinning and smecking malchicks in<lb/>
the heighth of nadsat fashion, or else teeheeheeing Jap<lb/>
torturers or brutal Nazi kickers and shooters. And each<lb/>
day the feeling of wanting to die with the sickness and<lb/>
gulliver pains and aches in the zoobies and horrible horrible<lb/>
thirst grew really worse. Until one morning I tried to<lb/>
defeat the bastards by crash crash crashing my gulliver<lb/>
against the wall so that I should tolchock myself uncon-<lb/>
scious, but all that happened was I felt sick with viddying<lb/>
that this kind of violence was like the violence in the films,<lb/>
so I was just exhausted and was given the injection and<lb/>
was wheeled off like before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then there came a morning where I woke up and<lb/>
had my breakfast of eggs and toast and jam and very hot<lb/>
milky chai, and then I thought: It can’t be much longer<lb/>
now. Now must be very near the end of the time. I have<lb/>
suffered to the heighths and cannot suffer any more. And<lb/>
I waited and waited, brothers, for this nurse ptitsa to bring<lb/>
in the syringe, but she did not come. And then the white-<lb/>
coated under-veck came and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Today, old friend, we are letting you walk.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Walk?’ I said. “Where?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To the usual place,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, look not so<lb/>
astonished. You are to walk to the films, me with you of<lb/>
course. You are no longer to be carried in a wheelchair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ I said, “how about my horrible morning injection?<lb/>
For I was really surprised at this, brothers, they being so<lb/>
keen on pushing this Ludovico veshch into me, as they<lb/>
</p>
<p>
128<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
said. ‘Don’t I get that horrible sicky stuff rammed into<lb/>
my poor suffering rooker any more?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All over,’ like smecked this veck. ‘For ever and ever<lb/>
amen. You're on your own now, boy. Walking and all to<lb/>
the chamber of horrors. But you're still to be strapped<lb/>
down and made to see. Come on then, my little tiger.’<lb/>
And I had to put my over-gown and toofles on and walk<lb/>
down the corridor to the like sinny mesto.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now this time, O my brothers, I was not only very sick<lb/>
but very puzzled. There it was again, all the old ultra-<lb/>
violence and vecks with their gullivers smashed and torn<lb/>
krovvy-dripping ptitsas creeching for mercy, the like private<lb/>
and individual fillying and nastiness. Then there were the<lb/>
prison-camps and the Jews and the grey like foreign streets<lb/>
full of tanks and uniforms and vecks going down in with-<lb/>
ering rifle-fire, this being the public side of it. And this<lb/>
time I could blame nothing for me feeling sick and thirsty<lb/>
and full of aches except what I was forced to viddy, my<lb/>
glazzies still being clipped open and my nogas and plott<lb/>
fixed to the chair but this set of wires and other veshches<lb/>
no longer coming out of my plott and gulliver. So what<lb/>
could it be but the films I was viddying that were doing<lb/>
this to me? Except, of course, brothers, that this Ludovico<lb/>
stuff was like a vaccination and there it was cruising about<lb/>
in my krovvy, so that I would be sick always for ever and<lb/>
ever amen whenever I viddied any of this ultra-violence.<lb/>
So now I squared my rot and went boo hoo hoo, and the<lb/>
tears like blotted out what I was forced to viddy in like<lb/>
all blessed runny silvery dewdrops. But these white-coat<lb/>
bratchnies were skorry with their tashtooks to wipe the<lb/>
tears away, saying, “There, there, wazzums all weepy-weepy<lb/>
den?’ And there it was again all clear before my glazzies,<lb/>
these Germans prodding like beseeching and weeping Jews<lb/>
</p>
<p>
129<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="81"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
hoo hoo I had to go again, and along they came to wipe<lb/>
the tears off, very skorry, so I should not miss one solitary<lb/>
veshch of what they were showing. It was a terrible and<lb/>
horrible day, O my brothers and only friends.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was lying on the bed all alone that nochy after my<lb/>
dinner of fat thick mutton stew and fruit pie and ice<lb/>
cream, and I thought to myself: Hell hell hell, there might<lb/>
be a chance for me if I get out now. I had no weapon,<lb/>
though. I was allowed no britva here, and I had been<lb/>
shaved every other day by a fat bald-headed veck who<lb/>
came to my bed before breakfast, two white-coated bratch-<lb/>
nies standing by to viddy I was a good non-violent<lb/>
malchick. The nails on my rookers had been scissored and<lb/>
filed real short so I could not scratch. But I was still skorry<lb/>
on the attack, though they had weakened me down,<lb/>
brothers, to a like shadow of what I had been in the old<lb/>
free days. So now I got off the bed and went to the locked<lb/>
door and began to fist it real horrorshow and hard,<lb/>
creeching at the same time, ‘Oh, help help. I’m sick, I’m<lb/>
dying. Doctor doctor doctor, quick. Please. Oh, I’ll die, I<lb/>
know I shall. Help.’ My gorlo was real dry and sore before<lb/>
anyone came. Then I heard nogas coming down the<lb/>
corridor and a like grumbling goloss, and then I recognised<lb/>
the goloss of the white-coated veck who brought my<lb/>
pishcha and like escorted me to my daily doom. He like<lb/>
grumbled:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is it? What goes on? What's your little nasty game<lb/>
in there?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, I’m dying,’ I like moaned. ‘Oh, I have a ghastly<lb/>
pain in my side. Appendicitis, it is. Ooooooh.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Appendy shitehouse,’ grumbled this veck, and then to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
130<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
my joy, brothers, I could slooshy the like clank of keys.<lb/>
‘If you're trying it, little friend, my friends and me will<lb/>
beat and kick you all through the night.’ Then he opened<lb/>
up and brought in like the sweet air of the promise of my<lb/>
freedom. Now I was like behind the door when he pushed<lb/>
it open, and I could viddy him in the corridor light looking<lb/>
round for me puzzled. Then I raised my two fisties to<lb/>
tolchock him on the neck nasty, and then, I swear, as I<lb/>
sort of viddied him in advance lying moaning or out out<lb/>
out and felt the like joy rise in my guts, it was then that<lb/>
this sickness rose in me as it might be a wave and I felt<lb/>
a horrible fear as if I was really going to die. I like tottered<lb/>
over to the bed going urgh urgh urgh, and the veck, who<lb/>
was not in his white coat but an over-gown, viddied clear<lb/>
enough what I had had in my mind for he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well, everything’s a lesson, isn’t it? Learning all the<lb/>
time, as you could say. Come on, little friend, get up from<lb/>
that bed and hit me. I want you to, yes, really. A real good<lb/>
crack across the jaw. Oh, I’m dying for it, really I am.’<lb/>
But all I could do, brothers, was to just lay there sobbing<lb/>
boo hoo hoo. ‘Scum,’ like sneered this veck now. ‘Filth.’<lb/>
And he pulled me up by like the scruff of my pyjama-top,<lb/>
me being very weak and limp, and he raised and swung<lb/>
his right rooker so that I got a fair old tolchock clean on<lb/>
the litso. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is for getting me out of my bed,<lb/>
you young dirt.’ And he wiped his rookers against each<lb/>
other swish swish and went out. Crunch crunch went the<lb/>
key in the lock.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And what, brothers, I had to escape into sleep from<lb/>
then was the horrible and wrong feeling that it was better<lb/>
to get the hit than give it. If that veck had stayed I might<lb/>
even have like presented the other cheek.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="82"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I coutp not believe, brothers, what I was<lb/>
told. It seemed that I had been in that<lb/>
vonny mesto for near ever and would be<lb/>
there for near ever more. But it had always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
been a fortnight and now they said the<lb/>
fortnight was near up. They said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Tomorrow, little friend, out out out.’ And they made<lb/>
with the old thumb, like pointing to freedom. And then<lb/>
the white-coated veck who had tolchocked me and who<lb/>
had still brought me my trays of pishcha and like escorted<lb/>
me to my everyday torture said: ‘But you still have one<lb/>
really big day in front of you. It’s to be your passing-out<lb/>
day.’ And he had a leery smeck at that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I expected this morning that I would be ittying as usual<lb/>
to the sinny mesto in my pyjamas and toofles and over-<lb/>
gown. But no. This morning I was given my shirt and<lb/>
underveshches and my platties of the night and my horror-<lb/>
show kick-boots, all lovely and washed or ironed or<lb/>
polished. And I was even given my cut-throat britva that<lb/>
I had used in those old happy days for fillying and dratsing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
were changes there. Curtains had been drawn in front of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
133<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="83"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the sinny screen and the frosted glass under the projection<lb/>
holes was no longer there, it having perhaps been pushed<lb/>
up or folded to the sides like blind or shutters. And where<lb/>
there had been just the noise of coughing kashl kashl kashl<lb/>
and like shadows of lewdies was now a real audience, and<lb/>
in this audience there were litsos I knew. There was the<lb/>
Staja Governor and the holy man, the charlie or charles<lb/>
as he was called, and the Chief Chasso and this very<lb/>
important and well-dressed chelloveck who was the<lb/>
Minister of the Interior or Inferior. All the rest I did not<lb/>
know. Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom were there, although<lb/>
not now white-coated, instead they were dressed as doctors<lb/>
would dress who were big enough to want to dress in the<lb/>
heighth of fashion. Dr Branom just stood, but Dr Brodsky<lb/>
stood and govoreeted in a like learned manner to all the<lb/>
lewdies assembled. When he viddied me coming in he<lb/>
said, ‘Aha. At this stage, gentlemen, we introduce the<lb/>
subject himself. He is, as you will perceive, fit and well-<lb/>
nourished. He comes straight from a night's sleep and a<lb/>
good breakfast, undrugged, unhypnotised. Tomorrow we<lb/>
send him with confidence out into the world again, as<lb/>
decent a lad as you would meet on a May moning, unvi-<lb/>
cious, unviolent, if anything — as you will observe — inclined<lb/>
to the kindly word and the helpful act. What a change is<lb/>
here, gentlemen, from the wretched hoodlum the State<lb/>
committed to unprofitable punishment some two years<lb/>
ago, unchanged after two years. Unchanged, do I say? Not<lb/>
quite. Prison taught him the false smile, the rubbed hands<lb/>
of hypocrisy, the fawning greased obsequious leer. Other<lb/>
vices it taught him, as well as confirming him in those he<lb/>
had long practised before. But, gentlemen, enough of<lb/>
words. Actions speak louder than. Action now. Observe,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was a bit dazed by all this govoreeting and I was trying<lb/>
to grasp in my mind that like all this was about me. Then<lb/>
all the lights went out and then there came on two like<lb/>
spotlights shining from the projection-squares, and one of<lb/>
them was full on Your Humble and Suffering Narrator.<lb/>
And into the other spotlight there walked a bolshy big<lb/>
chelloveck I had never viddied before. He had a lardy like<lb/>
litso and a moustache and like strips of hair pasted over<lb/>
his near-bald gulliver. He was about thirty or forty or fifty,<lb/>
some old age like that, starry. He ittied up to me and the<lb/>
spotlight ittied with him, and soon the two spotlights had<lb/>
made like one big pool. He said to me, very sneery, “Hello,<lb/>
heap of dirt. Pooh, you don’t wash much, judging from<lb/>
the horrible smell.’ Then, as if he was like dancing, he<lb/>
stamped on my nogas, left, right, then he gave me a finger-<lb/>
nail flick on the nose that hurt like bezoomny and brought<lb/>
the old tears to my glazzies, then he twisted at my left<lb/>
ooko like it was a radio dial. I could slooshy titters and a<lb/>
couple of real horrorshow hawhawhaws coming from like<lb/>
the audience. My nose and nogas and earhole stung and<lb/>
pained like bezoomny, so | said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What do you do that to me for? I’ve never done any<lb/>
wrong to you, brother.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ this veck said, ‘I do this’ — flickflicked nose again<lb/>
— ‘and that? — twisted smarting earhole — ‘and the other’<lb/>
— stamped nasty on right noga — ‘because I don't care for<lb/>
your horrible type. And if you want to do anything about<lb/>
it, start, start, please do.’ Now I knew that I’d have to be<lb/>
real skorry and get my cut-throat britva out before this<lb/>
horrible killing sickness whooshed up and turned the like<lb/>
joy of battle into feeling I was going to snuff it. But, O<lb/>
brothers, as my rooker reached for the britva in my inside<lb/>
carman I got this like picture in my mind’s glazzy of this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
135<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="84"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
insulting chelloveck howling for mercy with the red red<lb/>
krovvy all streaming out of his rot, and hot after this<lb/>
picture the sickness and dryness and pains were rushing<lb/>
to overtake, and I viddied that I’d have to change the way<lb/>
I felt about this rotten veck very very skorry indeed, so |<lb/>
felt in my carmans for cigarettes or for pretty polly, and,<lb/>
O my brothers, there was not either of these veshches. I<lb/>
said, like all howly and blubbery:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Td like to give you a cigarette, brother, but I don’t seem<lb/>
to have any.’ This veck went:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Wah wah. Boohoohoo. Cry, baby.’ Then he flickflick-<lb/>
flicked with his bolshy horny nail at my nose again, and<lb/>
I could slooshy very loud smecks of like mirth coming<lb/>
from the dark audience. I said, real desperate, trying to<lb/>
be nice to this insulting and hurtful veck to stop the pains<lb/>
and sickness coming up:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Please let me do something for you, please.’ And I felt<lb/>
in my carmans but could find only my cut-throat britva,<lb/>
so I took this out and handed it to him and said, “Please<lb/>
take this, please. A little present. Please have it.’ But he<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Keep your stinking bribes to yourself. You can’t get<lb/>
round me that way.’ And he banged at my rooker and my<lb/>
cut-throat britva fell on the floor. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Please, I must do something. Shall I clean your boots?<lb/>
Look, [ll get down and lick them.’ And, my brothers,<lb/>
believe it or kiss my sharries, I got down on my knees and<lb/>
pushed my red yahzick out a mile and a half to lick his<lb/>
grahzny vonny boots. But all this veck did was to kick me<lb/>
not too hard on the rot. So then it seemed to me that it<lb/>
would not bring on the sickness and pain if I just gripped<lb/>
his ankles with my rookers tight round them and brought<lb/>
this grahzny bratchny down to the floor. So I did this and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
136<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he got a real bolshy surprise, coming down crack amid<lb/>
loud laughter from the vonny audience. But viddying him<lb/>
on the floor I could feel the whole horrible feeling coming<lb/>
over me, so I gave him my rooker to lift him up skorry<lb/>
and up he came. Then just as he was going to give me a<lb/>
real nasty and earnest tolchock on the litso Dr Brodsky<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, that will do very well.’ Then this horrible veck<lb/>
sort of bowed and danced off like an actor while the lights<lb/>
came up on me blinking and with my rot square for<lb/>
howling. Dr Brodsky said to the audience: “Our subject<lb/>
is, you see, impelled towards the good by, paradoxically,<lb/>
being impelled towards evil. The intention to act violently<lb/>
is accompanied by strong feelings of physical distress. ‘To<lb/>
counter these the subject has to switch to a diametrically<lb/>
opposed attitude. Any questions?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Choice,’ rumbled a rich deep goloss. I viddied it<lb/>
belonged to the prison charlie. “He has no real choice, has<lb/>
he? Self-interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that<lb/>
grotesque act of self-abasement. Its insincerity was clearly<lb/>
to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to<lb/>
be a creature capable of moral choice.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘These are subtleties,’ like smiled Dr Brodsky. “We are<lb/>
not concerned with motive, with the higher ethics. We<lb/>
are concerned only with cutting down crime —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And,’ chipped in this bolshy well-dressed Minister, ‘with<lb/>
relieving the ghastly congestion in our prisons.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Hear hear,’ said somebody.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There was a lot of govoreeting and arguing then and<lb/>
I just stood there, brothers, like completely ignored by all<lb/>
these ignorant bratchnies, so I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Me, me, me. How about me? Where do I come into<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all this? Am I like just some animal or dog?’ And that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
137<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="85"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
started them off govoreeting real loud and throwing slovos<lb/>
at me. So I creeched louder still, creeching: ‘Am I just to<lb/>
be like a clockwork orange?’ I didn’t know what made me<lb/>
use those slovos, brothers, which just came like without<lb/>
asking into my gulliver. And that shut all those vecks up<lb/>
for some reason for a minoota or two. Then one very thin<lb/>
starry professor type chelloveck stood up, his neck like all<lb/>
cables carrying like power from his gulliver to his plott,<lb/>
and he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have no cause to grumble, boy. You made your<lb/>
choice and all this is a consequence of your choice.<lb/>
Whatever now ensues is what you yourself have chosen.’<lb/>
And the prison charlie creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, if only I could believe that.’ And you could viddy<lb/>
the Governor give him a look like meaning that he would<lb/>
not climb so high in like Prison Religion as he thought<lb/>
he would. Then loud arguing started again, and then I<lb/>
could slooshy the slovo Love being thrown around, the<lb/>
prison charles himself creeching as loud as any about<lb/>
Perfect Love Casteth Out Fear and all that cal. And now<lb/>
Dr Brodsky said, smiling all over his litso:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I am glad, gentlemen, this question of Love has been<lb/>
raised. Now we shall see in action a manner of Love that<lb/>
was thought to be dead with the Middle Ages.’ And then<lb/>
the lights went down and the spotlights came on again,<lb/>
one on your poor and suffering Friend and Narrator, and<lb/>
into the other there like rolled or sidled the most lovely<lb/>
young devotchka you could ever hope in all your jeezny,<lb/>
O my brothers, to viddy. That is to say, she had real<lb/>
horrorshow groodies all of which you could like viddy,<lb/>
she having on platties which came down down down off<lb/>
her pletchoes. And her nogas were like Bog in His Heaven,<lb/>
and she walked like to make you groan in your keeshkas,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
138<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and yet her litso was a sweet smiling young like innocent<lb/>
litso. She came up towards me with the light like it was<lb/>
the like light of heavenly grace and all that cal coming<lb/>
with her, and the first thing that flashed into my gulliver<lb/>
was that I would like to have her right down there on the<lb/>
floor with the old in-out real savage, but skorry as a shot<lb/>
came the sickness, like a like detective that had been<lb/>
watching round a corner and now followed to make his<lb/>
grahzny arrest. And now the von of lovely perfume that<lb/>
came off her made me want to think of starting to like<lb/>
heave in my keeshkas, so I knew I had to think of some<lb/>
new like way of thinking about her before all the pain<lb/>
and thirstiness and horrible sickness came over me real<lb/>
horrorshow and proper. So I creeched out:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘O most beautiful and beauteous of devotchkas, I throw<lb/>
like my heart at your feet for you to like trample all over.<lb/>
If I had a rose I would give it to you. If it was all rainy<lb/>
and cally now on the ground you could have my platties<lb/>
to walk on so as not to cover your dainty nogas with filth<lb/>
and cal.’ And as I was saying all this, O my brothers, I<lb/>
could feel the sickness like slinking back. “Let me,’ I<lb/>
creeched out, ‘worship you and be like your helper and<lb/>
protector from the wicked like world.’ Then I thought of<lb/>
the right slovo and felt better for it, saying, “Let me be<lb/>
like your true knight,’ and down I went again on the old<lb/>
knees, bowing and like scraping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then I felt real shooty and dim, it having been like<lb/>
an act again, for this devotchka smiled and bowed to the<lb/>
audience and like danced off, the lights coming up to a<lb/>
bit of applause. And the glazzies of some of these starry<lb/>
vecks in the audience were like popping out at this young<lb/>
devotchka with dirty and like unholy desire, O my<lb/>
brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="86"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He will be your true Christian,’ Dr Brodsky was<lb/>
creeching out, ‘ready to turn the other cheek, ready to be<lb/>
crucified rather than crucify, sick to the very heart at the<lb/>
thought even of killing a fly.’ And that was right, brothers,<lb/>
because when he said that I thought of killing a fly and<lb/>
felt just that tiny bit sick, but I pushed the sickness and<lb/>
pain back by thinking of the fly being fed with bits of<lb/>
sugar and looked after like a bleeding pet and all that cal.<lb/>
‘Reclamation,’ he creeched. ‘Joy before the Angels of God.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The point is,’ this Minister of the Inferior was saying<lb/>
real gromky, ‘that it works.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ the prison charlie said, like sighing, ‘it works all<lb/>
“right, God help the lot of us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="87"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“WHAT’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That, my brothers, was me asking myself<lb/>
the next morning, standing outside this<lb/>
white building that was like tacked on to<lb/>
the old Staja, in my platties of the night<lb/>
of two years back in the grey light of dawn, with a malenky<lb/>
bit of a bag with my few personal veshches in and a bit<lb/>
of cutter kindly donated by the vonny Authorities to like<lb/>
start me off in my new life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The rest of the day before had been very tiring, what<lb/>
with interviews to go on tape for the telenews and photo-<lb/>
eraphs being took flash flash flash and more like demon-<lb/>
strations of me folding up in the face of ultra-violence and<lb/>
all that embarassing cal. And then I had like fallen into<lb/>
the bed and then, as it looked to me, been wakened up<lb/>
to be told to get off out, to itty off home, they did not<lb/>
want to viddy Your Humble Narrator never not no more,<lb/>
O my brothers. So there I was, very very early in the<lb/>
morning, with just this bit of pretty polly in my left<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
143<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="88"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the town, but there were malenky workers’ caffs all around<lb/>
and I soon found one of those, my brothers. It was very<lb/>
cally and vonny, with one bulb in the ceiling with fly-dirt<lb/>
like obscuring its bit of light, and there were early rabbiters<lb/>
slurping away at chai and horrible-looking sausages and<lb/>
slices of kleb which they like wolfed, going wolf wolf wolf<lb/>
and then creeching for more. They were served by a very<lb/>
cally devotchka but with very bolshy groodies on her, and<lb/>
some of the eating vecks tried to grab her, going haw haw<lb/>
haw while she went he he he, and the sight of them near<lb/>
made me want to sick, brothers. But I asked for some<lb/>
toast and jam and chai very politely and with my gentle-<lb/>
man’s goloss, then I sat in a dark corner to eat and peet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While I was doing this, a malenky like dwarf of veck<lb/>
ittied in, selling the morning’s gazettas, a twisted and<lb/>
grahzny prestoopnick type with thick glasses on with steel<lb/>
rims, his platties like the colour of a very starry decaying<lb/>
currant pudding. I kupetted a gazetta, my idea being to<lb/>
get ready for plunging back into normal jeezny again by<lb/>
viddying what was ittying on in the world. This gazetta I<lb/>
had seemed to be like a Government gazetta, for the only<lb/>
news that was on the front page was about the need for<lb/>
every veck to make sure he put the Government back in<lb/>
again on the next General Election, which seemed to be<lb/>
about two or three weeks off. There were very boastful<lb/>
slovos about what the Government had done, brothers, in<lb/>
the last year or so, what with increased exports and a real<lb/>
horrorshow foreign policy and improved social services<lb/>
and all that cal. But what the Government was really most<lb/>
boastful about was the way in which they reckoned the<lb/>
streets had been made safer for all peace-loving night-<lb/>
walking lewdies in the last six months, what with better<lb/>
pay for the police and the police getting like tougher with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
144<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
young hooligans and perverts and burglars and all that<lb/>
cal. Which interessovatted Your Humble Narrator some<lb/>
deal. And on the second page of the gazetta there was a<lb/>
blurry like photograph of somebody who looked very<lb/>
familiar, and it turned out to be none other than me me<lb/>
me. I looked very gloomy and like scared, but that was<lb/>
really with the flashbulbs going pop pop all the time. What<lb/>
it said underneath my picture was that here was the first<lb/>
graduate of the new State Institute for Reclamation of<lb/>
Criminal Types, cured of his criminal instincts in a fort-<lb/>
night only, now a good law-fearing citizen and all that cal.<lb/>
Then I viddied there was a very boastful article about this<lb/>
Ludovico’s Technique and how clever the Government was<lb/>
and all that cal. Then there was another picture of some<lb/>
veck I thought I knew, and it was this Minister of the<lb/>
Inferior or Interior. It seemed that he had been doing a<lb/>
bit of boasting, looking forward to a nice crime-free era<lb/>
in which there would be no more fear of cowardly attacks<lb/>
from young hooligans and perverts and burglers and all<lb/>
that cal. So I went arghhhhhh and threw this gazetta on<lb/>
the floor, so that it covered up stains of spilled chai and<lb/>
horrible spat gobs from the cally animals that used this<lb/>
caff.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What it was going to be now, brothers, was homeways<lb/>
and a nice surprise for dadada and mum, their only son<lb/>
and heir back in the family bosom. Then I could lay back<lb/>
on the bed in my own malenky den and slooshy some<lb/>
lovely music, and at the same time I could think over<lb/>
what to do now with my jeezny. The Discharge Officer<lb/>
had given me a long list the day before of jobs I could try<lb/>
for, and he had telephoned to different vecks about me,<lb/>
but I had no intention, my brothers, of going off to rabbit<lb/>
</p>
<p>
145<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="89"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
right away. A malenky bit of rest first, yes, and a quiet<lb/>
think on the bed to the sound of lovely music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And so the autobus to Center, and then the autobus to<lb/>
Kingsley Avenue, the flats of Flatblock 18A being just near.<lb/>
You will believe me, my brothers, when I say that my<lb/>
heart was going clopclopclop with the like excitement. All<lb/>
was very quiet, it still being early winter morning, and<lb/>
when I ittied into the vestibule of the flatblock there was<lb/>
no veck about, only the nagoy vecks and cheenas of the<lb/>
Dignity of Labour. What surprised me, brothers, was the<lb/>
way that had been cleaned up, there being no longer any<lb/>
dirty ballooning slovos from the rots of the Dignified<lb/>
Labourers, not any dirty parts of the body added to their<lb/>
naked plotts by dirty-minded pencilling malchicks. And<lb/>
what also surprised me was that the lift was working. It<lb/>
came purring down when I pressed the electric knopka,<lb/>
and when I got in J was surprised again to viddy all was<lb/>
clean inside the like cage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So up I went to the tenth floor, and there I saw 10-8<lb/>
as it had been before, and my rooker trembled and shook<lb/>
as I took out of my carman the little klootch I had for<lb/>
opening up. But I very firmly fitted the klootch in the<lb/>
lock and turned, then opened up then went in, and there<lb/>
I met three pairs of surprised and almost frightened glazzies<lb/>
looking at me, and it was pee and em having their break-<lb/>
fast, but it was also another veck that I had never viddied<lb/>
in my jeezny before, a bolshy thick veck in his shirt and<lb/>
braces, quite at home, brothers, slurping away at the milky<lb/>
chai and munchmunching at his eggiweg and toast. And<lb/>
it was this stranger veck who spoke first, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Who are you, friend? Where did you get hold of a key?<lb/>
Out, before I push your face in. Get out there and knock.<lb/>
Explain your business, quick.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
146<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My dad and mum sat like petrified, and I could viddy<lb/>
they had not yet read the gazetta, then I remembered that<lb/>
the gazetta did not arrive till papapa had gone off to his<lb/>
work. But then mum said, “Oh, youve broken out. You've<lb/>
escaped. Whatever shall we do? We shall have the police<lb/>
here, oh oh oh. Oh, you bad and wicked boy, disgracing<lb/>
us all like this.’ And, believe it or kiss my sharries, she<lb/>
started to go boo hoo. So J started to try and explain, they<lb/>
could ring up the Staja if they wanted, and all the time<lb/>
this stranger veck sat there like frowning and looking as<lb/>
if he could push my litso in with his hairy bolshy beefy<lb/>
fist. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How about you answering a few, brother? What are<lb/>
you doing here and for how long? I didn’t like the tone<lb/>
of what you said just then. Watch it. Come on, speak up.’<lb/>
He was a working-man type veck, very ugly, about thirty<lb/>
or forty, and he sat now with his rot open at me, not<lb/>
govoreeting one single slovo. Then my dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This is all a bit bewildering, son. You should have let<lb/>
us know you were coming. We thought it would be at<lb/>
least another five or six years before they let you out. Not,’<lb/>
he said, and he said it very like gloomy, ‘that we're not<lb/>
very pleased to see you again and a free man, too.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who is this?’ I said. “Why can’t he speak up? What’s<lb/>
going on in here?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This is Joe,’ said my mum. ‘He lives here now. The<lb/>
lodger, that’s what he is. Oh, dear dear dear,’ she went.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You,’ said this Joe. ‘I’ve heard all about you, boy. I<lb/>
know what you've done, breaking the hearts of your poor<lb/>
grieving parents. So youre back, eh? Back to make life a<lb/>
misery for them once more, is that it? Over my dead<lb/>
corpse you will, because they've let me be more like a son<lb/>
to them than like a lodger.’ I could nearly have smecked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
147<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="90"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
loud at that if the old razdraz within me hadn’t started to<lb/>
wake up the feeling of wanting to sick, because this veck<lb/>
looked about the same age as my pee and em, and there<lb/>
he was like trying to put a son’s protecting rooker round<lb/>
my crying mum, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So,’ I said, and I near felt like collapsing in all tears<lb/>
myself. ‘So that’s it, then. Well, I give you five large<lb/>
minootas to clear all your horrible cally veshches out of<lb/>
my room.’ And I made for this room, this veck being a<lb/>
malenky bit too slow to stop me. When I opened the door<lb/>
my heart cracked to the carpet, because I viddied it was<lb/>
no longer like my room at all, brothers. All my flags had<lb/>
gone off the walls and this veck had put up pictures of<lb/>
boxers, also like a team sitting smug with folded rookers<lb/>
and a silver like shield in front. And then I viddied what<lb/>
else was missing. My stereo and my disc-cupboard were<lb/>
no longer there, nor was my locked treasure-chest that<lb/>
contained bottles and drugs and two shining clean syringes.<lb/>
‘There’s been some filthy vonny work going on here,’ I<lb/>
creeched. “What have you done with my own personal<lb/>
veshches, you horrible bastard?’ This was to this Joe, but<lb/>
it was my dad that answered, saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That was all took away, son, by the police. This new<lb/>
regulation, see, about compensation for the victims.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I found it very hard not to be very ill, but my gulliver<lb/>
was aching shocking and my rot was so dry that I had to<lb/>
take a skorry swig from the milk-bottle on the table, so<lb/>
that this Joe said, ‘Filthy piggish manners.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But she died. That one died.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It was the cats, son,’ said my dad like sorrowful, ‘that<lb/>
were left with nobody to look after them till the will was<lb/>
read, so they had to have somebody in to feed them. So<lb/>
the police sold your things, clothes and all, to help with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
148<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the looking after of them. That’s the law, son. But you<lb/>
were never much of a one for following the law.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had to sit down then, and this Joe said, ‘Ask permis-<lb/>
sion before you sit, you mannerless young swine,’ so I<lb/>
cracked back skorry with a ‘Shut your dirty big fat hole,<lb/>
you,’ feeling sick. Then I tried to be all reasonable and<lb/>
smiling for my health’s sake like, so I said, “Well, that’s<lb/>
my room, there’s no denying that. This is my home also.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But they just looked very glum, my mum shaking a bit,<lb/>
her litso all lines and wet with like tears, and then my dad<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All this needs thinking about, son. We can’t very well<lb/>
just kick Joe out, not just like that, can we? I mean, Joe's<lb/>
here doing a job, a contract it is, two years, and we made<lb/>
like an arrangement, didn’t we, Joe? I mean, son, thinking<lb/>
you were going to stay in prison a long time and that<lb/>
room going begging.’ He was a bit ashamed, you could<lb/>
viddy that from his litso. So I just smiled and like nodded,<lb/>
saying:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I viddy all. You got used to a bit of peace and you got<lb/>
used to a bit of extra pretty polly. That’s the way it goes.<lb/>
And your son has just been nothing but a terrible nuisance.’<lb/>
And then, O my brothers, believe me or kiss my sharries,<lb/>
I started to like cry, feeling very like sorry for myself. So<lb/>
my dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well, you see, son, Joe’s paid next month’s rent already.<lb/>
I mean, whatever we do in the future we can’t say to Joe<lb/>
to get out, can we, Joe?’ This Joe said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It's you two I’ve got to think of, who've been like a<lb/>
father and mother to me. Would it be right or fair to go<lb/>
off and leave you to the tender mercies of this young<lb/>
monster who has been like no real son at all? He's weeping<lb/>
</p>
<p>
149<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="91"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
now, but that’s his craft and artfulness. Let him go off and<lb/>
find a room somewhere. Let him learn the error of his<lb/>
ways and that a bad boy like he’s been doesn’t deserve such<lb/>
a good mum and dad as what he’s had.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right,’ I said, standing up in all like tears still. “I<lb/>
know how things are now. Nobody wants or loves me.<lb/>
I’ve suffered and suffered and suffered and everybody wants<lb/>
me to go on suffering. I know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You've made others suffer,’ said this Joe. ‘It’s only right<lb/>
you should suffer proper. I've been told everything that<lb/>
you've done, sitting here at night round the family table,<lb/>
and pretty shocking it was to listen to. Made me real sick<lb/>
a lot of it did.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T wish,’ I said, ‘I was back in the prison. Dear old Staja<lb/>
as it was. I’m ittying off now,’ I said. “You won't ever viddy<lb/>
me no more. I’ll make my own way, thank you very much.<lb/>
Let it lie heavy on your consciences.’ My dad said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Don’t take it like that, son,’ and my mum just went<lb/>
boo hoo hoo, her litso all screwed up real ugly, and this<lb/>
Joe put his rooker round her again, patting her and going<lb/>
there there like bezoomny. And so I just sort of staggered<lb/>
to the door and went out, leaving them to their horrible<lb/>
guilt, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Irryrnc down the street in a like aimless<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ties which lewdies like stared at as I went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
) sort of a way, brothers, in these night plat-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
by, cold too, it being a bastard cold winter<lb/>
day, all I felt I wanted was to be away from<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all this and not to have to think any more about any sort<lb/>
of veshch at all. So I got the autobus to Center, then I<lb/>
walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick<lb/>
MELODIA I had used to favour with my inestimable<lb/>
custom, O my brothers, and it looked much the same sort<lb/>
of mesto as it always had, and walking in I expected to<lb/>
viddy old Andy there, that bald and very very thin helpful<lb/>
like veck from whom I had kupetted discs in the old days.<lb/>
But there was no Andy there now, brothers, only a scream<lb/>
and a creech of nadsat (teenage, that is) malchicks and<lb/>
ptitsas slooshying some new horrible popsong and dancing<lb/>
to it as well, and the veck behind the counter not much<lb/>
more than a nadsat himself, clicking his rooker-bones and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
like deigned to notice me, then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Td like to hear a disc of the Mozart Number Forty.’ I<lb/>
don’t know why that should have come into my gulliver,<lb/>
but it did. The counter-veck said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Forty what, friend?’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Symphony. Symphony Number Forty in G Minor.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I5l<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="92"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ooooh,’ went one of the dancing nadsats, a malchick<lb/>
with his hair all over his glazzies, ‘seemfunnah. Dont it<lb/>
seem funny? He wants a seemfunnah.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I could feel myself growing all razdraz within, but I had<lb/>
to watch that, so I like smiled at the veck who had taken<lb/>
over Andy’s place and at all the dancing and creeching<lb/>
nadsats. This counter-veck said, “You go into that listen-<lb/>
booth over there, friend, and I’ll pipe something through.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I went over to the malenky box where you could<lb/>
slooshy the discs you wanted to buy, and then this veck<lb/>
put a disc on for me, but it wasn't the Mozart Forty, it was<lb/>
the Mozart ‘Prague’ — he seemingly having just picked any<lb/>
Mozart he could find on the shelf — and that should have<lb/>
started making me real razdraz and J had to watch that for<lb/>
fear of the pain and sickness, but what I'd forgotten was<lb/>
something I shouldn't have forgotten and now made me<lb/>
want to snuff it. It was that these doctor bratchnies had<lb/>
so fixed things that any music that was like for the emotions<lb/>
would make me sick just like viddying or wanting to do<lb/>
violence. It was because all those violence films had music<lb/>
with them. And I remembered especially that horrible Nazi<lb/>
film with the Beethoven Fifth, last movement. And now<lb/>
here was lovely Mozart made horrible. I dashed out of the<lb/>
box like bezoomny to get away from the sickness and pain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
these nadsats smecking after me and the counter-veck<lb/>
creeching, ‘Eh eh eh! But I took no notice and went stag-<lb/>
gering almost like blind across the road and round the<lb/>
corner to the Korova Milkbar. I knew what I wanted.<lb/>
The mesto was near empty, it being still morning. It<lb/>
looked strange too, having been painted with all red<lb/>
mooing cows, and behind the counter was no veck I knew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But when I said, ‘Milk, plus, large,’ the veck with a like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
152<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lean litso very newly shaved knew what I wanted. I took<lb/>
the large moloko plus to one of the little cubies that were<lb/>
all round this mesto, there being like curtains to shut them<lb/>
off from the main mesto, and there I sat down in the<lb/>
plushy chair and sipped and sipped. When I'd finished<lb/>
the whole lot I began to feel that things were happening.<lb/>
I had my glazzies like fixed on a malenky bit of silver<lb/>
paper from a cancer packet that was on the floor, the<lb/>
sweeping-up of this mesto not being all that horrorshow,<lb/>
brothers. This scrap of silver began to grow and grow and<lb/>
grow and it was so like bright and fiery that I had to<lb/>
squint my glazzies at it. It got so big that it became not<lb/>
only this whole cubie I was lolling in but like the whole<lb/>
Korova, the whole street, the whole city. Then it was the<lb/>
whole world, then it was the whole everything, brothers,<lb/>
and it was like a sea washing over every veshch that had<lb/>
ever been made or thought of even. I could sort of slooshy<lb/>
myself making special sort of shooms and govoreeting<lb/>
slovos like ‘Dear dead idlewilds, rot not in variform guises’<lb/>
and all that cal. Then I could like feel the vision beating<lb/>
up in all this silver, and then there were colours like nobody<lb/>
had ever viddied before, and then I could viddy like a<lb/>
group of statues a long long long way off that was like<lb/>
being pushed nearer and nearer and nearer, all lit up by<lb/>
very bright light from below and above alike, O my<lb/>
brothers. This group of statues was of God or Bog and all<lb/>
His Holy Angels and Saints, all very bright like bronze,<lb/>
with beards and bolshy great wings that waved about in<lb/>
a kind of wind, so that they could not really be of stone<lb/>
or bronze, really, and the eyes or glazzies like moved and<lb/>
were alive. These bolshy big figures came nearer and nearer<lb/>
and nearer till they were like going to crush me down,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and I could slooshy my goloss going ‘Eeeeee.’ And I felt<lb/>
</p>
<p>
153<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="93"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had got rid of everything — platties, plott, brain, eemya,<lb/>
the lot — and felt real horrorshow, like in heaven. Then<lb/>
there was the shoom of like crumbling and crumpling,<lb/>
and Bog and the Angels and Saints sort of shook their<lb/>
gullivers at me, as though to govoreet that there wasn’t<lb/>
quite time now but I must try again, and then everything<lb/>
like leered and smecked and collapsed and the big warm<lb/>
light grew like cold, and then there I was as I was before,<lb/>
the empty glass on the table and wanting to cry and feeling<lb/>
like death was the only answer to everything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that was it, that was what I viddied quite clear was<lb/>
the thing to do, but how to do it I did not properly know,<lb/>
never having thought of that before, O my brothers. In<lb/>
my little bag of personal veshches I had my cut-throat<lb/>
britva, but I at once felt very sick as I thought of myself<lb/>
going swishhhh at myself and all my own red red krovvy<lb/>
flowing. What I wanted was not something violent but<lb/>
something that would make me like just go off gentle to<lb/>
sleep and that be the end of Your Humble Narrator, no<lb/>
more trouble to anybody any more. Perhaps, I thought,<lb/>
if I ittied off to the Public Biblio round the corner I might<lb/>
find some book on the best way of snuffing it with no<lb/>
pain. I thought of myself dead and how sorry everybody<lb/>
was going to be, pee and em and that cally vonny Joe who<lb/>
was a like usurper, and also Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom<lb/>
and that Inferior Interior Minister and every veck else.<lb/>
And the boastful vonny Government too. So out I scatted<lb/>
into the winter, and it was afternoon now, near two o'clock,<lb/>
as I could viddy from the bolshy Center timepiece, so that<lb/>
me being in the land with the old moloko plus must have<lb/>
took like longer than I thought. I walked down Marghanita<lb/>
Boulevard and then turned into Boothby Avenue, then<lb/>
round the corner again, and there was the Public Biblio.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
154<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was a starry cally sort of a mesto that I could not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of very starry old men with their plotts stinking of like<lb/>
old age and poverty. These were standing at the gazetta<lb/>
stands all round the room, snuffling and belching and<lb/>
govoreeting to themselves and turning over the pages to<lb/>
read the news very sadly, or else they were sitting at the<lb/>
tables looking at the mags or pretending to, some of them<lb/>
asleep and one or two of them snoring real gromky. I<lb/>
couldn’t like remember what it was I wanted at first, then<lb/>
I remembered with a bit of shock that I had ittied here<lb/>
to find out how to snuff it without pain, so I goolied over<lb/>
to the shelf full of reference veshches. There were a lot of<lb/>
books, but there was none with a title, brothers, that would<lb/>
really do. There was a medical book that I took down,<lb/>
but when I opened it it was full of drawings and photo-<lb/>
graphs of horrible wounds and diseases, and that made<lb/>
me want to sick just a bit. So I put that back and then<lb/>
took down the big book or Bible, as it was called, thinking<lb/>
that might give me like comfort as it had done in the old<lb/>
Staja days (not so old really, but it seemed a very very<lb/>
long time ago), and I staggered over to a chair to read in<lb/>
it. But all I found was about smiting seventy times seven<lb/>
and a lot of yahoodies cursing and tolchocking each other,<lb/>
and that made me want to sick, too. So then I near cried,<lb/>
so that a very starry ragged moodge opposite me said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is it, son? What's the trouble?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I want to snuff it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had it, that’s what it is.<lb/>
Life’s become too much for me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A starry reading veck next to me said, “Shhhh,’ without<lb/>
</p>
<p>
155<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="94"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
looking up from some bezoomny mag he had full of draw-<lb/>
ings of like bolshy geometrical veshches. That rang a bell<lb/>
somehow. This other moodge said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Youre too young for that, son. Why, you've got every-<lb/>
thing in front of you.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said, bitter. “Like a pair of false groodies.’ This<lb/>
mag-reading veck said, ‘Shhhh’ again, looking up this time,<lb/>
and something clicked for both of us. I viddied who it<lb/>
was. He said, real gromky:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I never forget a shape, by God. I never forget the shape<lb/>
of anything. By God, you young swine, I’ve got you now.’<lb/>
Crystallography, that was it. That was what he'd been taking<lb/>
away from the Biblio that time. False teeth crunched up<lb/>
real horrorshow. Platties torn off. His books razrezzed, all<lb/>
about Crystallography. I thought I had best get out of here<lb/>
real skorry, brothers. But this starry old moodge was on his<lb/>
feet, creeching like bezoomny to all the starry old coughers<lb/>
at the gazettas round the walls and to them dozing over<lb/>
mags at the tables. “We have him,’ he creeched. “The<lb/>
poisonous young swine who ruined the books on<lb/>
Crystallography, rare books, books not to be obtained ever<lb/>
again, anywhere.’ This had a terrible mad shoom about it,<lb/>
as though this old veck was really off his gulliver. ‘A prize<lb/>
specimen of the cowardly brutal young,’ he creeched. “Here<lb/>
in our midst and at our mercy. He and his friends beat me<lb/>
and kicked me and thumped me. They stripped me and<lb/>
tore out my teeth. They laughed at my blood and my moans.<lb/>
They kicked me off home, dazed and naked.’ All this wasn’t<lb/>
quite true, as you know, brothers. He had some platties on,<lb/>
he hadn't been completely nagoy. I creeched back:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“That was over two years ago. I’ve been punished since<lb/>
then. I’ve learned my lesson. See over there — my picture's<lb/>
in the papers.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
156<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
to itty out of this mesto of bezoomny old men. Aspirin,<lb/>
that was it. You could snuff it on a hundred aspirin. Aspirin<lb/>
from the old drugstore. But the crystallography veck<lb/>
creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dontt let him go. We'll teach him all about punishment,<lb/>
the murderous young pig. Get him.’ And, believe it,<lb/>
brothers, or do the other veshch, two or three starry<lb/>
dodderers, about ninety years old apiece, grabbed me with<lb/>
their trembly old rookers, and I was like made sick by the<lb/>
von of old age and disease which came from these near-<lb/>
dead moodges. The crystal veck was on to me now, starting<lb/>
to deal me malenky weak tolchocks on my litso, and I<lb/>
tried to get away and itty out, but these starry rookers<lb/>
that held me were stronger than I had thought. Then other<lb/>
starry vecks came hobbling from the gazettas to have a go<lb/>
at Your Humble Narrator. They were creeching veshches<lb/>
like: ‘Kill him, stamp on him, murder him, kick his teeth<lb/>
in,’ and all that cal, and I could viddy what it was clear<lb/>
enough. It was old age having a go at youth, that’s what<lb/>
it was. But some of them were saying, ‘Poor old Jack, near<lb/>
killed poor old Jack he did, this is the young swine’ and<lb/>
so on, as though it had all happened yesterday. Which to<lb/>
them I suppose it had. There was now like a sea of vonny<lb/>
runny dirty old men trying to get at me with their like<lb/>
feeble rookers and horny old claws, creeching and panting<lb/>
on to me, but our crystal droog was there in front, dealing<lb/>
out tolchock after tolchock. And I daren’t do a solitary<lb/>
single veshch, O my brothers, it being better to be hit at<lb/>
</p>
<p>
157<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="95"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like that than to want to sick and feel that horrible pain,<lb/>
but of course the fact that there was violence going on<lb/>
made me feel that the sickness was peeping round the<lb/>
corner to viddy whether to come out into the open and<lb/>
roar away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then an attendant veck came along, a youngish veck,<lb/>
and he creeched, “What goes on here? Stop it at once.<lb/>
This is a reading room.’ But nobody took any notice. So<lb/>
the attendant veck said, ‘Right, I shall phone the police.’<lb/>
So I creeched, and I never thought I would ever do that<lb/>
in all my jeezny:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes yes yes, do that, protect me from these old madmen.’<lb/>
I noticed that the attendant veck was not too anxious to<lb/>
join in the dratsing and rescue me from the rage and<lb/>
madness of these starry vecks’ claws; he just scatted off to<lb/>
his like office or wherever the telephone was. Now these<lb/>
old men were panting a lot now, and I felt I could just<lb/>
flick at them and they would all fall over, but I just let<lb/>
myself be held, very patient, by these starry rookers, my<lb/>
glazzies closed, and feel the feeble tolchocks on my litso,<lb/>
also slooshy the panting breathy old golosses creeching,<lb/>
‘Young swine, young murderer, hooligan, thug, kill him.’<lb/>
Then I got such a real painful tolchock on the nose that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
up and started to struggle to get free, which was not hard,<lb/>
brothers, and I tore off creeching to the sort of hallway<lb/>
outside the reading-room. But these starry avengers still<lb/>
came after me, panting like dying, with their animal claws<lb/>
all trembling to get at your friend and Humble Narrator.<lb/>
Then I was tripped up and was on the floor and was being<lb/>
kicked at, then I slooshied golosses of young vecks<lb/>
creeching, ‘All right, all right, stop it now,’ and I knew<lb/>
the police had arrived.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
158<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was like dazed, O my brothers, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
could not viddy very clear, but I was sure<lb/>
35 I had met these millicents some mesto<lb/>
</p>
<p>
before. The one who had hold of me,<lb/>
going, “There there there,’ just by the front<lb/>
door of the Public Biblio, him I did not know at all, but<lb/>
it seemed to me he was like very young to be a rozz. But<lb/>
the other two had backs that I was sure I had viddied<lb/>
before. They were lashing into these starry old vecks with<lb/>
great bolshy glee and joy, swishing away with malenky<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
teach you to stop rioting and breaking the State's peace,<lb/>
you wicked villains, you.’ So they drove these panting and<lb/>
wheezing and near dying starry avengers back into the<lb/>
reading-room, then they turned round, smecking with the<lb/>
fun they'd had, to viddy me. The older one of the two<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well well well well well. If it isn’t little Alex.<lb/>
Very long time no viddy, droog. How goes?’ I was like<lb/>
dazed, the uniform and the shlem or helmet making it<lb/>
very hard to viddy who this was, though litso and goloss<lb/>
were very familiar. Then I looked at the other one, and<lb/>
about him, with his grinny bezoomny litso, there was no<lb/>
doubt. Then, all numb and growing number, I looked<lb/>
back at the well well welling one. This one was then fatty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
159<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="96"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old Billyboy, my old enemy. The other was, of course,<lb/>
Dim, who had used to be my droog and also the enemy<lb/>
of stinking fatty goaty Billyboy, but was now a millicent<lb/>
with uniform and shlem and whip to keep order. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh no.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Surprise, eh?’ And old Dim came out with the old guff<lb/>
I remembered so horrorshow: ‘Huh huh huh.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘It’s impossible,’ I said. ‘It can’t be so. I don’t believe it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Evidence of the old glazzies,’ grinned Billyboy. ‘Nothing<lb/>
up our sleeves. No magic, droog. A job for two who are<lb/>
now of job-age. The police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You're too young,’ I said. ‘Much too young. They don't<lb/>
make rozzes of malchicks of your age.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Was young,’ went old millicent Dim. I could not get<lb/>
over it, brothers, I really could not. “That’s what we was,<lb/>
young droogie. And you it was that was always the<lb/>
youngest. And here now we are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T still can’t believe it,’ I said. Then Billyboy, rozz Billyboy<lb/>
that I couldn’t get over, said to this young millicent that<lb/>
was like holding on to me and that I did not know:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘More good would be done, I think, Rex, if we doled<lb/>
out a bit of the old summary. Boys will be boys, as always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
one here has been up to his old tricks, as we can well<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
attacking the aged and defenceless, and they have properly<lb/>
been retaliating. But we must have our say in the State's<lb/>
name.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What is all this?’ I said, not able hardly to believe my<lb/>
ookos. ‘It was them that went for me, brothers. You're not<lb/>
on their side and can’t be. You can't be, Dim. It was a<lb/>
veck we fillied with once in the old days trying to get his<lb/>
own malenky bit of revenge after all this long time.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
160<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Long time is right,’ said Dim. ‘I don’t remember them<lb/>
days too horrorshow. Don’t call me Dim no more, either.<lb/>
Officer call me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Enough is remembered, though,’ Billyboy kept nodding.<lb/>
He was not so fatty as he had been. “Naughty little<lb/>
malchicks handy with cut-throat britvas — these must be<lb/>
kept under.’ And they took me in a real strong grip and<lb/>
like walked me out of the Biblio. There was a millicent<lb/>
patrol-car waiting outside, and this veck they called Rex<lb/>
was the driver. They like tolchocked me into the back of<lb/>
this auto, and I couldn't help feeling it was all really like<lb/>
a joke, and that Dim anyway would pull his shlem off his<lb/>
gulliver and go haw haw haw. But he didn’t. I said, trying<lb/>
to fight the strack inside me:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And old Pete, what happened to old Pete? It was sad<lb/>
about Georgie,’ I said. ‘I slooshied all about that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Pete, oh yes, Pete,’ said Dim. ‘I seem to remember like<lb/>
the name.’ I could viddy we were driving out of town. I<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where are we supposed to be going?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Billyboy turned round from the front to say, ‘It is light<lb/>
still. A little drive into the country, all winter-bare but lonely<lb/>
and lovely. It is not right, not always, for lewdies in the town<lb/>
to viddy too much of our summary punishment. Streets<lb/>
must be kept clean in more than one way.’ And he turned<lb/>
to the front again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Come,’ I said. ‘I just don’t get this at all. The old days<lb/>
are dead and gone days. For what I did in the past I have<lb/>
been punished. I have been cured.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That was read out to us,’ said Dim. “The Super read<lb/>
all that out to us. He said it was a very good way.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Read to you,’ I said, a malenky bit nasty. “You still too<lb/>
dim to read for yourself, O brother?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="97"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, no,’ said Dim, very like gentle and like regretful.<lb/>
‘Not to speak like that. Not no more, droogie.’ And he<lb/>
launched a bolshy tolchock right on my cluve, so that all<lb/>
red red nose-krovvy started to drip drip drip.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There was never any trust,’ I said, bitter, wiping off<lb/>
the krovvy with my rooker. I was always on my oddy<lb/>
knocky.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This will do,’ said Billyboy. We were now in the country<lb/>
and it was all bare trees and a few odd distant like twit-<lb/>
ters, and in the distance there was some like farm machine<lb/>
making a whirring shoom. It was getting all dusk now,<lb/>
this being the heighth of winter. There were no lewdies<lb/>
about, nor no animals. There was just the four. “Get out,<lb/>
Alex boy,’ said Dim. ‘Just a malenky bit of summary.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All through what they did this driver veck just sat at the<lb/>
wheel of the auto, smoking a cancer, reading a malenky<lb/>
bit of a book. He had the light on in the auto to viddy<lb/>
by. He took no notice of what Billyboy and Dim did to<lb/>
your Humble Narrator. I will not go into what they did,<lb/>
but it was all like panting and thudding against this like<lb/>
background of whirring farm engines and the twittwittwit-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
say which one, said, ‘About enough, droogie, I should think,<lb/>
shouldn't you?’ Then they gave me one final tolchock on<lb/>
the litso each and I fell over and just laid there on the<lb/>
grass. It was cold but I was not feeling the cold. Then they<lb/>
dusted their rookers and put back on their shlems and<lb/>
tunics which they had taken off, and then they got back<lb/>
into the auto. “Be viddying you some more sometime, Alex,’<lb/>
said Billyboy, and Dim just gave one of his old clowny<lb/>
</p>
<p>
162<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eufts. The driver finished the page he was reading and put<lb/>
his book away, then he started the auto and they were off<lb/>
townwards, my ex-droog and ex-enemy waving. But I just<lb/>
laid there, fagged and shagged.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After a bit I was hurting bad, and then the rain started,<lb/>
all icy. I could viddy no lewdies in sight, nor no lights of<lb/>
houses. Where was I to go, who had no home and not<lb/>
much cutter in my carmans? I cried for myself boo hoo<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hoo. Then I got up and began walking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="98"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Home, home home, it was home I was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
brothers. I walked through the dark and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wanting, and it was HOME I came to,<lb/>
- followed not the town way but the way<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
where the shoom of a like farm machine<lb/>
had been coming from. This brought me to a sort of village<lb/>
I felt I had viddied before, but was perhaps because all<lb/>
villages look the same, in the dark especially. Here were<lb/>
houses and there was a like drinking mesto, and right at<lb/>
the end of the village there was a malenky cottage on its<lb/>
oddy knocky, and I could viddy its name shining white<lb/>
on the gate. HOME, it said. I was all dripping wet with<lb/>
this icy rain, so that my platties were no longer in the<lb/>
heighth of fashion but real miserable and like pathetic,<lb/>
and my luscious glory was a wet tangled cally mess all<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spread over my gulliver, and I was sure there were cuts<lb/>
and bruises all over my litso, and a couple of my zoobies<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
and my stomach growled grrrrr all the time with not<lb/>
having had any pishcha since morning and then not very<lb/>
much, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
HOME, it said, and perhaps here would be some veck<lb/>
to help. I opened the gate and sort of slithered down the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
165<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="99"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
path, the rain like turning to ice, and then I knocked<lb/>
gentle and pathetic on the door. No veck came, so I<lb/>
knocked a malenky bit longer and louder, and then I heard<lb/>
the shoom of nogas coming to the door. Then the door<lb/>
opened and a male goloss said, “Yes, what is it?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘please help. I've been beaten up by the<lb/>
police and just left to die on the road. Oh, please give me<lb/>
a drink of something and a sit by the fire, please, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The door opened full then, and I could viddy like warm<lb/>
light and a fire going crackle crackle within. ‘Come in,’<lb/>
said this veck, ‘whoever you are. God help you, you poor<lb/>
victim, come in and let’s have a look at you.’ So I like<lb/>
staggered in, and it was no big act I was putting on,<lb/>
brothers, I really felt done and finished. This kind veck<lb/>
put his rookers round my pletchoes and pulled me into<lb/>
this room where the fire was, and of course I knew right<lb/>
away now where it was and why HOME on the gate<lb/>
looked so familiar. I looked at this veck and he looked at<lb/>
me in a kind sort of way, and I remembered him well<lb/>
now. Of course he would not remember me, for in those<lb/>
carefree days I and my so-called droogs did all our bolshy<lb/>
dratsing and fillying and crasting in maskies which were<lb/>
real horrorshow disguises. He was a shortish veck in middle<lb/>
age, thirty, forty, fifty, and he had otchkies on. ‘Sit down<lb/>
by the fire,’ he said, ‘and I'll get you some whisky and<lb/>
warm water. Dear dear dear, somebody /as been beating<lb/>
you up.’ And he gave a like tender look at my gulliver<lb/>
and litso.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The police,’ I said. “The horrible ghastly police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Another victim,’ he said, like sighing. ‘A victim of the<lb/>
modern age. I’ll go and get you that whisky and then I<lb/>
must clean up your wounds a little.’ And off he went. I<lb/>
had a look round this malenky comfortable room. It was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
166<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nearly all books now and a fire and a couple of chairs,<lb/>
and you could viddy somehow that there wasn’t a woman<lb/>
living there. On the table was a typewriter and a lot of<lb/>
like tumbled papers, and I remembered that this veck was<lb/>
a writer veck. A Clockwork Orange, that had been it. It<lb/>
was funny that that stuck in my mind. J must not let on,<lb/>
though, for I needed help and kindness now. Those horrible<lb/>
grahzny bratchnies in that terrible white mesto had done<lb/>
that to me, making me need help and kindness now and<lb/>
forcing me to want to give help and kindness myself, if<lb/>
anybody would take it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Here we are, then,’ said this veck returning. He gave<lb/>
me this hot stimulating glassful to peet, and it made me<lb/>
feel better, and then he cleaned up these cuts on my litso.<lb/>
Then he said, ‘You have a nice hot bath, Pll draw it for<lb/>
you, and then you can tell me all about it over a nice hot<lb/>
supper which I’ll get ready while you're having the bath.’<lb/>
O my brothers, I could have wept at his kindness, and I<lb/>
think he must have viddied the old tears in my glazzies,<lb/>
for he said, ‘There there there,’ patting me on the pletcho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, I went up and had this hot bath, and he brought<lb/>
in pyjamas and an over-gown for me to put on, all warmed<lb/>
by the fire, also a very worn pair of toofles. And now,<lb/>
brothers, though I was aching and full of pains all over, I<lb/>
felt I would soon feel a lot better. I ittied downstairs and<lb/>
viddied that in the kitchen he had set the table with knives<lb/>
and forks and a fine big loaf of kleb, also a bottle of<lb/>
PRIMA SAUCE, and soon he served out a nice fry of<lb/>
eggiwegs and lomticks of ham and bursting sausages and<lb/>
big bolshy mugs of hot sweet milky chai. It was nice sitting<lb/>
there in the warm, eating, and I found I was very hungry,<lb/>
so that after the fry I had to eat lomtick after lomtick of<lb/>
kleb and butter spread with strawberry jam out of a bolshy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
167<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="100"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
great pot. ‘A lot better,’ I said. “How can I ever repay?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T think I know who you are,’ he said. ‘If you are who<lb/>
I think you are, then you've come, my friend, to the right<lb/>
place. Wasn’t that your picture in the papers this morning?<lb/>
Are you the poor victim of this horrible new technique?<lb/>
If so, then you have been sent here by Providence. Tortured<lb/>
in prison, then thrown out to be tortured by the police.<lb/>
My heart goes out to you, poor poor boy.’ Brothers, I<lb/>
could not get a slovo in, though I had my rot wide open<lb/>
to answer his questions. “You are not the first to come<lb/>
here in distress,’ he said. “The police are fond of bringing<lb/>
their victims to the outskirts of this village. But it is<lb/>
providential that you, who are also another kind of victim,<lb/>
should come here. Perhaps, then, you have heard of me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I had to be very careful, brothers. I said, ‘I have heard<lb/>
of A Clockwork Orange. | have not read it, but I have heard<lb/>
of it.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ he said, and his litso shone like the sun in its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ptitsa — lady, I mean. There was no real harm meant.<lb/>
Unfortunately the lady strained her good old heart in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of my own accord, and then she died. I was accused of<lb/>
being the cause of her death. So I was sent to prison, sir.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Yes yes yes, go on.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Then I was picked out by the Minister of the Inferior<lb/>
or Interior to have this Ludovico’s veshch tried out on<lb/>
me.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tell me all about it,’ he said, leaning forward eager, his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pullover elbows with all strawberry jam on them from the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
168<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
plate I'd pushed to one side. So I told him all about it. I<lb/>
told him the lot, all, my brothers. He was very eager to<lb/>
hear all, his glazzies like shining and his goobers apart,<lb/>
while the grease on the plates grew harder harder harder.<lb/>
When I had finished he got up from the table, nodding<lb/>
a lot and going hm hm hm, picking up the plates and<lb/>
other veshches from the table and taking them to the sink<lb/>
for washing up. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I will do that, sir, and gladly.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Rest, rest, poor lad,’ he said, turning the tap on so that<lb/>
all steam came burping out. “You've sinned, I suppose, but<lb/>
your punishment has been out of all proportion. They<lb/>
have turned you into something other than a human being.<lb/>
You have no power of choice any longer. You are committed<lb/>
to socially acceptable acts, a little machine capable only<lb/>
of good. And I see that clearly — that business about the<lb/>
marginal conditionings. Music and the sexual act, literature<lb/>
and art, all must be a source now not of pleasure but of<lb/>
pain.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s right, sir,’ I said, smoking one of this kind man’s<lb/>
cork-tipped cancers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘They always bite off too much,’ he said, drying a plate<lb/>
like absent-mindedly. ‘But the essential intention is the<lb/>
real sin. A man who cannot choose ceases to be a man.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s what the charles said, sir, I said. “The prison<lb/>
chaplain, I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Did he, did he? Of course he did. He’d have to, wouldn’t<lb/>
he, being a Christian? Well, now then,’ he said, still wiping<lb/>
the same plate he'd been wiping ten minutes ago, ‘we shall<lb/>
have a few people in to see you tomorrow. I think that<lb/>
you can be used, poor boy. I think you can help dislodge<lb/>
this overbearing Government. To turn a decent young man<lb/>
into a piece of clockwork should not, surely, be seen as<lb/>
</p>
<p>
169<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="101"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
any triumph for any government, save one that boasts of<lb/>
its repressiveness.’ He was still wiping this same plate. I<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Sir, youre still wiping that same plate. I agree with you,<lb/>
sit, about boasting. This Government seems to be very<lb/>
boastful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ he said, like viddying this plate for the first time<lb/>
and then putting it down. ‘I’m still not too handy,’ he<lb/>
said, ‘with domestic chores. My wife used to do them all<lb/>
and leave me to my writing.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Your wife, sir?’ I said. ‘Has she gone and left you?’ I<lb/>
really wanted to know about his wife, remembering very<lb/>
well.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, left me,’ he said, in a like loud and bitter goloss.<lb/>
‘She died, you see. She was brutally raped and beaten. The<lb/>
shock was very great. It was in this house,’ his rookers<lb/>
were trembling, holding a wiping-up cloth, ‘in that room<lb/>
next door. I have had to steel myself to continue to live<lb/>
here, but she would have wished me to stay where her<lb/>
fragrant memory still lingers. Yes yes yes. Poor little girl.’<lb/>
I viddied all clearly, my brothers, what had happened that<lb/>
far-off nochy, and viddying myself on that job, I began<lb/>
to feel I wanted to sick and the pain started up in my<lb/>
gulliver. This veck viddied this, because my litso felt it<lb/>
was all drained of red red krovwvy, very pale, and he would<lb/>
be able to viddy this. “You go to bed now,’ he said kindly.<lb/>
‘I've got the spare room ready. Poor poor boy, you must<lb/>
have had a terrible time. A victim of the modern age, just<lb/>
as she was. Poor poor poor girl.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wap a real horrorshow night's sleep,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
morning was very clear and like frosty, and<lb/>
there was the very pleasant like von of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
breakfast frying away down below. It took<lb/>
me some little time to remember where I was, as it always<lb/>
does, but it soon came back to me and then I felt like<lb/>
warmed and protected. But, as I laid there in the bed,<lb/>
waiting to be called down to breakfast, it struck me that I<lb/>
ought to get to know the name of this kind protecting and<lb/>
like motherly veck, so I had a pad round in my nagoy<lb/>
nogas looking for A Clockwork Orange, which would be<lb/>
bound to have his eemya in, he being the author. There<lb/>
was nothing in my bedroom except a bed and a chair and<lb/>
a light, so I ittied next door to this veck’s own room, and<lb/>
there I viddied his wife on the wall, a bolshy blown-up<lb/>
photo, so I felt a malenky bit sick remembering. But there<lb/>
were two or three shelves of books there too, and there<lb/>
was, as I thought there must be, a copy of A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange, and on the back of the book, like on the spine,<lb/>
was the author’s eemya— F. Alexander. Good Bog, I thought,<lb/>
he is another Alex. Then I leafed through, standing in my<lb/>
pyjamas and bare nogas but not feeling one malenky bit<lb/>
cold, the cottage being warm all through, and I could not<lb/>
viddy what the book was about. It seemed written in a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
171<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="102"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very bezoomny like style, full of Ah and Oh and that cal,<lb/>
but what seemed to come out of it was that all lewdies<lb/>
nowadays were being turned into machines and that they<lb/>
were really — you and me and him and kiss-my-sharries<lb/>
— more like a natural growth like a fruit. F Alexander<lb/>
seemed to think that we all like grow on what he called<lb/>
the world-tree in the world-orchard that like Bog or God<lb/>
planted, and we were there because Bog or God had need<lb/>
of us to quench his thirsty love, or some such cal. I didnt<lb/>
like the shoom of this at all, O my brothers, and wondered<lb/>
how bezoomny this F, Alexander really was, perhaps driven<lb/>
bezoomny by his wife’s snuffing it. But then he called me<lb/>
down in a like sane veck’s goloss, full of joy and love and<lb/>
all that cal, so down Your Humble Narrator went.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You've slept long,’ he said, ladling out boiled eggs and<lb/>
pulling black toast from under the grill. ‘Irs nearly ten<lb/>
already. I’ve been up hours, working.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Writing another book, sir?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No no, not that now,’ he said, and we sat down nice<lb/>
and droogy to the old crack crack crack of eggs and crackle<lb/>
crunch crunch of this black toast, very milky chai standing<lb/>
by in bolshy great morning mugs. ‘No, I’ve been on the<lb/>
phone to various people.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I thought you didn’t have a phone,’ I said, spooning<lb/>
egg in and not watching out what I was saying.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Why?’ he said, very alert like some skorry animal with<lb/>
an egg-spoon in its rooker. “Why shouldn't you think I<lb/>
have a phone?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nothing, ‘I said, ‘nothing, nothing.’ And I wondered,<lb/>
brothers, how much he remembered of the earlier part of<lb/>
that distant nochy, me coming to the door with the old<lb/>
tale and saying to phone the doctor and she saying no<lb/>
phone. He took a very close smot at me but then went<lb/>
</p>
<p>
172<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
back to being like kind and cheerful and spooning up the<lb/>
old eggiweg. Munching away, he said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, I’ve rung up various people who will be interested<lb/>
in your case. You can be a very potent weapon, you see,<lb/>
in ensuring that this present evil and wicked Government<lb/>
is not returned in the forthcoming election. The<lb/>
Government's big boast, you see, is the way it has dealt<lb/>
with crime these last months.’ He looked at me very close<lb/>
again over his steaming egg, and I wondered again if he<lb/>
was viddying what part I had so far played in his jeezny.<lb/>
But he said, ‘Recruiting brutal young roughs for the police.<lb/>
Proposing debilitating and will-sapping techniques of<lb/>
conditioning.’ All these long slovos, brothers, and a like<lb/>
mad or bezoomny look in his glazzies. “We’ve seen it all<lb/>
before,’ he said, ‘in other countries. The thin end of the<lb/>
wedge. Before we know where we are we shall have the<lb/>
full apparatus of totalitarianism.’ “Dear dear dear,’ I<lb/>
thought, egging away and toast-crunching. | said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Where do I come into all this, sir?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You,’ he said, still with this bezoomny look, ‘are a living<lb/>
witness to these diabolical proposals. The people, the<lb/>
common people must know, must see.’ He got up from<lb/>
his breakfast and started to walk up and down the kitchen,<lb/>
from the sink to the like larder, saying very gromky, “Would<lb/>
they like their sons to become what you, poor victim, have<lb/>
become? Will not the Government itself now decide what<lb/>
is and what is not crime and pump out the life and guts<lb/>
and will of whoever sees fit to displease the Government?’<lb/>
He became quieter but did not go back to his egg. ‘I’ve<lb/>
written an article,’ he said, ‘this morning, while you were<lb/>
sleeping. That will be out in a day or so, together with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
of what they have done to you.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
173<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="103"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what do you get out of all this, sir? I mean, besides<lb/>
the pretty polly you'll get for the article, as you call it? I<lb/>
mean, why are you so hot and strong against this<lb/>
Government, if I may make like so bold as to ask?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He gripped the edge of the table and said, gritting his<lb/>
zoobies, which were very cally and all stained with cancer-<lb/>
smoke, ‘Some of us have to fight. There are great traditions<lb/>
of liberty to defend. I am no partisan man. Where I see<lb/>
the infamy I seek to erase it. Party names mean nothing.<lb/>
The tradition of liberty means all. The common people<lb/>
will let it go, oh yes. They will sell liberty for a quieter<lb/>
life. That is why they must be prodded, prodded — And<lb/>
here, brothers, he picked up a fork and stuck it two or<lb/>
three razzes into the wall, so that it all got bent. Then he<lb/>
threw it on the floor. Very kindly he said, “Eat well, poor<lb/>
boy, poor victim of the modern world,’ and I could viddy<lb/>
quite clear he was going off his gulliver. “Eat, eat. Eat my<lb/>
ege as well.’ But I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what do I get out of this? Do I get cured of the<lb/>
way | am? Do I find myself able to slooshy the old Choral<lb/>
Symphony without being sick once more? Can I live like<lb/>
a normal jeezny again? What, sir, happens to me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked at me, brothers, as if he hadn’t thought of<lb/>
that before and, anyway, it didn’t matter compared with<lb/>
Liberty and all that cal, and he had a look of surprise at<lb/>
me saying what I said, as though I was being like selfish<lb/>
in wanting something for myself. Then he said, ‘Oh, as I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
breakfast and then come and see what I’ve written, for it’s<lb/>
going into The Weekly Trumpet under your name, you<lb/>
unfortunate victim.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, brothers, what he had written was a very long and<lb/>
very weepy piece of writing, and as I read it I felt very<lb/>
</p>
<p>
174<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Le<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SEER UGA RON<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sorry for the poor malchick who was govoreeting about<lb/>
his sufferings and how the Government had sapped his<lb/>
will and how it was up to all lewdies to not let such a<lb/>
rotten and evil Government rule them again, and then of<lb/>
course I realised that the poor suffering malchick was none<lb/>
other than Y.H.N. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘Real horrorshow.<lb/>
Written well thou hast, O sir.’ And then he looked at me<lb/>
very narrow and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, that,’ I said, ‘is what we call nadsat talk. All the<lb/>
teens use that, sir” So then he ittied off to the kitchen to<lb/>
wash up the dishes, and I was left in these borrowed night<lb/>
platties and toofles, waiting to have done to me what was<lb/>
going to be done to me, because I had no plans for myself,<lb/>
O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While the great F. Alexander was in the kitchen a ding-<lb/>
alingaling came at the door. ‘Ah,’ he creeched, coming out<lb/>
wiping his rookers, ‘it will be these people. I'll go.’ So he<lb/>
went and let them in, a kind of rumbling hahaha of talk<lb/>
and hallo and filthy weather and how are things in the<lb/>
hallway, then they ittied into the room with the fire and<lb/>
the books and the article about how I had suffered,<lb/>
viddying me and going Aaaaah as they did it. There were<lb/>
three lewdies, and F. Alex gave me their eemyas. Z. Dolin<lb/>
was a very wheezy smoky kind of a veck, coughing kashl<lb/>
kashl kashl with the end of a cancer in his rot, spilling<lb/>
ash all down his platties and then brushing it away with<lb/>
like very impatient rookers. He was a malenky round veck,<lb/>
fat, with big thick-framed otchkies on. Then there was<lb/>
Something Something Rubinstein, a very tall and polite<lb/>
chelloveck with a real gentleman's goloss, very starry with<lb/>
a like eggy beard. And lastly there was D. B. da Silva who<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was like skorry in his movements and had this strong von<lb/>
</p>
<p>
175<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="104"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of scent coming from him. They all had a real horrorshow<lb/>
look at me and seemed like overjoyed with what they<lb/>
viddied. Z. Dolin said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right, eh? What a superb device he can be,<lb/>
this boy. If anything, of course, he could for preference<lb/>
look even iller and more zombyish than he does. Anything<lb/>
for the cause. No doubt we can think of something.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I did not like that crack about zombyish, brothers, and<lb/>
so I said, “What goes on, bratties? What dost thou in mind<lb/>
for thy little droog have?’ And then F. Alexander swooshed<lb/>
in with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Strange, strange, that manner of voice pricks me. We've<lb/>
come into contact before, I’m sure we have.’ And he<lb/>
brooded, like frowning. I would have to watch this, O my<lb/>
brothers. D. B. da Silva said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Public meetings, mainly. To exhibit you at public meet-<lb/>
ings will be a tremendous help. And, of course, the news-<lb/>
paper angle is all tied up. A ruined life is the approach.<lb/>
We must inflame all hearts.’ He showed his thirty-odd<lb/>
zoobies, very white against his dark-coloured litso, he<lb/>
looking a malenky bit like some foreigner. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Nobody will tell me what I get out of all this. Tortured<lb/>
in jail, thrown out of my home by my own parents and<lb/>
their filthy overbearing lodger, beaten by old men and<lb/>
near-killed by the millicents — what is to become of me?’<lb/>
The Rubinstein veck came in with:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You will see, boy, that the Party will not be ungrateful.<lb/>
Oh, no. At the end of it all there will be some very accept-<lb/>
able little surprise for you. Just you wait and see.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“There’s only one veshch I require,’ I creeched out, ‘and<lb/>
that’s to be normal and healthy as I was in the starry days,<lb/>
having my malenky bit of fun with real droogs and not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
176<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like traitors. Can you do that, eh? Can any veck restore<lb/>
me to what I was? That’s what I want and that’s what I<lb/>
want to know.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kashl kashl kashl, coughed this Z. Dolin. ‘A martyr to<lb/>
the cause of Liberty,’ he said. “You have your part to play<lb/>
and don’t forget it. Meanwhile, we shall look after you.’<lb/>
And he began to stroke my left rooker as if I was like an<lb/>
idiot, grinning in a bezoomny way. I creeched:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Stop treating me like a thing that’s like got to be just<lb/>
used. I’m not an idiot you can impose on, you stupid<lb/>
bratchnies. Ordinary prestoopnicks are stupid, but I’m not<lb/>
ordinary and nor am I dim. Do you slooshy?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim,’ said F. Alexander, like musing. ‘Dim. That was<lb/>
a name somewhere. Dim.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh?’ I said. “What's Dim got to do with it? What do<lb/>
you know about Dim?’ And then I said, ‘Oh, Bog help<lb/>
us.’ I didn’t like the like look in E Alexander’s glazzies. I<lb/>
made for the door, wanting to go upstairs and get my<lb/>
platties and then itty off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I could almost believe,’ said F. Alexander, showing his<lb/>
stained zoobies, his glazzies mad. “But such things are<lb/>
impossible. For, by Christ, if he were I'd tear him. I'd split<lb/>
him, by God, yes yes, so I would.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There,’ said D. B. da Silva, stroking his chest like he<lb/>
was a doggie to calm him down. ‘It’s all in the past. It<lb/>
was other people altogether. We must help this poor victim.<lb/>
That’s what we must do now, remembering the Future<lb/>
and our Cause.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T’ll just get my platties,’ I said, at the stair-foot, ‘that<lb/>
is to say clothes, and then I'll be ittying off all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky. I mean, my gratitude for all, but I have my<lb/>
own jeezny to live.’ Because, brothers, I wanted to get out<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of here real skorry. But Z. Dolin said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
177<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="105"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, no. We have you, friend, and we keep you. You<lb/>
come with us. Everything will be all right, you'll see.’ And<lb/>
he came up to me like to grab hold of my rooker again.<lb/>
Then, brothers, I thought of fight, but thinking of fight<lb/>
made me like want to collapse and sick, so I just stood.<lb/>
And then I saw this like madness in F Alexander's glazzies<lb/>
and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Whatever you say. I am in your rookers. But let’s get<lb/>
it started and all over, brothers.’ Because what I wanted<lb/>
now was to get out of this mesto called HOME. I was<lb/>
beginning not to like the like look of the glazzies of F.<lb/>
Alexander one malenky bit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good,’ said this Rubinstein. ‘Get dressed and let’s get<lb/>
started.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Dim dim dim,’ E Alexander kept saying in a like low<lb/>
mutter. “What or who was this Dim?’ | ittied upstairs real<lb/>
skorry and dressed in near two seconds flat. Then I was out<lb/>
with these three and into an auto, Rubinstein one side of<lb/>
me and Z. Dolin coughing kashl kashl kashl the other side,<lb/>
D. B. da Silva doing the driving, into the town and to a<lb/>
flatblock not really all that distant from what had used to<lb/>
be my own flatblock or home. ‘Come, boy, out,’ said Z.<lb/>
Dolin, coughing to make the cancer-end in his rot glow red<lb/>
like some malenky furnace. “This is where you shall be<lb/>
installed.’ So we ittied in, and there was like another of these<lb/>
Dignity of Labour veshches on the wall of the vestibule, and<lb/>
we upped in the lift, brothers, and then went into a flat like<lb/>
all the flats of all the flatblocks of the town. Very very<lb/>
malenky, with two bedrooms and one live-eat-work-room,<lb/>
the table of this all covered with books and papers and ink<lb/>
and bottles and all that cal. “Here is your new home,’ said<lb/>
D. B. da Silva. ‘Settle here, boy. Food is in the food-cupboard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
178<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eh,’ I said, not quite ponying that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right,’ said Rubinstein, with his starry goloss. “We<lb/>
are now leaving you. Work has to be done. We'll be with<lb/>
you later. Occupy yourself as best you can.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘One thing,’ coughed Z. Dolin kashl kash! kashl. “You<lb/>
saw what stirred in the tortured memory of our friend<lb/>
FE. Alexander. Was it, by any chance —? That is to say, did<lb/>
you —? I think you know what I mean. We won't let it go<lb/>
any further.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T’ve paid,’ I said. “Bog knows I’ve paid for what I did.<lb/>
[ve paid not only like for myself but for those bratchnies<lb/>
too that called themselves my droogs.’ I felt violent so<lb/>
then I felt a bit sick. ‘Pll lay down a bit,’ I said. ‘Pve been<lb/>
through terrible terrible times.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You have,’ said D. B. da Silva, showing all his thirty<lb/>
zoobies. “You do that.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So they left me, brothers. They ittied off about their<lb/>
business, which I took to be about politics and all that<lb/>
cal, and I was on the bed, all on my oddy knocky with<lb/>
everything very very quiet. I just laid there with my sabogs<lb/>
kicked off my nogas and my tie loose, like all bewildered<lb/>
and not knowing what sort of a jeezny I was going to live<lb/>
now. And all sorts of like pictures kept like passing through<lb/>
my gulliver, of the different chellovecks I'd met at school<lb/>
and in the Staja, and the different veshches that had<lb/>
happened to me, and how there was not one veck you<lb/>
could trust in the whole bolshy world. And then I like<lb/>
dozed off, brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I woke up I could slooshy music coming out of<lb/>
the wall, real gromky, and it was that that had dragged<lb/>
me out of my bit of like sleep. It was a symphony that I<lb/>
knew real horrorshow but had not slooshied for many a<lb/>
year, namely the Symphony Number Three of the Danish<lb/>
</p>
<p>
179<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="106"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
veck Otto Skadelig, a very gromky and violent piece,<lb/>
especially in the first movement, which was what was<lb/>
playing now. I slooshied for two seconds in like interest<lb/>
and joy, but then it all came over me, the start of the pain<lb/>
and the sickness, and I began to groan deep down in my<lb/>
keeshkas. And then there I was, me who had loved music<lb/>
so much, crawling off the bed and going oh oh oh to<lb/>
myself, and then bang bang banging on the wall creeching,<lb/>
‘Stop, stop it, turn it off? But it went on and it seemed<lb/>
to be like louder. So I crashed at the wall till my knuckles<lb/>
were all red red krovvy and torn skin, creeching and<lb/>
creeching, but the music did not stop. Then I thought I<lb/>
had to get away from it, so I lurched out of the malenky<lb/>
bedroom and ittied skorry to the front door of the flat,<lb/>
but this had been locked from the outside and I could<lb/>
not get out. And all the time the music got more and<lb/>
more gromky, like it was all a deliberate torture, O my<lb/>
brothers. So I stuck my little fingers real deep in my ookos,<lb/>
but the trombones and kettledrums blasted through<lb/>
gromky enough. So I creeched again for them to stop and<lb/>
went hammer hammer hammer on the wall, but it made<lb/>
not one malenky bit of difference. ‘Oh, what am I to do?’<lb/>
I boohooed to myself. ‘Oh, Bog in Heaven help me.’ I<lb/>
was like wandering all over the flat in pain and sickness,<lb/>
trying to shut out the music and like groaning deep out<lb/>
of my guts, and then on top of the pile of books and<lb/>
papers and all that cal that was on the table in the living-<lb/>
room I viddied what I had to do and what I had wanted<lb/>
to do until those old men in the Public Biblio and then<lb/>
Dim and Billyboy disguised as rozzes stopped me, and<lb/>
that was to do myself in, to snuff it, to blast off for ever<lb/>
out of this wicked and cruel world. What I viddied was<lb/>
the slovo DEATH on the cover of a like pamphlet, even<lb/>
</p>
<p>
180<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
though it was only DEATH TO THE GOVERNMENT.<lb/>
And like it was Fate there was another like malenky booklet<lb/>
which had an open window on the cover, and it said,<lb/>
‘Open the window to fresh air, fresh ideas, a new way of<lb/>
living.’ And so I knew that was like telling me to finish<lb/>
it all off by jumping out. One moment of pain, perhaps,<lb/>
and then sleep for ever and ever and ever.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The music was still pouring in all brass and drums and<lb/>
the violins miles up through the wall. The window in the<lb/>
room where I had laid down was open. I ittied to it and<lb/>
viddied a fair drop to the autos and buses and walking<lb/>
chellovecks below. I creeched out to the world: “Goodbye,<lb/>
goodbye, may Bog forgive you for a ruined life.’ Then I<lb/>
got on to the sill, the music blasting away to my left, and<lb/>
I shut my glazzies and felt the cold wind on my litso, then<lb/>
I jumped.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="107"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I yumPED, O my brothers, and I fell on<lb/>
the sidewalk hard, but I did not snuff it,<lb/>
6 oh no. If I had snuffed it I would not be<lb/>
here to write what I written have. It seems<lb/>
that the jump was not from a big enough<lb/>
heighth to kill. But I cracked my back and my wrists and<lb/>
nogas and felt very bolshy pain before I passed out, brothers,<lb/>
with astonished and surprised litsos of chellovecks in the<lb/>
streets looking at me from above. And just before I passed<lb/>
out I viddied clear that not one chelloveck in the whole<lb/>
horrid world was for me and that that music through the<lb/>
wall had all been like arranged by those who were supposed<lb/>
to be my like new droogs and that it was some veshch like<lb/>
this that they wanted for their horrible selfish and boastful<lb/>
politics. All that was in like a million millionth part of one<lb/>
minoota before I threw over the world and the sky and<lb/>
the litsos of the staring chellovecks that were above me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Where I was when I came back to jeezny after a long<lb/>
black black gap of it might have been a million years was<lb/>
a hospital, all white and with this von of hospitals you<lb/>
get, all like sour and smug and clean. These antiseptic<lb/>
veshches you get in hospitals should have a real horrorshow<lb/>
von of like frying onions or of flowers. I came very slow<lb/>
back to knowing who I was and I was all bound up in<lb/>
white and I could not feel anything in my plott, pain nor<lb/>
</p>
<p>
183<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="108"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sensation nor any veshch at all. All round my gulliver was<lb/>
a bandage and there were bits of stuff like stuck to my<lb/>
litso, and my rookers were all in bandages and like bits of<lb/>
stick were like fixed to my fingers like on it might be<lb/>
flowers to make them grow straight, and my poor old<lb/>
nogas were all straightened out too, and it was all band-<lb/>
ages and wire cages and into my right rooker, near the<lb/>
pletcho, was red red krovvy dripping from a jar upside<lb/>
down. But I could not feel anything, O my brothers. There<lb/>
was a nurse sitting by my bed and she was reading some<lb/>
book that was all like very dim print and you could viddy<lb/>
it was a story because of a lot of inverted commas, and<lb/>
she was like breathing hard uh uh uh over it, so it must<lb/>
have been a story about the old in-out in-out. She was a<lb/>
real horrorshow devotchka, this nurse, with a very red rot<lb/>
and like long lashes over her glazzies, and under her like<lb/>
very stiff uniform you could viddy she had very horrorshow<lb/>
groodies. So | said to her, “What gives, O my little sister?<lb/>
Come thou and have a nice lay-down with your malenky<lb/>
droog in this bed.’ But the slovos didn’t come out horror-<lb/>
show at all, it being as though my rot was all stiffened up,<lb/>
and I could feel with my yahzick that some of my zoobies<lb/>
were no longer there. But this nurse like jumped and<lb/>
dropped her book on the floor and said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, you've recovered consciousness.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was like a big rotful for a malenky ptitsa like her,<lb/>
and I tried to say so, but the slovos came out only like er<lb/>
er er. She ittied off and left me on my oddy knocky, and<lb/>
I could viddy now that I was in a malenky room of my<lb/>
own, not in one of these long wards like I had been in as<lb/>
a very little malchick, full of coughing dying starry vecks<lb/>
all round to make you want to get well and fit again. It<lb/>
</p>
<p>
had been like diphtheria I had had then, O my brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
184<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pe oltre Oa SD eterna tot seins . Se Soe De SO Santee<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was like now as though I could not hold to being<lb/>
conscious all that long, because I was like asleep again almost<lb/>
right away, very skorry, but in a minoota or two I was sure<lb/>
that this nurse ptitsa had come back and had brought<lb/>
chellovecks in white coats with her and they were viddying<lb/>
me very frowning and going hm hm hm at Your Humble<lb/>
Narrator. And with them I was sure there was the old charles<lb/>
from the Staja govoreeting, ‘Oh my son, my son,’ breathing<lb/>
a like very stale von of whisky on to me and then saying,<lb/>
‘But I would not stay, oh no. I could not in no wise subscribe<lb/>
to what those bratchnies are going to do to other poor<lb/>
prestoopnicks. So I got out and am preaching sermons now<lb/>
about it all, my little beloved son in J.C.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I woke up again later on and who should I viddy there<lb/>
round the bed but the three from whose flat I had jumped<lb/>
out, namely D. B. da Silva and Something Something<lb/>
Rubinstein and Z. Dolin. ‘Friend,’ one of these vecks was<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
tried to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘If | had died it would have been even better for you<lb/>
political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treach-<lb/>
erous droogs as you are.’ But all that came out was er er et.<lb/>
Then one of these three seemed to hold out a lot of bits<lb/>
cut from gazettas and what I could viddy was a horrible<lb/>
picture of me all krovvy on a stretcher being carried off and<lb/>
I seemed to like remember a kind of a popping of lights<lb/>
which must have been photographer vecks. Out of one glaz<lb/>
I could read like headlines which were sort of trembling in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the rooker of the chelloveck that held them, like BOY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
185<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="109"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
VICTIM OF CRIMINAL REFORM SCHEME and<lb/>
GOVERNMENT AS MURDERER and then there was<lb/>
like a picture of a veck that looked familiar to me and it<lb/>
said OUT OUT OUT, and that would be the Minister of<lb/>
the Inferior or Interior. Then the nurse ptitsa said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You shouldn't be exciting him like that. You shouldn't<lb/>
be doing anything that will make him upset. Now come<lb/>
on, let’s have you out.’ I tried to say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Out out out,’ but it was er er er again. Anyway, these<lb/>
three political vecks went. And I went, too, only back to<lb/>
the land, back to all blackness lit up by like odd dreams<lb/>
which I didn’t know whether they were dreams or not, O<lb/>
my brothers. Like for instance I had this idea of my whole<lb/>
plott or body being like emptied of as it might be dirty<lb/>
water and then filled up again with clean. And then there<lb/>
were really lovely and horrorshow dreams of being in some<lb/>
veck’s auto that had been crasted by me and driving up<lb/>
and down the world all on my oddy knocky running<lb/>
lewdies down and hearing them creech they were dying,<lb/>
and in me no pain and no sickness. And also there were<lb/>
dreams of doing the old in-out in-out with devotchkas,<lb/>
forcing like them down on the ground and making them<lb/>
have it and everybody standing round clapping their<lb/>
rookers and cheering like bezoomny. And then I woke up<lb/>
again and it was my pee and em come to viddy their ill<lb/>
son, my em boohooing real horrorshow. I could govoreet<lb/>
a lot better now and could say:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well well well well well, what gives? What makes you<lb/>
think you are like welcome?’ My papapa said, in a like<lb/>
ashamed way:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“You were in the papers, son. It said they had done great<lb/>
wrong to you. It said how the Government drove you to<lb/>
try and do yourself in. And it was our fault too, in a way,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
186<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
es ror iatenervgan nematic irra nminntinenhivrtsiisamsnety seaman rmmammemmaranenc ht hepa beater tH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ugly as kiss-my-sharries. So I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And how beeth thy new son Joe? Well and healthy and<lb/>
prosperous, I trust and pray.’ My mum said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, Alex Alex. Owwwwwwww.’ My papapa said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A very awkward thing, son. He got into a bit of trouble<lb/>
with the police and was done by the police.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Really?’ I said. “Really? Such a good sort of chelloveck<lb/>
and all. Amazed proper I am, honest.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Minding his own business, he was,’ said my pee. ‘And<lb/>
the police told him to move on. Waiting at a corner he<lb/>
was, son, to see a girl he was going to meet. And they<lb/>
told him to move on and he said he had rights like every-<lb/>
body else, and then they sort of fell on top of him and<lb/>
hit him about cruel.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Terrible,’ I said. ‘Really terrible. And where is the poor<lb/>
boy now?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwww, bochooed my mum. ‘Gone back owwww-<lb/>
wwe.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ said dad. ‘He’s gone back to his own home town<lb/>
to get better. They've had to give his job here to somebody<lb/>
else.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘So now,’ I said, ‘you're willing for me to move back in<lb/>
again and things be like they were before.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, son,’ said my papapa. ‘Please, son.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tl consider it,’ I said. ‘Tl think about it real careful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwww, went my mum.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, shut it,’ I said, ‘or Pll give you something proper<lb/>
to yowl and creech about. Kick your zoobies in I will.’<lb/>
And, O my brothers, saying that made me feel a malenky<lb/>
bit better, as if all like fresh red red krovvy was flowing<lb/>
all through my plott. That was something I had to think<lb/>
</p>
<p>
187<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="110"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
about. It was like as though to get better I had had to get<lb/>
worse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That’s no way to speak to your mother, son,’ said my<lb/>
papapa. ‘After all, she brought you into the world.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and a right grahzny vonny world too.’ I<lb/>
shut my glazzies tight in like pain and said, “Go away now.<lb/>
[ll think about coming back. But things will have to be<lb/>
very different.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes, son,’ said my pee. ‘Anything you say.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You'll have to make up your mind,’ I said, ‘who's to be<lb/>
boss.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Owwwwww, my mum went on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Very good, son,’ said my papapa. “Things will be as<lb/>
you like. Only get well.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When they had gone I laid and thought a bit about<lb/>
different veshches, like all different pictures passing through<lb/>
my gulliver, and when the nurse ptitsa came back in and<lb/>
like straightened the sheets on the bed I said to her:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How long is it ’'ve been in here?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A week or so,’ she said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what have they been doing to me?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you were all broken up and bruised<lb/>
and had sustained severe concussion and had lost a lot of<lb/>
blood. They’ve had to put all that right, haven’t they?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘But,’ I said, ‘has anyone been doing anything with my<lb/>
gulliver? What I mean is, have they been playing around<lb/>
with inside like my brain?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Whatever they've done,’ she said, ‘it'll all be for the best.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But a couple of days later a couple of like doctor vecks<lb/>
came in, both youngish vecks with these very sladky smiles,<lb/>
and they had like a picture book with them. One of them<lb/>
said, “We want you to have a look at these and to tell us<lb/>
what you think about them. All right?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
188<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
full of eggs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes?’ one of these doctor vecks said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘A bird-nest,’ I said, ‘full of like eggs. Very very nice.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And what would you like to do about it? the other one<lb/>
said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘smash them. Pick up the lot and like throw<lb/>
them against a wall or a cliff or something and then viddy<lb/>
them all smash up real horrorshow.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good good,’ they both said, and then the page was<lb/>
turned. It was like a picture of one of these bolshy great<lb/>
birds called peacocks with all its tail spread out in all colours<lb/>
in a very boastful way. “Yes?” said one of these vecks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘T would like,’ I said, ‘to pull out like all those feathers<lb/>
in its tail and slooshy it creech blue murder. For being so<lb/>
like boastful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Good,’ they both said, ‘good good good.’ And they<lb/>
went on turning the pages. There were like pictures of real<lb/>
horrorshow devotchkas, and I said I would like to give<lb/>
them the old in-out in-out with lots of ultra-violence.<lb/>
There were like pictures of chellovecks being given the<lb/>
boot straight in the litso and all red red krowvy everywhere<lb/>
and I said I would like to be in on that. And there was a<lb/>
picture of the old nagoy droog of the prison charlie’s<lb/>
carrying his cross up a hill, and I said I would like to have<lb/>
the old hammer and nails. Good good good. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What is all this?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Deep hypnopaedia,’ or some such slovo, said one of<lb/>
these two vecks. ‘You seem to be cured.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
189<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="111"/>
<p>
‘Cured?’ I said. ‘Me tied down to this bed like this and<lb/>
you say cured? Kiss my sharries is what I say.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Wait,’ the other said. ‘It won't be long now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I waited and, O my brothers, I got a lot better,<lb/>
munching away at eggiwegs and lomticks of toast and<lb/>
peeting bolshy great mugs of milky chai, and then one<lb/>
day they said I was going to have a very very very special<lb/>
visitor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Who? I said, while they straightened the bed and<lb/>
combed my luscious glory for me, me having the bandage<lb/>
off now from my gulliver and the hair growing again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You'll see, youll see,’ they said. And I viddied all right. At<lb/>
two-thirty of the afternoon there were like all photographers<lb/>
and men from gazettas with notebooks and pencils and all<lb/>
that cal. And, brothers, they near trumpeted a bolshy fanfare<lb/>
for this great and important veck who was coming to viddy<lb/>
Your Humble Narrator. And in he came, and of course it<lb/>
was none other than the Minister of the Interior or Inferior,<lb/>
dressed in the heighth of fashion and with this very upper-<lb/>
class haw haw haw goloss. Flash flash bang went the cameras<lb/>
when he put out his rooker to me to shake it. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well well well well well. What giveth then, old droogie?’<lb/>
Nobody seemed to quite pony that, but somebody said<lb/>
in a like harsh goloss:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘Yarbles,’ I said, like snarling like a doggie. ‘Bolshy great<lb/>
yarblockos to thee and thine.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All right, all right,’ said the Interior Inferior one very<lb/>
skorry. ‘He speaks to me as a friend, don’t you, son?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘I am everyone’s friend,’ I said. “Except to my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘And who are your enemies?’ said the Minister, while<lb/>
all the gazetta vecks went scribble scribble scribble. “Tell<lb/>
us that, my boy.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All who do me wrong,’ I said, ‘are my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ said the Int Inf Min, sitting down by my bed.<lb/>
‘I and the Government of which I am a member want<lb/>
you to regard us as friends. Yes, friends. We have put you<lb/>
right, yes? You are getting the best of treatment. We never<lb/>
wished you harm, but there are some who did and do.<lb/>
And I think you know who those are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All who do me wrong,’ I said, ‘are my enemies.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes yes yes,’ he said. “There are certain men who wanted<lb/>
to use you, yes, use you for political ends. They would<lb/>
have been glad, yes, glad for you to be dead, for they<lb/>
thought they could then blame it all on the Government.<lb/>
I think you know who those men are.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T did not,’ I said, ‘like the look of them.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘There is a man,’ said the Intinfmin, ‘called F Alexander,<lb/>
a writer of subversive literature, who has been howling for<lb/>
your blood. He has been mad with desire to stick a knife<lb/>
in you. But youre safe from him now. We put him away.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He was supposed to be like a droogie,’ I said. “Like a<lb/>
mother to me was what he was.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He found out that you had done wrong to him. At<lb/>
least,’ said the Min very very skorry, ‘he believed you had<lb/>
done wrong. He formed this idea in his mind that you<lb/>
had been responsible for the death of someone near and<lb/>
dear to him.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What you mean,’ I said, ‘is that he was told.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘He had this idea,’ said the Min. “He was a menace. We<lb/>
put him away for his own protection. And also,’ he said,<lb/>
‘for yours.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Kind,’ I said. ‘Most kind of thou.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘When you leave here,’ said the Min, ‘you will have no<lb/>
worries. We shall see to everything. A good job on a good<lb/>
salary. Because you are helping us.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
191<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="112"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Am I?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘We always help our friends, dont we? And then he<lb/>
took my rooker and some veck creeched, “Smile? and I<lb/>
smiled like bezoomny without thinking, and then flash<lb/>
flash crack flash bang there were pictures being taken of<lb/>
me and the Intinfmin all droogy together. “Good boy,’<lb/>
said this great chelloveck. ‘Good good boy. And now, see,<lb/>
a present.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was brought in now, brothers, was a big shiny<lb/>
box, and I viddied clear what sort of a veshch it was. It<lb/>
was a stereo. It was put down next to the bed and opened<lb/>
up and some veck plugged its lead into the wall-socket.<lb/>
‘What shall it be?’ asked a veck with otchkies on his nose,<lb/>
and he had in his rookers lovely shiny sleeves full of music.<lb/>
‘Mozart? Beethoven? Schoenberg? Carl Orff?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘The Ninth,’ I said. “The glorious Ninth.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the Ninth it was, O my brothers. Everybody began<lb/>
to leave nice and quiet while I laid there with my glazzies<lb/>
closed, slooshying the lovely music. The Min said, ‘Good<lb/>
good boy,’ patting me on the pletcho, then he ittied off.<lb/>
Only one veck was left, saying, ‘Sign here, please.’ I opened<lb/>
my glazzies up to sign, not knowing what I was signing<lb/>
and not, O my brothers, caring either. Then I was left<lb/>
alone with the glorious Ninth of Ludwig van.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh, it was gorgeosity and yumyumyum. When it came<lb/>
to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running<lb/>
and running on like very light and mysterious nogas,<lb/>
carving the whole litso of the creeching world with my<lb/>
cut-throat britva. And there was the slow movement and<lb/>
the lovely last singing movement still to come. I was cured<lb/>
</p>
<p>
all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘WHAT’s it going to be then, eh?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and my three droogs, that is Len, Rick,<lb/>
and Bully, Bully being called Bully because<lb/>
of his bolshy big neck and very gromky<lb/>
</p>
<p>
7 There was me, Your Humble Narrator,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
auuuuuuuuh. We were sitting in the Korova Milkbar<lb/>
making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening,<lb/>
a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. All round were<lb/>
chellovecks well away on milk plus vellocet and synthemesc<lb/>
and drencrom and other veshches which take you far far<lb/>
far away from this wicked and real world into the land to<lb/>
viddy Bog And All His Holy Angels And Saints in your<lb/>
left sabog with lights bursting and spurting all over your<lb/>
mozg. What we were peeting was the old moloko with<lb/>
knives in it, as we used to say, to sharpen you up and<lb/>
make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, but I’ve<lb/>
told you all that before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We were dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in<lb/>
those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose<lb/>
black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt<lb/>
with a like scarf tucked in. At this time too it was the<lb/>
heighth of fashion to use the old britva on the gulliver,<lb/>
so that most of the gulliver was like bald and there was<lb/>
hair only on the sides. But it was always the same on the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
193<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="113"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old nogas — real horrorshow bolshy big boots for kicking<lb/>
litsos in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What's it going to be then, eh?”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was like the oldest of we four, and they all looked up<lb/>
to me as their leader, but I got the idea sometimes that<lb/>
Bully had the thought in his gulliver that he would like<lb/>
to take over, this being because of his bigness and the<lb/>
gromky goloss that bellowed out of him when he was on<lb/>
the warpath. But all the ideas came from Your Humble,<lb/>
O my brothers, and also there was this veshch that I had<lb/>
been famous and had had my picture and articles and all<lb/>
that cal in the gazettas. Also I had by far the best job of<lb/>
all we four, being in the National Gramodisc Archives on<lb/>
the music side with a real horrorshow carman full of pretty<lb/>
polly at the week’s end and a lot of nice free discs for my<lb/>
own malenky self on the side.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of<lb/>
vecks and ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking<lb/>
and peeting away, and cutting through their govoreeting<lb/>
and the burbling of the in-the-landers with their ‘“Gorgor<lb/>
fallatuke and the worm sprays in filltip slaughterballs’ and<lb/>
all that cal you could slooshy a popdisc on the stereo, this<lb/>
being Ned Achimota singing “That Day, Yeah, That Day’.<lb/>
At the counter were three devotchkas dressed in the heighth<lb/>
of nadsat fashion, that is to say long uncombed hair dyed<lb/>
white and false groodies sticking out a metre or more and<lb/>
very very tight short skirts with all like frothy white under-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
alone with his God.’ And Len kept saying, “Yarbles yarbles.<lb/>
Where is the spirit for all for one and one for all, eh boy?’<lb/>
Suddenly I felt both very very tired and also full of tingly<lb/>
energy, and I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Out out out out out.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Where to?’ said Rick, who had a litso like a frog's.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, just to viddy what’s doing in the great outside,’ I<lb/>
said. But somehow, my brothers, I felt very bored and a<lb/>
bit hopeless, and I had been feeling that a lot these days.<lb/>
So I turned to the chelloveck nearest me on the big plush<lb/>
seat that ran right round the whole mesto, a chelloveck,<lb/>
that is, who was burbling away under the influence, and<lb/>
I fisted him real skorry ack ack ack in the belly. But he<lb/>
felt it not, brothers, only burbling away with his ‘Cart<lb/>
cart virtue, where in toptails lieth the poppoppicorns?’ So<lb/>
we scatted out into the big winter nochy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We walked down Marghanita Boulevard and there were<lb/>
no millicents patrolling that way, so when we met a starry<lb/>
veck coming away from a news-kiosk where he had been<lb/>
kupetting a gazetta I said to Bully, ‘All right, Bully boy,<lb/>
thou canst if thou like wishest.’ More and more these days<lb/>
I had been just giving the orders and standing back to<lb/>
viddy them being carried out. So Bully cracked into him<lb/>
er er er, and the other two tripped him and kicked at him,<lb/>
smecking away, while he was down and then let him crawl<lb/>
off to where he lived, like whimpering to himself. Bully<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘How about a nice yummy glass of something to keep<lb/>
out the cold, O Alex?’ For we were not too far from the<lb/>
Duke of New York. The other two nodded yes yes yes but<lb/>
all looked at me to viddy whether that was all right. I<lb/>
nodded too and so off we ittied. Inside the snug there<lb/>
were these starry ptitsas or sharps or baboochkas you will<lb/>
remember from the beginning and they all started on their,<lb/>
‘Evening, lads, God bless you, boys, best lads living, that’s<lb/>
what you are,’ waiting for us to say, “What's it going to<lb/>
be, girls? Bully rang the collocoll and a waiter came in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
195<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="114"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rubbing his rookers on his grazzy apron. “Cutter on the<lb/>
table, droogies,’ said Bully, pulling out his own rattling<lb/>
and chinking mound of deng. ‘Scotchmen for us and the<lb/>
same for the old baboochkas, eh?’ And then I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, to hell. Let them buy their own.’ I didn’t know<lb/>
what it was, but these last days I had become like mean.<lb/>
There had come into my gulliver a like desire to keep all<lb/>
my pretty polly to myself, to like hoard it all up for some<lb/>
reason. Bully said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘What gives, bratty? What’s coming over old Alex?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah, to hell,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. What<lb/>
it is is I don’t like just throwing away my hard-earned<lb/>
pretty polly, that’s what it is.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Earned?’ said Rick. ‘Earned? It doesn’t have to be earned,<lb/>
as well thou knowest, old droogie. Took, that’s all, just<lb/>
took, like.’ And he smecked real gromky and I viddied<lb/>
one or two of his zoobies weren't all that horrorshow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I’ve got some thinking to do.’ But viddying<lb/>
these baboochkas looking all eager like for some free alc,<lb/>
like shrugged my pletchoes and pulled out my own cutter<lb/>
from my trouser carman, notes and coin all mixed together,<lb/>
and plonked it tinkle crackle on the table.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Scotchmen all round, right,’ said the waiter. But for<lb/>
some reason I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No, boy, for me make it one small beer, right.’ Len<lb/>
said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This I do not much go for,’ and he began to put his<lb/>
rooker on my gulliver like kidding I must have fever, but<lb/>
I like snarled doggy-wise for him to give over skorry. ‘All<lb/>
right, all right, droog,’ he said. ‘As thou like sayest.’ But<lb/>
Bully was having a smot with his rot open at something<lb/>
that had come out of my carman with the pretty polly I'd<lb/>
put on the table. He said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
196<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
a baby. It was of a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like<lb/>
moloko dribbling from its rot and looking up and like<lb/>
smecking at everybody, and it was all nagoy and its flesh<lb/>
was like in all folds with being a very fat baby. There was<lb/>
then like a bit of haw haw haw struggling to get hold of<lb/>
this bit of paper from me, so I had to snarl again at them<lb/>
and I grabbed the photo and tore it up into tiny teeny<lb/>
pieces and let it fall like a bit of snow on to the floor. The<lb/>
whisky came in then and the starry baboochkas said, ‘Good<lb/>
health, lads, God bless you, boys, the best lads living, that’s<lb/>
what you are,’ and all that cal. And one of them who was<lb/>
all lines and wrinkles and no zoobies in her shrunken old<lb/>
rot said, ‘Don’t tear up money, son. If you don’t need it<lb/>
give it them as does,’ which was very bold and forward<lb/>
of her. But Rick said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Money that was not, O baboochka. It was a picture of<lb/>
a dear little itsy witsy bitsy bit of a baby.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tm getting just that bit tired, that I am. It’s you who's<lb/>
the babies, you lot. Scoffing and grinning and all you can<lb/>
do is smeck and give people bolshy cowardly tolchocks<lb/>
when they can’t give them back.’ Bully said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well now, we always thought it was you who was the<lb/>
king of that and also the teacher. Not well, that’s the<lb/>
trouble with thou, old droogie.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I viddied this sloppy glass of beer I had on the table in<lb/>
front of me and felt like all vomity within, so I went<lb/>
‘Aaaaah’ and poured all the frothy vonny cal all over the<lb/>
floor. One of the starry ptitsas said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Waste not want not.’ I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
197<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="115"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Look, droogies. Listen. Tonight I am somehow just not<lb/>
in the mood. I know not why or how it is, but there it<lb/>
is. You three go your own ways this nightwise, leaving me<lb/>
out. Tomorrow we shall meet same place same time, me<lb/>
hoping to be like a lot better.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh,’ said Bully, ‘right sorry I am.’ But you could viddy<lb/>
a like gleam in his glazzies, because now he would be<lb/>
taking over for this nochy. Power, power, everybody like<lb/>
wants power. ‘We can postpone till tomorrow,’ said Bully,<lb/>
‘what we in mind had. Namely, that bit of shop-crasting<lb/>
in Gagarin Street. Flip horrorshow takings there, droog,<lb/>
for the having.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘No,’ I said. “You postpone nothing. You just carry on<lb/>
in your own like style. Now,’ I said, ‘I itty off’ And I got<lb/>
up from my chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Where to, then?’ asked Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘That know I not,’ I said. ‘Just to be on like my own<lb/>
and sort things out.’ You could viddy the old baboochkas<lb/>
were real puzzled at me going out like that and like all<lb/>
morose and not the bright and smecking malchickiwick<lb/>
you will remember. But I said, ‘Ah, to hell, to hell,’ and<lb/>
scatted out all on my oddy knocky into the street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was dark and there was a wind sharp as a nozh getting<lb/>
up, and there were very very few lewdies about. There<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
cruising about, and now and then on the corner you could<lb/>
viddy a couple of very young millicents stamping against<lb/>
the bitchy cold and letting out steam breath on the winter<lb/>
ait, O my brothers. I suppose really a lot of the old ultra-<lb/>
violence and crasting was dying out now, the rozzes being<lb/>
so brutal with who they caught, though it had become<lb/>
like a fight between naughty nadsats and the rozzes who<lb/>
could be more skorry with the nozh and britva and the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
198<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stick and even the gun. But what was the matter with me<lb/>
these days was that I didn’t care much. It was like some-<lb/>
thing soft getting into me and I could not pony why.<lb/>
What I wanted these days I did not know. Even the music<lb/>
I liked to slooshy in my own malenky den was what I<lb/>
would have smecked at before, brothers. I was slooshying<lb/>
more like malenky romantic songs, what they call Lieder,<lb/>
just a goloss and a piano, very quiet and like yearny,<lb/>
different from when it had been all bolshy orchestras and<lb/>
me lying on the bed between the violins and the trombones<lb/>
and kettledrums. There was something happening inside<lb/>
me, and I wondered if it was like some disease or if it was<lb/>
what they had done to me that time upsetting my gulliver<lb/>
and perhaps going to make me real bezoomny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So thinking like this with my gulliver bent and my<lb/>
rookers stuck in my trouser carmans I walked the town,<lb/>
brothers, and at last I began to feel very tired and also in<lb/>
great need of a nice bolshy chasha of milky chai. Thinking<lb/>
about this chai, I got a sudden like picture of me sitting<lb/>
before a bolshy fire in an armchair peeting away at this<lb/>
chai, and what was funny and very very strange was that<lb/>
I seemed to have turned into a very starry chelloveck,<lb/>
about seventy years old, because I could viddy my own<lb/>
voloss, which was very grey, and I also had whiskers, and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
But it was very like strange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I came to one of these tea-and-coffee mestos, brothers,<lb/>
and I could viddy through the long long window that it<lb/>
was full of very dull lewdies, like ordinary, who had these<lb/>
very patient and expressionless litsos and would do no<lb/>
harm to no one, all sitting there and govoreeting like<lb/>
quietly and peeting away at their nice harmless chai and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
199<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="116"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
coffee. I ittied inside and went up to the counter and<lb/>
bought me a nice hot chai with plenty of moloko, then I<lb/>
ittied to one of these tables and sat down to peet it. There<lb/>
was like a young couple at this table, peeting and smoking<lb/>
filter-tip cancers, and govoreeting and smecking very<lb/>
quietly between themselves, but I took no notice of them<lb/>
and just went on peeting away and like dreaming and<lb/>
wondering what it was in me that was like changing and<lb/>
what was going to happen to me. But I viddied that the<lb/>
devotchka at this table who was with this chelloveck was<lb/>
real horrorshow, not the sort you would want to like throw<lb/>
down and give the old in-out in-out to, but with a horror-<lb/>
show plott and litso and a smiling rot and very very fair<lb/>
voloss and all that cal. And then the veck with her, who<lb/>
had a hat on his gulliver and had his litso like turned away<lb/>
from me, swivelled round to viddy the bolshy big clock<lb/>
they had on the wall in this mesto, and then I viddied<lb/>
who he was and then he viddied who IJ was. It was Pete,<lb/>
one of my three droogs from those days when it was<lb/>
Georgie and Dim and him and me. It was Pete like looking<lb/>
a lot older though he could not now be more than nine-<lb/>
teen and a bit, and he had a bit of a moustache and an<lb/>
ordinary day-suit and this hat on. I said:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
old droogie?’<lb/>
‘He talks funny, doesn’t he?’ said this devotchka, like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
giggling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘This,’ said Pete to the devotchka, ‘is an old friend. His<lb/>
name is Alex. May I,’ he said to me, ‘introduce my wife?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My rot fell wide open then. “Wife?’ I like gaped. “Wife<lb/>
wife wife? Ah no, that cannot be. Too young art thou to<lb/>
be married, old droog. Impossible impossible.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This devotchka who was like Pete’s wife (impossible<lb/>
impossible) giggled again and said to Pete, “Did you used<lb/>
to talk like that too?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Well,” said Pete, and he like smiled. ‘P’m nearly twenty.<lb/>
Old enough to be hitched, and it’s been two months<lb/>
already. You were very young and very forward, remember.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Well,’ I like gaped still. ‘Over this get can I not, old<lb/>
droogie. Pete married. Well well well.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“We have a small flat,’ said Pete. ‘I am earning very<lb/>
small money at State Marine Insurance, but things will<lb/>
get better, that I know. And Georgina here —’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“What again is that name?’ I said, rot still open like<lb/>
bezoomny. Pete’s wife (wife, brothers) like giggled again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Georgina,’ said Pete. “Georgina works too. Typing, you<lb/>
know. We manage, we manage.’ I could not, brothers, take<lb/>
my glazzies off him, really. He was like grown up now,<lb/>
with a grown-up goloss and all. “You must,’ said Pete,<lb/>
‘come and see us sometime. You still,’ he said, ‘look very<lb/>
young, despite all your terrible experiences. Yes yes yes,<lb/>
we've read all about them. But, of course, you ave very<lb/>
young still.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eighteen,’ I said, ‘just gone.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Eighteen, eh?’ said Pete. ‘As old as that. Well well well.<lb/>
Now,’ he said, ‘we have to be going.’ And he like gave<lb/>
this Georgina of his a like loving look and pressed one of<lb/>
her rookers between his and she gave him one of those<lb/>
looks back, O my brothers. ‘Yes,’ said Pete, turning back<lb/>
to me, ‘we're off to a little party at Greg's.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="117"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Greg?’ I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Oh, of course,’ said Pete, you wouldn't know Greg,<lb/>
would you? Greg is after your time. While you were away<lb/>
Greg came into the picture. He runs little parties, you<lb/>
know. Mostly wine-cup and word-games. But very nice,<lb/>
very pleasant, you know. Harmless, if you see what I mean.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Harmless. Yes yes, I viddy that real horror-<lb/>
show.’ And this Georgina devotchka giggled again at my<lb/>
slovos. And then these two ittied off to their vonny word-<lb/>
games at this Greg’s, whoever he was. I was left all on my<lb/>
oddy knocky with my milky chai, which was getting cold<lb/>
now, like thinking and wondering.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perhaps that was it, I kept thinking. Perhaps I was<lb/>
getting too old for the sort of jeezny I had been leading,<lb/>
brothers. I was eighteen now, just gone. Eighteen was not<lb/>
a young age. At eighteen old Wolfgang Amadeus had<lb/>
written concertos and symphonies and operas and ora-<lb/>
torios and all that cal, no, not cal, heavenly music. And<lb/>
then there was old Felix M. with his Midsummer Night's<lb/>
Dream Overture. And there were others. And there was<lb/>
this like French poet set by old Benjy Britt, who had done<lb/>
all his best poetry by the age of fifteen, O my brothers.<lb/>
Arthur, his first name. Eighteen was not all that young an<lb/>
age, then. But what was I going to do?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ittying off from this chai and coffee mesto, I kept viddying<lb/>
like visions, like these cartoons in the gazettas. There was<lb/>
Your Humble Narrator Alex coming home from work to<lb/>
a good hot plate of dinner, and there was this ptitsa all<lb/>
welcoming and greeting like loving. But I could not viddy<lb/>
her all that horrorshow, brothers, I could not think who<lb/>
it might be. But I had this sudden very strong idea that<lb/>
if I walked into the room next to this room where the fire<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was burning away and my hot dinner laid on the table,<lb/>
there I should find what I really wanted, and now it all<lb/>
tied up, that picture scissored out of the gazetta and<lb/>
meeting old Pete like that. For in that other room in a<lb/>
cot was laying gurgling goo goo goo my son. Yes yes yes,<lb/>
brothers, my son. And now I felt this bolshy big hollow<lb/>
inside my plott, feeling very surprised too at myself. I<lb/>
knew what was happening, O my brothers. I was like<lb/>
growing up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But<lb/>
youth is only being in a way like it might be an animal.<lb/>
No, it is not just like being an animal so much as being<lb/>
like one of these malenky toys you viddy being sold in<lb/>
the streets, like little chellovecks made out of tin and with<lb/>
a spring inside and then a winding handle on the outside<lb/>
and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off it itties, like<lb/>
walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a straight line and<lb/>
bangs straight into things bang bang and it cannot help<lb/>
what it is doing. Being young is like being like one of<lb/>
these malenky machines.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain<lb/>
all that to him when he was starry enough to like under-<lb/>
stand. But then I knew he would not understand or would<lb/>
not want to understand at all and would do all the vesh-<lb/>
ches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry<lb/>
forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I<lb/>
would not be able to really stop him. And nor would he<lb/>
be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would<lb/>
itty on to like the end of the world, round and round and<lb/>
round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old<lb/>
Bog Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
rookers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="118"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But first of all, brothers, there was this veshch of finding<lb/>
some devotchka or other who would be a mother to this<lb/>
son. I would have to start on that tomorrow, I kept<lb/>
thinking. That was something like new to do. That was<lb/>
something I would have to get started on, a new like<lb/>
chapter beginning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s what it’s going to be then, brothers, as | come<lb/>
to the like end of this tale. You have been everywhere with<lb/>
your little droog Alex, suffering with him, and you have<lb/>
viddied some of the most grahzny bratchnies old Bog ever<lb/>
made, all on to your old droog Alex. And all it was was<lb/>
that I was young. But now as I end this story, brothers, I<lb/>
am not young, not no longer, oh no. Alex like groweth<lb/>
up, oh yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy<lb/>
knocky, where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet<lb/>
flowers and the turning vonny earth and the stars and the<lb/>
old Luna up there and your old droog Alex all on his oddy<lb/>
knocky seeking like a mate. And all that cal. A terrible<lb/>
grahzny vonny world, really, O my brothers. And so fare-<lb/>
well from your little droog. And to all others in this story<lb/>
profound shooms of lip-music, brrrrrr. And they can kiss<lb/>
my sharries. But you, O my brothers, remember sometimes<lb/>
</p>
<p>
thy little Alex that was. Amen. And all that cal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="119"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NOTES<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a bit of dirty twenty-to-one: “Twenty-to-one’ is rhyming slang<lb/>
for ‘fun’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the heighth of fashion: The Oxford English Dictionary (OED)<lb/>
notes that ‘heighth’ was a common spelling in the seventeenth<lb/>
century. It is found in English dialect writing as late as the<lb/>
nineteenth century. The Penguin paperback of 1972 misprints<lb/>
this as ‘the height of fashion’ (p. 5), but Burgess was clearly<lb/>
aiming for an archaic-sounding effect. He achieves something<lb/>
similar in his historical novel about the life of Shakespeare,<lb/>
Nothing Like the Sun (1964), which is written in a parody of<lb/>
Shakespearean English.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Berti Laski: Melvyn Lasky was, along with Frank Kermode and<lb/>
the poet Stephen Spender, co-editor of the literary magazine<lb/>
Encounter. But this is more likely to be an allusion to Marghanita<lb/>
Laski (1915-88), the Manchester novelist and playwright. She<lb/>
provided more than 250,000 quotations for the four supplements<lb/>
to the Oxford English Dictionary. Her novels included Love on<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
as a musical starring Bing Crosby in 1953. Marghanita Laski had<lb/>
written an unfavourable review of Burgess’s novel The Right to<lb/>
an Answer, published in the Saturday Review on 28 January 1961.<lb/>
Marghanita Boulevard: Another unflattering reference to<lb/>
Marghanita Laski. See note on ‘Berti Laski’ above.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boothby Avenue: Possibly a reference to Sir Brooke Boothby<lb/>
</p>
<p>
207<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="120"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(1744-1824), a minor English poet and translator of Rousseau.<lb/>
Another Boothby appears as a character in Burgess’s first novel,<lb/>
Time for a Tiger (1956). He is the headmaster of the Mansoor<lb/>
School in colonial Malaya, modelled on the Malay College in<lb/>
Kuala Kangsar, where Burgess himself had taught from 1954<lb/>
until 1955. Boothby is a cruel caricature of Jimmy Howell, the<lb/>
real-life headmaster known to Burgess and disliked by him.<lb/>
hen-korm: originally ‘hen-corm’ in the typescript. In a letter<lb/>
to James Michie of Heinemann dated 25 February 1962, Burgess<lb/>
wrote: ‘There is also the case of “hen-corm” [...] which was<lb/>
silently corrected to “hen-corn”. Now “corm” comes from a<lb/>
Slav-root meaning animal-fodder. So that the reader shall not<lb/>
see a mistake there I’ve changed “corm” to “korm”. Will that<lb/>
be horrorshow?’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sammy act: Late nineteenth-century slang; to ‘sam’ or ‘stand<lb/>
sam’ is to pay for a drink. See Jonathon Green, Cassell’s Dictionary<lb/>
of Slang (2000).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Amis Avenue: Kingsley Amis, English novelist and critic (1922-<lb/>
95). Burgess and Amis often reviewed each other’s novels, and<lb/>
Amis’s review of A Clockwork Orange (‘Mr Burgess has written<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Amis on Burgess, see the chapter in his Memoirs (Hutchinson,<lb/>
1991), pp. 274-8, and various uncomplimentary references in<lb/>
The Letters of Kingsley Amis, edited by Zachary Leader<lb/>
(HarperCollins, 2000).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
black and suds: Guinness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
double firegolds: Firegold is whisky, but this is also an allusion<lb/>
to ‘The Starlight Night’, a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins<lb/>
(1844-89): ‘O look at all the fire-folk sitting in the air! [. . .]<lb/>
The grey lawns cold where gold, where quickgold lies! Burgess<lb/>
had memorised all of Hopkins’s poems when he was a schoolboy,<lb/>
and he later set a number of them to music, including “The<lb/>
Wreck of the Deutschland’. For more detail on these composi-<lb/>
tions, see Paul Phillips, A Clockwork Counterpoint (Manchester<lb/>
University Press, 2010), pp. 288-9.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
208<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a bottle of Yank General: Three-star brandy or cognac. Burgess<lb/>
drew three stars in the margin of the typescript at this point,<lb/>
to make the reference to a three-star American general clear.<lb/>
Attlee Avenue: Clement Attlee, Labour Prime Minister from 1945<lb/>
until 1951. Burgess voted Labour in 1945, and he admired the<lb/>
National Health Service, which was set up by Attlee’s government.<lb/>
rozz patrols: ‘Rozzer’ as slang for ‘policeman’ was first recorded<lb/>
in the 1870s. Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional<lb/>
English (1937), one of several slang dictionaries owned by Burgess,<lb/>
suggests that ‘rozzer’ is derived from the Romany ‘roozlo’,<lb/>
meaning ‘strong’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Elvis Presley: Burgess wrote in the margin of the typescript:<lb/>
‘Will this name be known when book appears?’ Burgess must<lb/>
have found Elvis Presley difficult to avoid while he was working<lb/>
on A Clockwork Orange. According to the trade magazine Record<lb/>
Retailer, Presley's single ‘It's Now or Never’ was number one in<lb/>
the UK chart for eight weeks in 1960. “Wooden Heart’ and<lb/>
‘Surrender’, both released in 1961, held the number one position<lb/>
for six weeks and four weeks respectively. Elvis and The Beatles<lb/>
(who received a kicking in Burgess’s 1968 novel, Enderby Outside)<lb/>
represented everything that he hated about popular music and<lb/>
teenage culture.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sore athirst: A corruption of the biblical ‘and they were sore<lb/>
afraid’ (Luke 2:9).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lip-music: A quotation from St Winefred’s Well, an unfinished<lb/>
play by Gerard Manley Hopkins: “While blind men’s eyes shall<lb/>
thirst after daylight, draughts of daylight, / Or deaf ears shall<lb/>
desire that lipmusic that’s lost upon them.’ Burgess later<lb/>
completed this Hopkins play and composed incidental music<lb/>
for a radio production, broadcast on BBC Radio 3 on 23<lb/>
December 1989.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Priestley Place: J. B. Priestley, English writer and broadcaster<lb/>
(1894-1984), author of The Good Companions (1929), Time and<lb/>
the Conways (1937) and An Inspector Calls (1945), among many<lb/>
other novels, plays and non-fiction works. Burgess discusses<lb/>
</p>
<p>
209<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="121"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Priestley’s writing in The Novel Now (Faber, 1971), pp. 102-3,<lb/>
and in a long review of Vincent Brome’s biography, published<lb/>
in the Times Literary Supplement on 21 October 1988.<lb/>
swordpen: The association between words and swords is present<lb/>
throughout Burgess’s verse translation of Edmond. Rostand’s<lb/>
French play Cyrano de Bergerac (1971). Burgess’ long poem ‘The<lb/>
Sword’, about a man who wanders around New York with ‘a<lb/>
British sword sheathed in cherrywood’, was published in<lb/>
Transatlantic Review 23 (Winter 1966-7), pp. 41-3, and reprinted<lb/>
in Burgess, Revolutionary Sonnets and Other Poems, edited by<lb/>
Kevin Jackson (Carcanet, 2002), pp. 32-3.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
shagged and fagged and fashed: A quotation from “The Leaden<lb/>
Echo and the Golden Echo’, a dramatic poem by Gerard Manley<lb/>
Hopkins: ‘O why are we so haggard at the heart, so care-coiled,<lb/>
care-killed, so fagged, so fashed, so cogged, so cumbered.’ In a<lb/>
letter to his mother, dated 5 March 1972, Hopkins wrote: ‘I<lb/>
enclose three northcountry primroses [. . .] They will no doubt<lb/>
look fagged.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a hound-and-horny look of evil: Hound and Horn was an<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
known to Burgess. Its contributors included Eugene O’Neill and<lb/>
Herbert Read. But the primary meaning here is ‘corny’ (chyming<lb/>
slang).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wilsonsway: A reference either to Burgess’s real name, John<lb/>
Burgess Wilson, or to the English writer Angus Wilson (1913-91),<lb/>
whose dystopian novel The Old Men at the Zoo was reviewed<lb/>
by Burgess in the Yorkshire Post in 1961.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Taylor Place: The historian A. J. P. Taylor (1906-90) taught<lb/>
Burgess and his first wife, Llewela Jones, at Manchester<lb/>
University in the 1930s. According to Taylor's biographer Adam<lb/>
Sisman, Dylan Thomas (who later had an affair with Llewela<lb/>
during the Second World War) seduced Taylor's first wife.<lb/>
Alternatively, this may be a reference to the novelist Elizabeth<lb/>
Taylor (1912-75), whose books were said by Burgess to be under-<lb/>
estimated by critics. See The Novel Now, p. 214.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ludwig van: Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Burgess's 1974<lb/>
novel Napoleon Symphony takes its structure from Beethoven's<lb/>
Eroica symphony. Each episode within the novel corresponds<lb/>
to a passage of music in the score. Beethoven himself appears<lb/>
as one of the characters in Burgess’s novel Mozart and the Wolf<lb/>
Gang (1991), and in “Uncle Ludwig’, an unproduced. Burgess<lb/>
film script about Beethoven's uneasy relationship with his<lb/>
nephew. See also The Ninth, a talk about Beethoven broadcast<lb/>
on BBC Radio 3 on 14 December 1990.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Heaven Seventeen: Originally from Sheffield, the English band<lb/>
Heaven 17 (formed 1980; disbanded 1989) named themselves<lb/>
after one of Burgess’s fictional pop groups. Two of their members,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware, had previously been part<lb/>
of The Human League. Their hits included “Temptation and<lb/>
‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fuzzy warbles: Andy Partridge, the main songwriter from the<lb/>
band XTC, released a series of albums between 2002 and 2006<lb/>
</p>
<p>
under the general title Fuzzy Warbles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven: A half-quotation<lb/>
</p>
<p>
from Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’, which provides the text for the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
final choral movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. The<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nineteenth-century English translation known to Burgess is:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Joy, thou glorious spark of heaven, / Daughter of Elysium, /<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hearts on fire, aroused, enraptured, / To thy sacred shrine we<lb/>
</p>
<p>
come. / Custom’s bond no more can sever / Those by thy sure<lb/>
</p>
<p>
magic tied. / All mankind are loving brothers / Where thy sacred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wings abide.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One can die but once: A deliberate misquotation from<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before<lb/>
</p>
<p>
their deaths / The valiant never taste of death but once’ (Act<lb/>
</p>
<p>
II, Scene 2).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Victoria Flatblock: Possibly a reference to Victoria Park, the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
location of Xaverian College in Manchester, where Burgess<lb/>
</p>
<p>
studied between 1928 and 1935.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
long hair and [. . .] big flowy cravat: Note that Alex’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="122"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
appearance, described in the opening chapter, resembles the bust<lb/>
of Beethoven. This identification between Alex and Beethoven<lb/>
reinforces Burgess’s claim (in his 1985 interview with Isaac<lb/>
Bashevis Singer) that Alex will go on to become a great composer<lb/>
after the novel has ended.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
darkmans: “The night’, an example of thieves’ slang, first<lb/>
recorded in the 1560s (OED). ‘Lightmans is the day. For Burgess<lb/>
on the language of the Elizabethan underworld, see his essay<lb/>
‘What Shakespeare Smelt’ in Homage to Qwert Yuiop (Hutchinson,<lb/>
1986), pp. 264-6.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
merzky gets: ‘filthy bastards’ (Cassell’s Dictionary of Slang).<lb/>
Boy, thou uproarious shark of heaven: A parody of Schiller’s<lb/>
‘Ode to Joy’. See note on p.48 above.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
very cold glazzy: An allusion to the poem “Under Ben Bulber’<lb/>
by W. B. Yeats: “Cast a cold eye / On life, on death. / Horseman,<lb/>
pass by? We know that Burgess was reading Yeats in the same year<lb/>
that he wrote A Clockwork Orange. His hardback copy of Yeats<lb/>
Collected Poems is inscribed ‘jbw [John Burgess Wilson] 1961’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
idiot or a charlatan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ludovico’s Technique: A double reference to Lodovico, the<lb/>
Italian villain of John Webster's revenge tragedy The White Devil<lb/>
(1612), and to Ludwig van (see note to p.45, above).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wachet Auf Choral Prelude: J. S. Bach, Cantata number 140,<lb/>
‘Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme’ (1731).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
poggy: Late nineteenth-century British Army slang. Partridge’s<lb/>
Dictionary of Slang defines ‘poggy’ as ‘rum, or any spiritous<lb/>
liquor’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
archibalds: First World War slang for aeroplanes or anti-aircraft<lb/>
guns (Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Dostoevsky’s novel Crime and Punishment, which Burgess read<lb/>
for the first time before travelling to Russia in 1961. In a letter<lb/>
to Diana and Meir Gillon, written while he was working on A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange, Burgess said: ‘I’ve just completed Part One<lb/>
— which is just sheer crime. Now comes punishment. The whole<lb/>
thing’s making me feel rather sick.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Each man kills the thing he loves: Dr Branom is quoting from<lb/>
The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1897) by Oscar Wilde, who was<lb/>
convicted of sodomy in 1895 and imprisoned for two years with<lb/>
hard labour. Burgess later corresponded about Wilde with<lb/>
Richard Ellmann, whose biography Oscar Wilde was published<lb/>
in 1987.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the dialect of the tribe: A quotation from the second section<lb/>
of Little Gidding (1942) by T. S. Eliot: ‘Since our concern was<lb/>
speech, and speech impelled us / To purify the dialect of the<lb/>
tribe’ (Eliot, Collected Poems 1909-1962, Faber, p. 218). Eliot is<lb/>
quoting ‘Le Tombeau d’Edgar Poe’ by the nineteenth-century<lb/>
French poet Stéphane Mallarmé: “Donner un sens plus pur aux<lb/>
mots de la tribu.’ Eliot’s poem is concerned with what the critic<lb/>
David Moody calls ‘the fruitful dead’. See Moody, Thomas<lb/>
Stearns Eliot: Poet, second edition (Cambridge University Press,<lb/>
1994); PP. 239, 253.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perfect Love Casteth Out Fear: A quotation from the King<lb/>
James Bible: ‘There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth<lb/>
out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made<lb/>
perfect in love’ (x John, 4:18).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I say to you, there shall be joy before the angels of God upon<lb/>
one sinner doing penance’ (Luke 15:10).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mozart Number Forty: Burgess later wrote a short story based<lb/>
on Mozart’s Symphony Number 40 (K.550, 1788) and included<lb/>
it in the text of Mozart and the Wolf Gang (1991), pp. 81-91.<lb/>
Dear dead idlewilds, rot not in variform guises: A parody of<lb/>
Gerard Manley Hopkins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="123"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You could snuff it on a hundred aspirin: Although an overdose<lb/>
of aspirin can cause liver failure and internal bleeding, it would<lb/>
take more than 250 tablets to achieve these effects in an adult<lb/>
male such as Alex. Burgess appears to have miscalculated here.<lb/>
Where I see the infamy I seek to erase it: A quotation from<lb/>
Voltaire’s letter to d’Alembert, 28 November 1762: ‘Quoi que<lb/>
vous fassiez, écrazez l’infame.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rubinstein: Harold Rubinstein was the libel lawyer at William<lb/>
Heinemann, Burgess’s UK publisher. He had dealt with complaints<lb/>
about libel arising from two of Burgess’s previous novels, The<lb/>
Enemy in the Blanket (1958) and. The Worm and the Ring (1961).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
that manner of voice pricks me: OED defines the verb ‘prick’<lb/>
as “To cause sharp mental pain; to sting with sorrow or remorse;<lb/>
to grieve, pain, vex’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We must inflame all hearts: A reference to St Francis Xavier,<lb/>
who gave his name to Xaverian College, where Burgess was<lb/>
educated. In Catholic art, the flaming heart is one of the symbols<lb/>
associated with St Francis.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rest, perturbed spirit: A quotation from Shakespeare’s Hamlet<lb/>
(Act I, Scene 5). Hamlet says to his father’s ghost: “Rest, rest,<lb/>
perturbed spirit.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was cured all right: Immediately after this sentence, there is<lb/>
a note on the typescript in Burgess’s handwriting: “Should we<lb/>
end here? An optional “epilogue” follows.’ Eric Swenson, the<lb/>
publisher at W. W. Norton who was responsible for the 1963<lb/>
American edition, encouraged Burgess to end the novel at this<lb/>
point, omitting the twenty-first chapter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Felix M.: The composer Felix Mendelssohn (1809-47) wrote his<lb/>
overture to Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Nights Dream in 1827.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
French poet set by old Benjy Britt: Benjamin Britten (1913-76)<lb/>
composed his song cycle (opus 18) based on Les Illuminations<lb/>
by Arthur Rimbaud in 1939. Burgess had a high regard for<lb/>
Montagu Slater’s libretto for Britten's opera Peter Grimes. He<lb/>
described it as ‘the only libretto I know that can be read in its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
own right as a dramatic poem’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
214<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NADSAT GLOSSARY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
appy polly loggies: cheena: woman<lb/>
apologies to cheest: to wash<lb/>
</p>
<p>
chelloveck: man, human<lb/>
baboochka: old woman being<lb/>
bezoomny: crazy chepooka: nonsense<lb/>
biblio: library choodessny: wonderful<lb/>
bitva: battle cluve: beak<lb/>
bog: God collocoll: bell<lb/>
bolnoy: sick to crast: to steal<lb/>
bolshy: big to creech: to scream<lb/>
bratchny: bastard cutter: money<lb/>
bratty, brat: brother<lb/>
britva: razor darkmans: night<lb/>
brooko: stomach deng: money<lb/>
to brosat: to throw devotchka: girl<lb/>
bugatty: rich dobby: good<lb/>
</p>
<p>
domy: house<lb/>
cal: shit dorogoy: valuable, dear<lb/>
cancer: cigarette to drats: to fight<lb/>
cantora: office droog, droogie: friend<lb/>
carman: pocket<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
chasso: guard eemya: Name<lb/>
</p>
<p>
215<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="124"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eggiweg: egg<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to filly: to play<lb/>
flip: very or great<lb/>
forella: trout, woman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
glaz, glazzy: eye, nipple<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gloopy: stupid<lb/>
</p>
<p>
golly: coin<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goloss: voice<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goober: lip<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to gooly: to go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gorlo: throat<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to govoreet: to talk,<lb/>
speak<lb/>
</p>
<p>
grahzny: dirty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
grazzy: dirty<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gromky: loud<lb/>
</p>
<p>
groody: breast<lb/>
</p>
<p>
guff: laugh<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gulliver: head<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
horrorshow: good, well<lb/>
</p>
<p>
interessovatted: interested<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to itty: to go<lb/>
</p>
<p>
jammiwam: jam, jelly<lb/>
jeezny: life<lb/>
</p>
<p>
kartoffel: potato<lb/>
keeshkas: guts<lb/>
</p>
<p>
kleb: bread<lb/>
klootch: key<lb/>
knopka: button<lb/>
kopat: understand<lb/>
koshka: cat<lb/>
krovvy: blood<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to kupet: to buy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lewdies: people<lb/>
lighter: old woman<lb/>
litso: face<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lomtick: piece<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to lovet: to catch<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to lubbilub: to kiss<lb/>
</p>
<p>
malchick: boy<lb/>
malenky: little<lb/>
maslo: butter<lb/>
merzky: filthy<lb/>
messel: idea<lb/>
</p>
<p>
mesto: place<lb/>
millicent: policeman<lb/>
minoota: minute<lb/>
molodoy: young<lb/>
moloko: milk<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
morder: snout<lb/>
mounch: food<lb/>
mozg: brain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nachinat: to begin<lb/>
nadmenny: arrogant<lb/>
nadsat: teen<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nagoy: naked<lb/>
nazz: name<lb/>
neezhnies: panties<lb/>
nochy: night<lb/>
noga: foot, leg<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nozh: knife<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oddy knocky: alone<lb/>
okno: window<lb/>
oobivat: to kill<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to ookadeet: to leave<lb/>
ooko: ear<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oomny: intelligent<lb/>
oozhassny: dreadful<lb/>
oozy: chain<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to osoosh: to wipe<lb/>
otchkies: glasses<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to peet: to drink<lb/>
pishcha: food<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to platch: to cry<lb/>
platties: clothes<lb/>
plennies: prisoners<lb/>
plesk: splash<lb/>
pletcho: shoulder<lb/>
plott: body<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pol: sex<lb/>
</p>
<p>
polezny: useful<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to pony: to understand<lb/>
poogly: frightened<lb/>
pooshka: pistol<lb/>
</p>
<p>
prestoopnick: criminal<lb/>
pretty polly: money<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to prod: to produce<lb/>
ptitsa: woman<lb/>
pyahnitsa: drunk<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to rabbit: to work<lb/>
radosty: joy<lb/>
rassoodock: mind<lb/>
raz: time<lb/>
</p>
<p>
razdraz: angry<lb/>
raskazz: story<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to razrez: to tear<lb/>
rooker: hand or arm<lb/>
rot: mouth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rozz: policeman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sabog: shoe<lb/>
sakar: sugar<lb/>
sarky: sarcastic<lb/>
scoteena: beast<lb/>
shaika: gang<lb/>
sharp: woman<lb/>
sharries: buttocks,<lb/>
arse<lb/>
shest: barrier<lb/>
shilarny: interest<lb/>
shive: slice<lb/>
shiyah: neck<lb/>
shlaga: club, cudgel<lb/>
shlapa: hat<lb/>
shlem: helmet<lb/>
shoom: noise<lb/>
shoomny: noisy<lb/>
shoot: fool<lb/>
</p>
<p>
217<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="125"/>
<p>
sinny: cinema<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to skazat: to say<lb/>
</p>
<p>
skolliwoll: school<lb/>
</p>
<p>
skorry: fast<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to skvat: to snatch<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sladky: sweet<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to sloochat: to happen<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to slooshy: to hear<lb/>
</p>
<p>
slovo: word<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to smeck: laugh<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to smot: to look<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sneety: dream<lb/>
</p>
<p>
snoutie: tobacco<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to sobirat: to pick up<lb/>
</p>
<p>
soomka: bag, unattractive<lb/>
woman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to spat with: to have sex<lb/>
with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spatchka: sleep<lb/>
</p>
<p>
spoogy: terrified<lb/>
</p>
<p>
starry: old<lb/>
</p>
<p>
strack: horror<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tally: waist<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tashtook: handkerchief<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tass: cup<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to tolchock: to hit<lb/>
</p>
<p>
toofles: slippers<lb/>
</p>
<p>
twenty-to-one: fun, Le.<lb/>
gang violence<lb/>
</p>
<p>
vareet: to cook up<lb/>
vaysay: WC, bathroom<lb/>
</p>
<p>
veck: man, guy<lb/>
veshch: thing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to viddy: to see<lb/>
voloss: hair<lb/>
</p>
<p>
von: smell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to vred: to injure<lb/>
</p>
<p>
yahma: mouth or hole<lb/>
yahzick: tongue<lb/>
</p>
<p>
yarbles: testicles, bollocks<lb/>
to yeckate: to drive<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zammechat: remarkable<lb/>
zasnoot: sleep<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zheena: wife<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zooby: tooth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zubrick: penis<lb/>
</p>
<p>
zvook: ring, sound<lb/>
zvonock: bell<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PROLOGUE to A Clockwork Orange: A Play with Music<lb/>
Anthony Burgess, 1986<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This prologue was written in July 1986 for Burgess’s musical<lb/>
stage version of A Clockwork Orange, published by<lb/>
Hutchinson the following year. The prologue is missing from<lb/>
all published editions of the play. Marty is the seventeen-year-<lb/>
old girl who becomes Alex's partner in the final scene of the<lb/>
stage version.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The scene is the Garden of Eden. Alex is Adam, his even-<lb/>
tual girlfriend Marty is Eve. This, of course, is a dream<lb/>
that Alex is dreaming. Early morning, delicate greenish<lb/>
light, a tumult of bird-song. Alex and Marty wake in each<lb/>
</p>
<p>
other’s arms. Alex yawns cavernously, then smacks his lips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Zavtrak.<lb/>
MARTY: What’s zavtrak?<lb/>
ALEX: It’s a word that just came. Like all words. It means<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
(He does an exaggerated and brutal mime of sleep.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: What you mean is breakfast.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
219<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="126"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Zavtrak tastes better. Or will when I’ve had it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY (rising): T’ll pick you some fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Always fruit. We might as well be wasps. You can’t<lb/>
do a hard day’s lazing about on fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A VOICE: Beware of the yellow apple.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: He’s up early. He’s not usually round till the what-<lb/>
youcallit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: The cool of the evening.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(God appears. He has a strong look of the prison chaplain of<lb/>
a later scene. He is in spotless white and long-bearded. He<lb/>
sits on a tree stump.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: What's that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog. You said I’d got to give names to everything.<lb/>
Ptitsa — the thing that flies. Devotchka — her. Yarblocko<lb/>
— the hard round thing that grows on trees and that<lb/>
I’m fed up of eating. Bog — you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Beware of the yellow yarblocko.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Now I pony. You never skaz about why beware.<lb/>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: You must not know too much.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Because there’s limits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Are limits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I stand corrected.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Sit, you mean. (She goes off with her basket.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
GoD: Sometimes it repents me that I made the — what's<lb/>
the word?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Devotchka. Cheena. Moozh. Look, Bog — what<lb/>
veshch is this about knowing too much?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Free will has to have limits. Your will must not be<lb/>
as free as mine. You see that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: I viddy real horrorshow. After all, you're like in<lb/>
charge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: We've just had trouble in heaven. One I trusted —<lb/>
the one | placed in charge of the light — made up his<lb/>
mind that he was as free as I am. Free as I am meant<lb/>
being me. You see that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I viddy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: He had to go. That means that I’m responsible for<lb/>
a moral duality. He versus me. He calls me evil, he calls<lb/>
himself good. The truth, of course, is the other way<lb/>
round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: These two slovos I do not pony.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: If by that you mean understand —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I’m in charge of the slovos. That was made very<lb/>
clear. What thing he calls by name, that is its name.<lb/>
Eemya. Naz.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Do not seek to pony. That would mean disaster.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Eat that yellow yarblocko and wed pony those two<lb/>
slovos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Good and evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It’s me that’s supposed to be in charge of the slovos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Not those two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And yet it’s there to eat. Reach up my rooker, pull<lb/>
it down, munch munch. Too easy, isn’t it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: It’s a way of testing your capacity for obedience.<lb/>
You're free to obey and free to disobey. That’s free will.<lb/>
That's choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It’s not enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I beg your pardon?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I like the sound of that holy angel or saint or what-<lb/>
ever he was. He took a chance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: The chance consequent on his disobedience. He's<lb/>
created an alternative world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="127"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Why didn’t you stop him?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: That’s not in the rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Bog’s rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: Once rules are made, they’re not to be changed. I<lb/>
detest the arbitrary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Those bolshy big slovos I pony not. I'd like to viddy<lb/>
this bolshy disobedient chelloveck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop (shuddering): Youll meet him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What does it mean — that slovo — good, was it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gop: It means accepting the divine order. My order.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And the other one?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Disorder. Disruption. The irrational bestowal of<lb/>
pain. The dissolution of creation into chaos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And you couldn't stop it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I abide by my own rules. I gave my creation free<lb/>
will. I gave it the power of choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: The choice between those two things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: I didn’t say that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
atex: I did. Words are for thinking with. ['m in charge<lb/>
of words. Slovos. You said so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cop: Eat that forbidden fruit and the birds will grow<lb/>
talons, the beasts will bite, the solitary snake will manu-<lb/>
facture venom, you'll discover death and have to find<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
supervene on creation. Do not touch that fruit. (He gets<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up.)<lb/>
ALEX: Take it away, then.<lb/>
cop: No. Remember the rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He goes off: Alex shakes his head, bemused. A bird calls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whistling, he imitates it. He does more: he creates a cantilena<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of his own. He is excited by his act of composition. Marty<lb/>
enters with a basket laden with fruit.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: Did you hear that? (He whistles again.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Nice. But what’s it for?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It needs a slovo. Mouse sick. Moose sick. I call it<lb/>
music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: But what’s it for?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It just is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Listen — I met this man —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Man? You can’t have. I’m the only one. So far.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He tries to embrace Marty, and this makes her spill some of<lb/>
her fruit. Then Alex is struck by a thought.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: You say a man?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Marty: More of an angel, really. He helped me pick this<lb/>
fruit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: He helped you to pick that one?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(He means the large yellow one, orange really, that he picks<lb/>
up from the ground. He holds it gingerly to his ear.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: There’s noise inside. Like ticking. Ticking. I just<lb/>
made up that slovo. We'd better see what's inside. (He<lb/>
pauses.) It was only eating he said, wasn't it? No harm<lb/>
in looking. We viddy it every day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: It smells all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(Alex breaks the rind and juice spatters on to his hand. He<lb/>
licks it.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: Now you've eaten it.<lb/>
ALEX: I don’t call that eating. ‘Taste.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(She tastes. The music that Alex whistled is now heard on an<lb/>
orchestra. It is the theme of the last movement of Beethovens<lb/>
</p>
<p>
223<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="128"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ninth Symphony. The light subtly changes. A man enters who<lb/>
is identical with the Minister of the Interior of a later scene.<lb/>
He is smartly dressed in a suit of snakeskin.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: It wasn’t so difficult, was it? The world hasn't<lb/>
changed. The old thunderer hasn't unleashed his light-<lb/>
ning. He wanted you to do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Wanted?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: Of course. Why did he leave it hanging there?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: The world Aas changed. It’s cold. I need some —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Platties? Clothes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You'll find clothes available. When you wake<lb/>
up from this dream. We all need protection from the<lb/>
cold cold world and the cold cold eyes of strangers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What's strangers?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: People we don’t know. The world’s already<lb/>
seething with them. You see them out there? That’s just<lb/>
a small sample.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: I don’t see anything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: But you imagine them. Imagine them first,<lb/>
then create them. That’s your job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MARTY: I feel a terrible — I don’t know the word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: Pain. Agony. Birth throes. Youd better go off<lb/>
and lie down. The pain will go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(She painfully leaves.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: 1 know all about it. I’m not your /ittle friend. I don’t<lb/>
have to be told. We have to have the two veshches or<lb/>
there wouldn't be anything to choose. It’s the choosing<lb/>
that counts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: I'll choose for you. That’s my privilege.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I'll choose for myself. That’s mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You'll choose wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Who knows what wrong is? Only Bog has the secret.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
MINISTER: You mean the old one? He’s dead. I threw him<lb/>
out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That’s why it’s cold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(The lights dim. A wind drowns the music. The Minister<lb/>
laughs and goes off. Alex tries to warm himself. He huddles<lb/>
on the ground. He wakes to the music of the Prelude. It was<lb/>
all a dream. Naked, he is speedily dressed by his three friends<lb/>
or droogs. The play begins.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="129"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
reser RUDRA RHOH NUR<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
EPILOGUE: ‘A Malenky Govoreet about the Molodoy’<lb/>
Anthony Burgess, 1987<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
as: Alex, if I may call you that — there’s always been some<lb/>
doubt about your surname —<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLex: Never gave it, brother, to no manner of chelloveck.<lb/>
The gloopy shoot that put me in the sinny — Lubric or<lb/>
Pubic or some such like naz — he gave me like two —<lb/>
Alex Burgess and Alex Delarge. That’s because of me<lb/>
govoreeting about being Alexander the Big. Then he<lb/>
forgets. Bad like editing. Call me Alex.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: In 1962, when the book about you was published, you<lb/>
were still a nadsat, teen that is. Now you must be about<lb/>
forty-two or -three or -four. Settled down, finished with<lb/>
the ultra-violence. Raising a family. Pillar of society.<lb/>
Taxpayer. Father of family. Faithful husband. Running<lb/>
to fat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: For you, little bratty, I am what I was. I am in a<lb/>
book and I do not sdacha. Fixed like, ah yes, for ever<lb/>
and never, allmen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="130"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Sdacha?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Pick up the old slovar some time, my brother.<lb/>
Shonary, Angleruss.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Shonary?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Leaving like the dick out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Fixed for ever and never, allmen, as you skazz. Eternal<lb/>
type of molodoy aggression.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: You are learning, verily thou art, O little brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: And yet there are changes, sdachas as you would put<lb/>
it. The youth or molodoy of the space age is not what<lb/>
it was in 1962.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That old kneeg was in the space age, my malenky<lb/>
droog. In it there are chellovecks on the old Luna. It<lb/>
was like pathetic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Prophetic?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: And pathetic too. The jeezny of all chellovecks is like<lb/>
pathetic and very pathetic. Because they do not sdach.<lb/>
Because they are always the same. Because they are<lb/>
mekansky apple-sins. That being the Russ like naz of the<lb/>
kneeg written by Burgess or F Alexander or whatever his<lb/>
naz is or was. What did you say your naz was, bratty?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: I skazzed nichevo about a name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Learning, brother, learning thou art in Bog’s Pravda.<lb/>
And you would know what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: To put it plain, your opinion of the youth of today.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: My like missal on the molodoy of segodnya. They<lb/>
are not like what I was. No, verily not. Because they<lb/>
have not one veshch in their gullivers. To Ludwig van<lb/>
and his like they give shooms of lip-music prrrrr. It 1s<lb/>
all with them cal, very gromky. Guitars and these kots<lb/>
and. kotchkas with creeching golosses and their luscious<lb/>
glory very long and very grahzny. And their platties. It<lb/>
is all jeans and filthy toofles. And tisshuts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
228<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
gullivers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Meaning not one thought in their heads?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is what I skazzed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: But they have many. They are against war and all for<lb/>
universal peace and banning nuclear missiles. They speak<lb/>
of love and human equality. They have songs about<lb/>
these things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It is all cal and kiss my sharries. A tolchock in the<lb/>
keeshkas for the kots and the old in-out for the koshkas.<lb/>
Devotchkas, that is. What they want they will not get.<lb/>
For there is no sdacha. There will always be voina and no<lb/>
mir, like old Lion Trotsky or it may be Tolstoy was always<lb/>
govoreeting about. It is built in. Chellovecks are all like<lb/>
very aggressive and do not sdach. The Russkies have a<lb/>
slovo for it, two really, and it is prirozhdyonnuiy grekh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Let me consult my ah Angleruss slovar. Odna minoota<lb/>
— it says here original sin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That I have not slooshied before. Real dobby.<lb/>
Original sin is good and very good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: The young of today pride themselves on their sever-<lb/>
ance from the culture of their elders. Their elders have<lb/>
ruined the world, they say, and when they are not trying<lb/>
to rebuild that ruined world with love and fellowship<lb/>
they withdraw from it with hallucinogens.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is a hard slovo and very hard, O my brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: I mean that they take drugs and experience hallucina-<lb/>
tions in which they are transported to heavenly regions<lb/>
of the inner mind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="131"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Meaning that they are in touch with Bog And All<lb/>
His Holy Angels and the other veshches?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Not God, in whom most no longer believe. Though<lb/>
some of them follow the one you would call the bearded<lb/>
nagoy chelloveck who died on the cross. Indeed, they<lb/>
grow beards and try to look like him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: What I skaz is that these veshches, like drencrom<lb/>
and vellocet and the rest of the cal, are not good for a<lb/>
malchick. To doomat about Bog and to itty off into the<lb/>
land and burble cal about lubbilubbing every chelloveck<lb/>
has to sap all the goodness and strength out of a<lb/>
malchick. This I skaz, ah yes, and it is the pravda and<lb/>
nichevo but the.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Do you consider the youth of today to be more violent<lb/>
than the generation to which you belonged or belong?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Not more. Those that want deng or cutter to koopat<lb/>
their teeny malenky sniffs and snorts and jabs in the<lb/>
rooker must use the old ultra-violence to take and like<lb/>
grab. But such are not seelny, strong that is. All the<lb/>
strength and goodness has been like sapped out of them.<lb/>
The ultra-violence is less now of the molodoy than of<lb/>
the ITA and ZBD and the Cronks and the Pally Steinians<lb/>
who are not pals of the Steins, ah no, nor of the Cohens<lb/>
and the rest of the yahoodies. It is all with the KPS and<lb/>
the TYF and the QED and the other gruppas. Terror<lb/>
by air and land, O my brother. Bombs in public mestos.<lb/>
Very cowardly and very like unkind. Bombs and guns,<lb/>
they were not ever my own veshch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You never handled a gun?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: Very cowardly, for it is ultra-violence from a long<lb/>
long long like way off. Dratsing is not what it was. It<lb/>
was better in what they called like the Dark Ages before<lb/>
they put on the like lights. The old britva and the nozh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
230<lb/>
</p>
<p>
NSN IASON URE DERN ROH OUR ON GT<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rooker to rooker. Your own red red krovvy as well as<lb/>
the krovvy of the chelloveck you are dratsing. And then<lb/>
there was another veshch I do not pomnit the slovo of<lb/>
all that good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: Style, you mean style?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That slovo will do as dobby as any slovo I know<lb/>
whereof, O my brother. Style and again style. Style we<lb/>
had. And the red red krovvy did not get on to your<lb/>
platties if you had style. For it was style of the nogas<lb/>
and the rookers and the plott, as it might be tansivat-<lb/>
ting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aB: Dancing?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: That is the slovo that would not like come into my<lb/>
gulliver. The yahzick of the kvadrats I could never get<lb/>
my yahzick round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Kvadrat means quadratic, doesn’t it? And that means<lb/>
square. By using such terminology you give away your<lb/>
age.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
aLEx: Yarbles. Bolshy great yarblockos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Yarblockos means apples, does it not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: It means yarbles, O my brother.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
as: Let us return to this business of the music preferred<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
AB: Lay it on?<lb/>
Avex: Lay it on thick. Flick. Sinny film, that is. He was<lb/>
not seen off by Salieri. He snuffed because he was too<lb/>
</p>
<p>
good for this filthy world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
231<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="132"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You speak plain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: I always govoreet plain, my brother. And this I skaz<lb/>
now, that music is the way in. That music is the door<lb/>
to the big bolshy pravda. That it is like heaven. And<lb/>
what the molodoy of now slooshy is not music. And<lb/>
the slovos are like pathetic. What I say to these molodoy<lb/>
chellovecks is that they must like grow up. They must<lb/>
dig into their gullivers more. They must not smeck at<lb/>
what is gone behind. Because that is all we have. There<lb/>
is no to come and the now is no more than like a sneeze.<lb/>
It is all there behind, built up by the bolshy chellovecks<lb/>
who are like dead. But they are not dead. They live on<lb/>
in our jeezny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You seem to be ah govoreeting about the preservation<lb/>
of the past. You seem to me also to be ah skazzing that<lb/>
artistic creation is a great good. And yet your ah jeezny<lb/>
was dedicated to destruction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: All these bolshy slovos. It was the bolshy great force<lb/>
of the jeezny that was in myself. I was molodoy, and<lb/>
none had taught me to make. So break was the veshch<lb/>
I had to do. But I get over it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You get over it? Meaning you grow up?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ALEX: There is no kneeg about me growing up. That is<lb/>
not writ by no manner of writing chelloveck. They viddy<lb/>
me as a very ultra-violent malchick and not more, ah<lb/>
no. To be young is to be nothing. It is best as in your<lb/>
slovos to be like growing up. That is why I skaz to the<lb/>
molodoy of now that they must not be as they are. They<lb/>
have this long voloss and these tisshuts and blue tight<lb/>
genovas on their nogas and they think they are all. But<lb/>
they are nothing. Grow up is what they must do, ah<lb/>
yes. What they have to do is to like grow up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: Can you now transport yourself to the future, or rather<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
your part in the future which has not been written about<lb/>
and, I speak with some authority, never will be, and<lb/>
deliver a final message to the world of today?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
‘“f possible’. Very well. I speak as a tax-paying adult.<lb/>
And I say that the only thing that counts is the human<lb/>
capacity for moral choice. No, I will not speak. I will<lb/>
sing. I will take Ludwig van Beethoven's setting of<lb/>
Schiller’s Ode to Joy in the final movement of the glorious<lb/>
Ninth, and I will put my own slovos, I mean words, to<lb/>
it. And the words are these. If you would care to join<lb/>
in, thou art most welcome. Slooshy, listen that is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Being young’s a sort of sickness,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Measles, mumps or chicken pox.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gather all your toys together,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lock them in a wooden box.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That means tolchocks, crasting and dratsing,<lb/>
All of the things that suit a boy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When you build instead of busting,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You can start your Ode to Joy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Do not be a clockwork orange,<lb/>
Freedom has a lovely voice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here is good and there is badness,<lb/>
Look on both, then take your choice.<lb/>
Sweet in juice and hue and aroma,<lb/>
Let’s not be changed to fruit machines.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
233<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<pb n="133"/>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Choice is free but seldom easy —<lb/>
That’s what human freedom means.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gloopy sort of slovos, really. Grahzny sort of a world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
May I now, O my brother, return to the pages of my<lb/>
book?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
AB: You never left them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="134"/>
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</p>
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</p>
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<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Wuat I loved most about the Russians was their ineffi-<lb/>
ciency. I went to Leningrad expecting to find a frightening<lb/>
steel-and-stone image of the Orwellian future. What I<lb/>
found instead was human beings at their most human: or,<lb/>
to put it another way, at their most inefficient.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have to qualify this: inefficient people do not produce<lb/>
sputniks or cosmonauts. But it seems that the efficiency is<lb/>
a thin cream floated to the top; one gets the impression of<lb/>
a school in which all the teachers are busy at a staff meeting<lb/>
or in the sixth-form laboratories, leaving the lower forms to<lb/>
their own unsupervised devices. Stink-bombs are thrown,<lb/>
ink splashes the walls (the walls are already dirty enough,<lb/>
anyway); Ivanov Minor writes on the blackboard. “Comrade<lb/>
Khrushchev has a fat belly.’ But no one minds because there<lb/>
is a most interesting experiment going on in the physics lab,<lb/>
and all the staff is crowding round that. Or else some teacher<lb/>
is being reprimanded by all the other teachers for a breach<lb/>
of staff discipline. Or else plans are being made for a colossal<lb/>
open day. Or perhaps the headmaster is checking the proofs<lb/>
of the glorious and mendacious school prospectus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know whether mendacity is an aspect of the<lb/>
Russian character or something that springs out of Soviet<lb/>
</p>
<p>
237<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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<pb n="135"/>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
‘double-think’. In a restaurant a waiter assured me that all<lb/>
the tables were full when I could see for myself that most<lb/>
of them were empty. I tried to buy an English newspaper<lb/>
but could only find the Daily Worker on sale. The girl at<lb/>
the kiosk should rightly have said: “Only the Daily Worker<lb/>
tells the truth; hence it is the only British paper allowed<lb/>
in Soviet Russia.’ But what she actually said was: “You<lb/>
should have come earlier. All the other British papers have<lb/>
been snapped up.’ That was not much of a compliment<lb/>
to the Daily Worker; nor to what I call my intelligence —<lb/>
everyone knows that no other British newspapers are<lb/>
allowed in Russia. Some of the lies are far from annoying.<lb/>
An Intourist man told me I would have to pay £25 for a<lb/>
single night in a double room in the Astoria Hotel. What<lb/>
I actually paid was something under 30 shillings; I have<lb/>
the bill to prove it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But perhaps what I call lying is only a Russian unwill-<lb/>
ingness to face reality. And perhaps both those harsh words<lb/>
— lying and inefficiency — are ill-chosen. The world of<lb/>
romance and fairy tale is never far away from the<lb/>
Khrushchevian Utopia (Utopia, of course, was a fairy tale).<lb/>
Gagarin and Titov are perhaps cognate with Baba Yaga and<lb/>
other fairy-tale witches and magicians. If you can accept<lb/>
that a hut can walk on chicken’s legs, you are not surprised<lb/>
at what can be done with a space-ship. I made friends with<lb/>
a serious young man with a good science degree. For days<lb/>
we talked earnestly and without humour on political and<lb/>
scientific matters. Then suddenly, without warning, without<lb/>
a flicker or glint, he told me that he had in his apartment<lb/>
a Siberian cat nearly three feet long, excluding the tail. This<lb/>
cat, he said, had very green eyes, shared his bed with him,<lb/>
and occasionally kicked him out of bed on to the floor.<lb/>
You could see he sometimes got a bit tired of reality.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In a fairy-tale world time is easily suspended. Dining-<lb/>
room delays are proverbial. In Leningrad’s smallest restau-<lb/>
rant I ordered beef stroganoff at twelve-thirty and was<lb/>
eventually served it at four. That didn’t greatly worry me;<lb/>
I was less hungry than thirsty and desperately wanted beer.<lb/>
But nobody would bring me beer. I lolled my tongue in<lb/>
desperation and made strangled noises: these were appre-<lb/>
ciated but they didn’t bring me beer. What I did then was<lb/>
to go to a refrigerator that was gleaming in the distance<lb/>
and take beer out of it. I brought the beer back to my<lb/>
table and opened it with a knife. Nobody objected. I did<lb/>
this four times; nobody minded in the least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Between drinking this self-service beer and waiting for<lb/>
my beef stroganoff I decided to do a little shopping. I had<lb/>
seen a boutique with bracelets and brooches and badges<lb/>
of Lenin and Major Gagarin. I wanted to buy a small<lb/>
Soviet present for my wife. The girls behind the counter<lb/>
were very pretty and very helpful. Nobody could speak<lb/>
English but we contrived a macaronic mixture of Russian,<lb/>
French, and German. I chose a charming little bracelet<lb/>
and brought out my roubles and kopeks. The girls were<lb/>
shocked. Only foreign currency was allowed here, monsieut.<lb/>
These goods were for foreigners. Did I not see the logic?<lb/>
I didn’t, but I asked how much English money. There was<lb/>
a great rummaging among type-written lists. At length it<lb/>
was proudly announced that the bracelet would cost thirty<lb/>
shillings and fifteen pence. I gave the girls a little lesson.<lb/>
They crowded round. They were most appreciative: the<lb/>
Russians love lessons. I handed over two pound notes and<lb/>
there was an interval for admiring the portrait of the<lb/>
Queen. “The Tsarina,’ they said, ‘very pretty. I asked for<lb/>
change. They were terribly sorry, but they had no change.<lb/>
This was the first day, you see, and their aim was to get<lb/>
</p>
<p>
239<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="136"/>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
foreign currency, not give it. What I must do was to choose<lb/>
some other little gift, so that my total purchases would<lb/>
add up to two pounds. This seemed reasonable, so I chose<lb/>
a small brooch. How much this time? This time, they said,<lb/>
busy with their ballpoints, I must pay five shillings and<lb/>
fourteen pence. A recapitulation of my little arithmetic<lb/>
lessons and some gentle rapping on the knuckles. Charming<lb/>
giggles; very well, then, a total of thirty-five shillings and<lb/>
twenty-nine pence, making a total of one pound, seventeen<lb/>
shillings and five pence. That meant there was still two<lb/>
shillings and sevenpence to be spent. I groaned. I said:<lb/>
‘Please keep the two shillings and sevenpence change,<lb/>
mademoiselle. Buy yourself a little something with it.’<lb/>
Everybody was profoundly shocked. No, no, no,<lb/>
unthinkable, uncultured, un-Sovier. I must buy something<lb/>
else. So I desperately ranged around the little boutique<lb/>
and emerged finally with a small badge with a hammer<lb/>
and sickle and the slogan Mir Miru, meaning ‘Peace to<lb/>
the World’. This was two shillings. I begged and pleaded<lb/>
with the girls to at least keep the sevenpence change, but<lb/>
they wouldn’t and couldn’. Finally, I was given two boxes<lb/>
of Soviet matches, we exchanged kisses and handshakes,<lb/>
and everybody was happy. It had taken a long time. I had<lb/>
now forgotten what I had ordered for lunch. But the<lb/>
waiter, at last back from his three-hour compulsory rest-<lb/>
period, had nor forgotten. On my table was a plate of cold<lb/>
beef stroganoff. The waiter tut-tutted at me reproachfully.<lb/>
The food had been there for twenty minutes, he said.<lb/>
Perhaps the manic depression which so many Russians<lb/>
seem to suffer from militates against what we like to call<lb/>
efficiency: up in the air, on a wave of massive euphoria;<lb/>
then down into the bowels of the earth, in inutterable<lb/>
misery — that’s the way with the lot of them. A lot of them<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
are what are called pyknic types, short, stocky, and temper-<lb/>
amental, like Comrade Khrushchev himself. A good<lb/>
Communist never weeps for the sins of the world, but I<lb/>
saw plenty of weeping and ineffable depression in Leningrad<lb/>
restaurants. One minute up on a crest of frog-dancing,<lb/>
singing and promiscuous kissing — loud, loving smacks<lb/>
— on vodka and Soviet cognac: the next moment, down<lb/>
in the deepest depression. This would often end in sleep,<lb/>
head down in a litter of glasses, bottles and full ash-trays.<lb/>
And then some grim loud woman would appear with a<lb/>
ready cure — a pledget of cotton-wool soaked in ammonia.<lb/>
Up the nostrils, even into the eyes, and the sufferer would<lb/>
cough back into life, be thrown out by the waiters, and<lb/>
then search hopelessly for a taxi home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I saw a great deal of drunkenness in Leningrad restau-<lb/>
rants. I found this on the whole encouraging; where there's<lb/>
drunkenness, there’s hope, for good little totalitarian<lb/>
machines don’t get drunk. The technique with obstreperous<lb/>
drunks was always the same — the unceremonious chuck-<lb/>
out by a gaggle of waiters: the police were never brought<lb/>
into it. That’s another thing I liked about Leningrad — the<lb/>
absence of police. Perhaps all the police are secret police,<lb/>
and perhaps the only crimes are political crimes. Certainly,<lb/>
there was no attempt to cope officially with the minor<lb/>
misdemeanours which fill our police-courts — drunken<lb/>
disorderliness, rowdyism, soliciting. My wife and I left the<lb/>
Metropole Restaurant at three in the morning together<lb/>
with a charming Finnish couple. We had been with them<lb/>
for several hours, had carried on long and intricate conver-<lb/>
sations with them, despite the lack of any common<lb/>
language at all. I asked a waiter if we could get a taxi. He<lb/>
said, with commendable intelligibility, ‘Zaxi, myet.’<lb/>
Downstairs I asked one of the three sweating doormen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
241<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But they were busy coping with a loud group of stilyagi<lb/>
or teddy-boys, who were shouting and waving broken<lb/>
bottles and demanding to be let into the restaurant. There,<lb/>
of course, it was a taxi very much myet. So the four of us<lb/>
sat on the pavement, singing in Finnish and English that<lb/>
great international song ‘Clementine’. We wanted the<lb/>
police to come, tap us on the shoulder, find out if we were<lb/>
foreigners, then speed us back to our respective ships in<lb/>
police cars. But no police came. The painted girls solicited<lb/>
and the teddy-boys raged and romped, but no police came.<lb/>
It is my honest opinion that there are no police in<lb/>
Leningrad.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If one expects to find a totalitarian state full of soft-<lb/>
booted, white-helmeted military police, conspicuously<lb/>
armed, one also expects a certain coldness, a thinness of<lb/>
blood, all emotion channelled into a love of Big Brother.<lb/>
You certainly find none of that in Leningrad. There is a<lb/>
tremendous warmth about the people, a powerful desire<lb/>
to admit you, the stranger, into the family and smother<lb/>
you with kisses. I asked my young scientific friend to call<lb/>
me by my first name, but he was shy of that. He didn’t<lb/>
want to be stand-offish, he wanted to establish a closer<lb/>
relationship than the mere use of first names would allow;<lb/>
so I was to be called ‘Uncle’ — Dyadya: I was to be genu-<lb/>
inely one of the family. One found this in hospitals, too.<lb/>
My wife was taken to hospital with some inexplicable<lb/>
complaint — doctors and nurses alike administered the<lb/>
medicine of a good cuddle, a kiss, a maternal or paternal<lb/>
‘there there’. One sees how remote from reality were those<lb/>
early Soviet attempts to abolish the family as a social unit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Strangely enough, one feels this warm ambience of<lb/>
family even in the food. Borshch, that omnipresent soup,<lb/>
coarse and delicious — there’s none of the cold professional<lb/>
</p>
<p>
242<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I suppose if one wanted to be fanciful one could say<lb/>
that the whole of Leningrad is aromatic of home. No<lb/>
names of strangers stand above the shops. All you see is<lb/>
MEAT, BUTTER, EGGS, FISH, VEGETABLES, as<lb/>
though each state food-shop were a compartment of some<lb/>
colossal family kitchen. And there is no terrifying smart-<lb/>
ness among the people who walk the streets — they are all<lb/>
dressed in clumsy ill-cut unpressed suits and dresses, like<lb/>
members of our own family rigged up informally for a<lb/>
day at home. Incidentally, there is plenty to be done at<lb/>
home, but no one ever seems to do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The city is terribly shabby and slummy-looking despite<lb/>
the Byzantine gold of the cathedral, despite the unbeliev-<lb/>
able splendours of the Winter Palace. And what is true of<lb/>
the city is also true of home. Father and elder brothers<lb/>
put off indefinitely the necessary chores — the replacing<lb/>
of broken panes in the windows, the painting and pointing,<lb/>
the mending of the path, the new lightbulb on the landing.<lb/>
Father is a shirt-sleeved pipe-smoking slippered newspaper-<lb/>
reading Father. He is inefficient, and so is Big Brother.<lb/>
Meanwhile, far away the rockets blast off and Major Titov<lb/>
surveys the earth like a god. But all that is taking place<lb/>
in another Russia, far away from the homely smell of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
blocked-up drains and borshch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Listener, 28 December 1961<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="138"/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I went to see Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange in New<lb/>
York, fighting to get in like everybody else. It was worth the<lb/>
fight, I thought — very much a Kubrick movie, technically<lb/>
brilliant, thoughtful, relevant, poetic, mind-opening. It was<lb/>
possible for me to see the work as a radical remaking of my<lb/>
own novel, not as a mere interpretation, and this — the feeling<lb/>
that it was no impertinence to blazon it as Stanley Kubricks<lb/>
Clockwork Orange — is the best tribute I can pay to the<lb/>
Kubrickian mastery. The fact remains, however, that the film<lb/>
sprang out of a book, and some of the controversy which<lb/>
has begun to attach to the film is controversy in which J,<lb/>
inevitably, feel myself involved. In terms of philosophy and<lb/>
even theology, the Kubrick Orange is a fruit from my tree.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wrote A Clockwork Orange in 1961, which is a very<lb/>
remote year, and I experience some difficulty in empa-<lb/>
thising with that long-gone writer who, concerned with<lb/>
making a living, wrote as many as five novels in fourteen<lb/>
months. The title is the least difficult thing to explain. In<lb/>
1945, back from the army, I heard an eighty-year-old<lb/>
Cockney in a London pub say that somebody was ‘as queer<lb/>
as a clockwork orange’. The ‘queer’ did not mean homo-<lb/>
sexual: it meant mad. The phrase intrigued me with its<lb/>
</p>
<p>
245<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="139"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
unlikely fusion of demotic and surrealistic. For nearly<lb/>
twenty years I wanted to use it as the title of something.<lb/>
During those twenty years I heard it several times more<lb/>
— in Underground stations, in pubs, in television plays<lb/>
— but always from aged Cockneys, never from the young.<lb/>
It was a traditional trope, and it asked to entitle a work<lb/>
which combined a concern with tradition and a bizarre<lb/>
technique. The opportunity to use it came when I<lb/>
conceived the notion of writing a novel about brain-<lb/>
washing. Joyce’s Stephen Dedalus (in Ulysses) refers to the<lb/>
world as an ‘oblate orange’: man is a microcosm or little<lb/>
world; he is a growth as organic as a fruit, capable of<lb/>
colour, fragrance and sweetness; to meddle with him,<lb/>
condition him, is to turn him into a mechanical creation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There had been some talk in the British press about the<lb/>
problems of growing criminality. The youth of the late<lb/>
Fifties were restless and naughty, dissatisfied with the post-<lb/>
war world, violent and destructive, and they — being more<lb/>
conspicuous than more old-time crooks and hoods — were<lb/>
what many people meant when they talked about growing<lb/>
criminality. Looking back from a peak of violence, we can<lb/>
see that the British teddy-boys and mods and rockers were<lb/>
mere tyros in the craft of anti-social aggression: neverthe-<lb/>
less, they were a portent, and the man in the street was<lb/>
right to be scared. How to deal with them? Prison or<lb/>
reform school made them worse: why not save the tax-<lb/>
payer's money by subjecting them to an easy course in con-<lb/>
ditioning, some kind of aversion therapy which should<lb/>
make them associate the act of violence with discomfort,<lb/>
nausea, or even intimations of mortality? Many heads nod-<lb/>
ded at this proposal (not, at the time, a governmental pro-<lb/>
posal, but one put out by private though influential<lb/>
theoreticians). Heads still nod at it. On The Frost Show it<lb/>
</p>
<p>
246<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was suggested to me that it might have been a good thing<lb/>
if Adolf Hitler had been forced to undergo aversion therapy,<lb/>
so that the very thought of a new putsch or pogrom would<lb/>
make him sick up his cream cakes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hitler was, unfortunately, a human being, and if we<lb/>
could have countenanced the conditioning of one human<lb/>
being we would have to accept it for all. Hitler was a great<lb/>
nuisance, but history has known others disruptive enough<lb/>
to make the state’s fingers itch — Christ, Luther, Bruno,<lb/>
even D. H. Lawrence. One has to be genuinely philo-<lb/>
sophical about this, however much one has suffered. I<lb/>
dont know how much free will man really possesses<lb/>
(Wagner’s Hans Sachs said: Wir sind ein wenig frei — “We<lb/>
are a little free’), but I do know what little he seems to<lb/>
have is too precious to encroach on, however good the<lb/>
intentions of the encroacher may be.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange was intended to be a sort of tract,<lb/>
even a sermon, on the importance of the power of choice.<lb/>
My hero or anti-hero, Alex, is very vicious, perhaps even<lb/>
impossibly so, but his viciousness is not the product of<lb/>
genetic or social conditioning: it is his own thing, embarked<lb/>
on in full awareness. Alex is evil, not merely misguided,<lb/>
and in a properly run society such evil as he enacts must<lb/>
be checked and punished. But his evil is a human evil,<lb/>
and we recognise in his deeds of aggression potentialities<lb/>
of our own — worked out for the non-criminal citizen in<lb/>
war, sectional injustice, domestic unkindness, armchair<lb/>
dreams. In three ways Alex is an exemplar of humanity:<lb/>
he is aggressive, he loves beauty, he is a language-user.<lb/>
Tronically, his name can be taken to mean ‘wordless’,<lb/>
though he has plenty of words of his own — invented<lb/>
eroup-dialect. He has, though, no word to say in the<lb/>
running of his community or the managing of the state:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
247<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
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he is, to the state, a mere object, something ‘out there’<lb/>
like the Moon, though not so passive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Theologically, evil is not quantifiable. Yet I posit the<lb/>
notion that one act of evil may be greater than another,<lb/>
and that perhaps the ultimate act of evil is dehumanisa-<lb/>
tion, the killing of the soul — which is as much as to say<lb/>
the capacity to choose between good and evil acts. Impose<lb/>
on an individual the capacity to be good and only good,<lb/>
and you kill his soul for, presumably, the sake of social<lb/>
stability. What my, and Kubrick's, parable tries to state is<lb/>
that it is preferable to have a world of violence undertaken<lb/>
in full awareness — violence chosen as an act of will — than<lb/>
a world conditioned to be good or harmless. I recognise<lb/>
that the lesson is already becoming an old-fashioned one.<lb/>
B. E Skinner, with his ability to believe that there is<lb/>
something beyond freedom and dignity, wants to see the<lb/>
death of autonomous man. He may or may not be right,<lb/>
but in terms of the Judaeo-Christian ethic that A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange tries to express he is perpetrating a gross heresy. It<lb/>
seems to me in accordance with the tradition that Western<lb/>
man is not yet ready to jettison, that the area in which<lb/>
human choice is a possibility should be extended, even if<lb/>
one comes up against new angels with swords and banners<lb/>
emblazoned No. The wish to diminish free will is, I should<lb/>
think, the sin against the Holy Ghost. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In both film and book, the evil that the state performs<lb/>
in brainwashing Alex is seen spectacularly in its own lack<lb/>
of self-awareness as regards non-ethical values. Alex is fond<lb/>
of Beethoven, and he has used the Ninth Symphony as a<lb/>
stimulus to dreams of violence. This has been his choice,<lb/>
but there has been nothing to prevent his choosing to use<lb/>
that music as a mere solace or image of divine order. That,<lb/>
by the time his conditioning starts, he has not yet made<lb/>
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the better choice does not mean that he will never do it.<lb/>
But, with an aversion therapy which associates Beethoven<lb/>
and unlooked-for punishment and it is tantamount to<lb/>
robbing a man — stupidly, casually — of his right to enjoy<lb/>
the divine vision. For there is a good beyond mere ethical<lb/>
good, which is always existential: there is the essential good,<lb/>
that aspect of God which we can prefigure more in the<lb/>
taste of an apple or the sound of music than in mere right<lb/>
action or even charity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What hurts me, as also Kubrick, is the allegation made<lb/>
by some viewers and readers of A Clockwork Orange that<lb/>
there is a gratuitous indulgence in violence which turns<lb/>
an intended homiletic work into a pornographic one. It<lb/>
was certainly no pleasure to me to describe acts of violence<lb/>
when writing the novel: I indulged in excess, in caricature,<lb/>
even in an invented dialect with the purpose of making<lb/>
the violence more symbolic than realistic, and Kubrick<lb/>
found remarkable cinematic equivalents for my own<lb/>
literary devices. It would have been pleasanter, and would<lb/>
have made more friends, if there had been no violence at<lb/>
all, but the story of Alex’s reclamation would have lost<lb/>
force if we weren't permitted to see what he was being<lb/>
reclaimed from. For my own part, the depiction of violence<lb/>
was intended as both an act of catharsis and an act of<lb/>
charity, since my own wife was the subject of vicious and<lb/>
mindless violence in blacked-out London in 1942, when<lb/>
she was robbed and beaten by three GI deserters. Readers<lb/>
of my book may remember that the author whose wife is<lb/>
raped is the author of a work called A Clockwork Orange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Viewers of the film have been disturbed by the fact that<lb/>
Alex, despite his viciousness, is quite likeable. It has<lb/>
required a deliberate self-administered act of aversion<lb/>
therapy on the part of some to dislike him, and to let<lb/>
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righteous indignation get in the way of human charity.<lb/>
The point is that, if we are going to love mankind, we<lb/>
will have to love Alex as a not unrepresentative member<lb/>
of it. The place where Alex and his mirror-image<lb/>
F Alexander are most guilty of hate and violence is called<lb/>
HOME, and it is here, we are told, that charity ought to<lb/>
begin. But towards that mechanism, the state, which first<lb/>
is concerned with self-perpetuation and, second, is happiest<lb/>
when human beings are predictable and controllable, we<lb/>
have no duty at all, certainly no duty of charity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have a final point to make, and this will not interest<lb/>
many who like to think of Kubrick’s Orange rather than<lb/>
Burgess’. The language of both movie and book (called<lb/>
nadsat — the Russian ‘teen’ suffix as in pyatnadsat, meaning<lb/>
fifteen) is no mere decoration, nor is it a sinister indication<lb/>
of the subliminal power that a Communist super-state<lb/>
may already be exerting on the young. It was meant to<lb/>
turn A Clockwork Orange into, among other things, a<lb/>
brainwashing primer. You read the book or see the film,<lb/>
and at the end you should find yourself in possession of<lb/>
a minimal Russian vocabulary — without effort, with<lb/>
surprise. This is the way brainwashing works. I chose<lb/>
Russian words because they blend better into English than<lb/>
those of French or even German (which is already a kind<lb/>
of English, not exotic enough). But the lesson of the Orange<lb/>
has nothing to do with the ideology or repressive tech-<lb/>
niques of Soviet Russia: it is wholly concerned with what<lb/>
can happen to any of us in the West if we do not keep<lb/>
on our guard. If Orange, like Nineteen Eighty-Four, takes<lb/>
its place as one of the salutary literary warnings — or<lb/>
cinematic warnings — against flabbiness, sloppy thinking,<lb/>
and overmuch trust in the state, then it will have done<lb/>
something of value. For my part, I do not like the book<lb/>
</p>
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as much as others I have written: I have kept it, till recently,<lb/>
in an unopened jar — marmalade, a preserve on a shelf,<lb/>
rather than an orange on a dish. What I would really like<lb/>
to see is a film of one of my other novels, all of which are<lb/>
singularly unaggressive, but I fear that this is too much to<lb/>
hope for. It looks as though I must go through life as the<lb/>
fountain and origin of a great film, and as a man who<lb/>
has to insist, against all opposition, that he is the most<lb/>
unviolent creature alive. Just like Stanley Kubrick.<lb/>
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<p>
Ar the moment I’m working on a novel about the life of<lb/>
Christ. In this book I see Christ as a sort of hippie, an<lb/>
early type of revolutionary. | think it's curious that he was<lb/>
a carpenter, and the fact that he worked with pieces of<lb/>
wood all his life. When it was time for him to die, when<lb/>
he looked at that piece of wood, he must have thought<lb/>
something. I am working with a language for the book<lb/>
now, something — like the nadsat language in A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange — using a fusion of two languages — in this case,<lb/>
English and Hebrew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In a way this is drawn out of the Manson business. I<lb/>
have a neurotic thing about that sort of insanity. It’s terri-<lb/>
fying — the evil, the chaos, the multiplicity of it. If there<lb/>
is anything that makes me wish for death, that brings out<lb/>
my death-wish, it is that. I worry all the time. I worry<lb/>
about my wife, and my son in New York. Between the<lb/>
drug people and the psychopaths loose on the streets, it’s<lb/>
hardly safe to walk outside. Young people keep talking<lb/>
about being ‘tuned in to reality, but I wonder what it is<lb/>
they are really tuned in to? I'm not sure the Jesus Freaks<lb/>
and the young people involved in that sort of thing aren't<lb/>
[. . .] getting in touch with something besides Jesus<lb/>
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— maybe the devil. You know, throughout history people<lb/>
have done evil in the name of the Church. The Reformation,<lb/>
the Salem Witch Trials, all through history people have<lb/>
been misled by the appearance of good. It makes me elect<lb/>
for simplicity [. . .] There is too much multiplicity. The<lb/>
evil around us is frightening, and it’s unsafe to deal with<lb/>
it. Only the artist can deal with it because he can do it<lb/>
more objectively. And perhaps that is not absolutely safe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Everywhere we look there is conflict. It’s on the campuses,<lb/>
it’s on the television, it’s on the streets. God knows, New<lb/>
York City, where I live, is the most dangerous city in the<lb/>
world. [. . .] The conflict is everywhere. This is the twen-<lb/>
tieth century and we are surrounded by conflict. Like Yin<lb/>
and Yang, hot and cold, God and the Devil: everything<lb/>
is conflict. This is the universe and without conflict we<lb/>
have no life at all. But the terms of conflict are uncertain.<lb/>
For instance, Right and Wrong, what do these terms mean?<lb/>
I mean really, what is absolutely Right, and what is abso-<lb/>
lutely Wrong? We could sit down and make a list. What<lb/>
would you say is Wrong? Would you say it is Wrong to<lb/>
hate? Perhaps. But what about in a time of war? In wartime<lb/>
it is Right to hate our enemies. It is Right to Ai// our<lb/>
enemies. The words Right and Wrong in themselves mean<lb/>
nothing. They have a smell of police ward disinfectant<lb/>
about them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
categorical, is it? Most of history is written about destruc-<lb/>
tion, not creation. Records are kept of wars, of the decay<lb/>
of civilisations, of murders and deaths, of men like<lb/>
Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Hitler, and others who<lb/>
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built enormous empires on their abilities to destroy. But<lb/>
in a sense, destruction is a means of creation. When a<lb/>
vandal knocks in the side of a telephone booth, or scratches<lb/>
his name on the side of a subway car, he is leaving his<lb/>
mark. He is, whether he knows it or not, attempting to<lb/>
show that he exists and that he has the ability to affect<lb/>
things, and to change things. Destructive violence is a way<lb/>
of saying, ‘Look, I am here.’ That's the easy way. That's<lb/>
negative creation. Positive creation is much more difficult<lb/>
— it requires patience and talent. Of course these young<lb/>
hoodlums have no patience. It’s much easier to destroy<lb/>
than to take a block of stone and slowly and carefully bring<lb/>
out an image — that requires an artist. Violence is much<lb/>
quicker; and to the hoodlums, the thug, I suppose violence<lb/>
is more rewarding because it is freer. There is no restraint<lb/>
and no control. There is also this drive for freedom in<lb/>
violence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My novel, Enderby, is about a poet, a gross, fat man.<lb/>
He belches, he drinks too much, he lives in the toilet — he<lb/>
writes poems in the water closet — he masturbates, he<lb/>
avoids all forms of obligation, he is no good with women.<lb/>
Enderby is free. I suppose that’s what I like about him<lb/>
[...] But you see, when a character or person is too free,<lb/>
then he challenges society. Now one of the basic premises<lb/>
of society is that no one has too much freedom. B. F.<lb/>
Skinner's book Beyond Freedom and Dignity, which, inci-<lb/>
dentally, came out about the same time as the film of A<lb/>
Clockwork Orange, states that we must give up certain<lb/>
rights and privileges so that we do not obtrude ourselves<lb/>
upon our neighbours. We must exercise control; we must<lb/>
limit our freedom for society’s sake. This means we relin-<lb/>
quish our freedom of choice. The artist is a rebel who<lb/>
defies control through his work. He escapes to his closet<lb/>
</p>
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where he paints, or writes, or makes a sculpture, and this<lb/>
way he maintains his identity. It may be that for the<lb/>
criminal violence is an expression of the same kind, or a<lb/>
similar kind, of freedom. However, by the time you use<lb/>
violence, you are out of control. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Violence is chaos. There is a constant war between the<lb/>
chaotic and the aesthetic, and the individual must fight<lb/>
to assert his own authority. The only hope for escape<lb/>
from this kind of chaos is to recognise the power of the<lb/>
human individual. I guess I’m rather a manichaean, but<lb/>
this kind of warfare — this battle of good and evil — has<lb/>
intrigued me for a long time. I tried to deal with it in<lb/>
my novel The Wanting Seed. This was a book I had wanted<lb/>
to write for years but could never quite find the right<lb/>
form. I finally did write it — though it is still not alto-<lb/>
gether successful — but what has concerned me here is a<lb/>
warfare between ideologies. On one hand you have the<lb/>
Pelagian concept that man is basically good, and that he<lb/>
is capable of perfection if left alone and allowed to<lb/>
discover his own way. On the other hand you have the<lb/>
Augustinian concept that man is only capable of evil and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
without God his only hope is self-destruction and eternal<lb/>
damnation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]J<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anatole France once wrote a novel called La Revolte des<lb/>
Anges that describes a sort of eternal war between God<lb/>
and Satan. God reigns on the one side over the powers of<lb/>
good, and on the other side Satan has marshalled the forces<lb/>
of evil. ’'m not suggesting this is necessarily true, but it<lb/>
is certainly a possibility we have to consider. Take Christ’s<lb/>
own words, ‘I come not to bring peace but a sword.’ I<lb/>
may be a Manichee, but we have to live with divisions.<lb/>
</p>
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We strive for order and unity, but it is not often that we<lb/>
can truly claim to have found it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The artist is faced with the duty of revealing the nature<lb/>
of reality. He is not a preacher — his job is not to be didactic<lb/>
_ he may be a teacher — we all try to teach; but the novelist<lb/>
is bound to do his duty. His duty is, as Henry James said,<lb/>
to dramatise. To reveal the nature of reality. You must<lb/>
remember that to the poet, the artist and to the novelist,<lb/>
the nature of reality is revealed, not by vague images passing<lb/>
through the mind, but by words: words which suggest<lb/>
certain meanings and reveal actions as the author knows<lb/>
them. But the author cannot determine right or wrong.<lb/>
All he can do is present a sort of ‘mock scenario’ from<lb/>
which the reader can draw his own conclusions. The author<lb/>
cannot always cast a scene in terms of good and evil — for<lb/>
one thing, good is not necessarily the opposite of evil, and<lb/>
there is a certain subjective value to evil. There is a subjec-<lb/>
tive value to good as well which goes beyond the meanings<lb/>
of right and wrong — a good we experience in a beautiful<lb/>
piece of music, the taste of an apple, or sex. Without a<lb/>
knowledge of the extremes it is difficult, or maybe impos-<lb/>
sible, to know anything of the medians. A man or woman<lb/>
who has never done evil cannot know what good is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is ironic that I am always associated with A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange. This, of all my books, is the one I like least. I<lb/>
wrote this book in 1961, which was the year after I was<lb/>
supposed to have died, and the book reveals a lot of the<lb/>
turmoil in my mind at the time. I don’t think it is my<lb/>
best book, but at the same time, the book reveals a great<lb/>
deal about the conflict of good and evil, and also about<lb/>
this fear of irrational violence. In many ways the book is<lb/>
me; for what we write is very much what we are. And<lb/>
the book reveals an inner battle with this quality, evil.<lb/>
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Not only evil, but the danger of trying to correct it.<lb/>
Basically I’m very suspicious of the use of power to change<lb/>
others.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A Clockwork Orange also demonstrates the pendulum<lb/>
theory — how one extreme purges the other. But ultimately<lb/>
we, as human beings, must come to terms with the<lb/>
dilemmas of good and evil, right and wrong, or whatever,<lb/>
on our own. God will not do it for us. I will not commit<lb/>
myself to saying ‘Credo in unum deum’. If there is a God,<lb/>
he is a supra-human god; he is not concerned with human<lb/>
motivation. Whether or not God does exist, the conflict<lb/>
of good and evil is inevitable. Even if there were no human<lb/>
beings in the world the principles of good and evil would<lb/>
exist. I don't believe that 2,000 years from now, if the<lb/>
world still exists, that the world will be any less evil, or<lb/>
any less good. The fight never comes to an end. For every<lb/>
moment of stasis is followed by a longer and more<lb/>
disrupting period of struggle. It may be, as has been<lb/>
suggested, that evil is dynamic and good tends to be static<lb/>
— it certainly seems that way in New York City, where I<lb/>
live, anyway — but the task of the concerned individual<lb/>
must be to make good a less static force: to make it more<lb/>
dynamic than evil. But what is the active force of good?<lb/>
Love. I would suggest that Love is the active force and we<lb/>
have to learn how to love everyone else, and everything<lb/>
else. That seems to be the challenge of the twentieth<lb/>
century. But can we do it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
25 October 1972<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
A few years ago I published a brief theatrical version of<lb/>
my novella _A Clockwork Orange, with lyrics and sugges-<lb/>
tions as to music (Beethoven mostly). This was done not<lb/>
because of a great love of the book, but because, for 28<lb/>
years, I was receiving requests from amateur pop groups<lb/>
for permission to present their own versions. These were<lb/>
usually so abysmally bad that I was forced eventually to<lb/>
pre-empt other perversions with an authoritative rendering<lb/>
of my own. But the final textual authority, though not<lb/>
the musical one, rests with this present Royal Shakespeare<lb/>
Company production. Ron Daniels, who directs it, has<lb/>
helped a great deal with putting it into a dramatic shape<lb/>
suitable for a large theatre, and I wish to thank him now<lb/>
for the hard and valuable work he has poured into what<lb/>
was very far from an easy task.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think most people know where the title comes from.<lb/>
‘A clockwork orange’ is a venerable Cockney expression<lb/>
applied to anything queer, with ‘queer’ not necessarily<lb/>
carrying any homosexual denotation. Nothing, in fact,<lb/>
could be queerer than a clockwork orange. When I worked<lb/>
in Malaya as a teacher, my pupils, when asked to write an<lb/>
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essay on a day out in the jungle, often referred to their<lb/>
taking a bottle of ‘orang squash’ with them. ‘Orang’ is a<lb/>
common word in Malay, and it means a human being.<lb/>
The Cockney and the Malay fused in my mind to give<lb/>
an image of human beings, who are juicy and sweet like<lb/>
oranges, being forced into the condition of mechanical<lb/>
objects.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is what happens to my young thug Alex, whose<lb/>
sweet and juicy criminality, which he thoroughly enjoys,<lb/>
is expunged by a course of conditioning in which he loses<lb/>
the free will which enables him to be a thug — but also,<lb/>
if he wishes, a decent adolescent with a strong musical<lb/>
talent. He has committed evil, but the real evil lies in the<lb/>
process which has burnt out the evil. He is forced to watch<lb/>
films of violence while a drug that induces nausea courses<lb/>
through his veins. But these films are accompanied by<lb/>
emotion-heightening music, and he is conditioned into<lb/>
feeling nausea when hearing Mozart or Beethoven as well<lb/>
as when contemplating violence. Music, which should be<lb/>
a neutral paradise, is turned into a hell.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What looks like a celebration of violence — far worse<lb/>
on the stage than in the book or the film that Stanley<lb/>
Kubrick made (now inexplicably banned in Britain) — is<lb/>
really an enquiry into the nature of free will. This is a<lb/>
theological drama. When human beings are made in-<lb/>
capable of performing acts of evil they are also made<lb/>
incapable of performing acts of goodness. For both depend<lb/>
on what St Augustine called berum arbitrium — free will.<lb/>
Whether we like it or not, the power of moral choice is<lb/>
what makes us human. For moral choice to exist, there<lb/>
have to be opposed objects of choice. In other words,<lb/>
there has to be evil. But there has to be good as well.<lb/>
And there has to be an area where moral choice doesn’t<lb/>
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ought to, making moral choices.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ever since I published A Clockwork Orange in 1962, I<lb/>
have been plagued by the fact that it has really been two<lb/>
books — one American, the other for the rest of the world.<lb/>
Thus, the British edition has twenty-one chapters while<lb/>
the American edition, till very recently, had only twenty.<lb/>
My American publisher did not like my ending: he said<lb/>
it was too British and too bland. This meant that he saw<lb/>
something implausible — or perhaps merely unsaleable — in<lb/>
my notion that most intelligent adolescents given to sense-<lb/>
less violence and vandalism get over it when they sniff the<lb/>
onset of maturity. For youth has energy but rarely knows<lb/>
what to do with it. Youth has not been taught — and is<lb/>
being taught less and less — to put that energy to the<lb/>
service of creation (write a poem, build Salisbury Cathedral<lb/>
out of matchsticks, learn computer engineering). In conse-<lb/>
quence, youth can use that energy only to beat up, put<lb/>
the boot in, slash, rape, destroy. Our card-operated tele-<lb/>
phone kiosks are a monument to youth’s worse instincts.<lb/>
At the end of this play you are to watch young Alex<lb/>
growing up, falling in love, contemplating eventual father-<lb/>
hood — in other ways, becoming a man. Violence, he sees,<lb/>
is kid’s stuff. My American publisher did not like this<lb/>
ending. Stanley Kubrick, when he made his film out of<lb/>
the American edition, naturally did not know that it<lb/>
existed. That is why the film puzzled European readers of<lb/>
the book. You must make up your own minds as to which<lb/>
ending you prefer. You can always leave before the end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One final point. In 1990, which we wrongly think is<lb/>
the start of a new decade, we look forward to a bright<lb/>
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<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
European future. The Berlin Wall is coming down, Mikhail<lb/>
Gorbachev is preaching perestroika (a word which young<lb/>
Alex is bound to know, since a great deal of his vocabulary<lb/>
is Russian), the Channel Tunnel is burrowing its way to<lb/>
the continent. We are, politically at least, becoming opti-<lb/>
mistic. Ron Daniels and his talented actors and musicians,<lb/>
as well as myself, are gently suggesting that politics is not<lb/>
everything. That, in a way, was the whole point of the<lb/>
book. Young Alex and his friends speak a mixture of the<lb/>
two major political languages of the world — Anglo-<lb/>
American and Russian — and this is meant to be ironical,<lb/>
for their activities are totally outside the world of politics.<lb/>
The problems of our age relate not to economic or polit-<lb/>
ical organisation but to what used to be called ‘the old<lb/>
Adam’. Original sin, if you wish. Acquisitiveness. Greed.<lb/>
Selfishness. Above all, aggression for its own sake. What<lb/>
is the purpose of terrorism? The answer is terrorism. Alex<lb/>
is a good, or bad, juvenile specimen of eternal man. That<lb/>
is why he is calling you his brothers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have no doubt that, with this new dramatic version<lb/>
of my little book, I shall be blamed for promoting fresh<lb/>
violence in the young. A man who killed his uncle blamed<lb/>
it on Shakespeare's Hamlet. A boy who gouged out his<lb/>
brother’s eye blamed it on a school edition of King Lear.<lb/>
Literary artists are always being treated as if they invented<lb/>
evil, but their true task, one of many, is to show that it<lb/>
existed long before they handled their first pen or word<lb/>
processor. If a writer doesn't tell the truth he'd better not<lb/>
write. This is the truth youre watching.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
RSC stage production at the Barbican Theatre,<lb/>
directed by Ron Daniels, 1990<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
MusIcaL composition, more than any other creative<lb/>
activity, shows how far the imagination can function inde-<lb/>
pendently of the rest of the human complex. A writer's<lb/>
arthritis or homosexuality or sweet tooth will often come<lb/>
through in a spring sonnet. An armless sculptor cannot<lb/>
sculpt well, no matter how prehensile his toes. A blind<lb/>
painter cannot paint at all. Frederick Delius, blind and<lb/>
paralysed, produced fine music. Beethoven, deaf, cirrhotic,<lb/>
diarrhetic, dyspnoeal, manic, produced the finest, and<lb/>
healthiest, music of all time. This is not, of course, to say<lb/>
that the composer's art operates totally in its own autono-<lb/>
mous world, Delius found it necessary to tell his amanu-<lb/>
ensis, Eric Fenby, that those long-held D-major string<lb/>
chords had something to do with the sea and sky and the<lb/>
wind arabesques could be seagulls. Gustav Mahler put trivial<lb/>
hurdy-gurdy tunes in his symphonies until Freud, between<lb/>
trains, told him why. Although Beethoven's music is about<lb/>
sounds and structures, it is also, in ways not easily demon-<lb/>
strable, about Kant and the tyrant at Schénbrunn and<lb/>
Beethoven himself, body and soul and blood and ouns. To<lb/>
read Beethoven’s biography is to learn something about<lb/>
</p>
<p>
263<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="148"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
what his music is trying to do. Not much, but something.<lb/>
Maynard Solomon's book is the latest in a long line<lb/>
dedicated to telling the truth about Beethoven as Schindler<lb/>
would not see it and as Thayer, who had to rely heavily on<lb/>
Schindler, was not able to see it. It was only in 1977, at the<lb/>
Berlin Beethovenkongress, that Herre and Beck proved that<lb/>
Schindler had fabricated more than 150 of his own entries<lb/>
in the Conversation Books. Moreover, the hagiographical<lb/>
tendency of many biographies got in the way of presenting<lb/>
the squalor, the clownishness, the downright malice, the<lb/>
drinking and drabbing. It was not right for the composer<lb/>
of the Ninth Symphony and the last quartets to vomit in<lb/>
crapula and frequent brothels. Solomon has no desire to<lb/>
‘fashion an uncontradictory and consistent portrait of<lb/>
Beethoven — to construct a safe, clear, well-ordered design;<lb/>
for such a portrait can be purchased only at the price of<lb/>
truth, by avoiding the obscurities that riddle the documen-<lb/>
tary material’. At the same time he is prepared to call on<lb/>
Freud and, more, Otto Rank to elucidate the obscurities.<lb/>
Beethoven was named for his grandfather, a Kapellmeister<lb/>
at the electoral court of Cologne, and identified with him,<lb/>
going so far as to wish to deny the paternity of Johann<lb/>
Beethoven and to acquiesce in the legend that he was the<lb/>
illegitimate son of a king of Prussia, either Friedrich Wilhelm<lb/>
II or Frederick the Great himself. He denied his birth year<lb/>
of 1770, despite all the documentary evidence, alleging and<lb/>
eventually believing that he had been born in 1772. His<lb/>
contempt for the drunken, feebly tyrannical, not too talented<lb/>
court tenor who was his father seems not to have been<lb/>
matched by a compensatory devotion to his mother: after<lb/>
all, he was prepared to put it about that she had been a<lb/>
court whore. Beethoven wanted a kind of parthenogenetical<lb/>
birth proper for the messianic role he envisaged for himself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
264<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He would willingly turn a woman into a mother if she was<lb/>
too young for the part. That he regarded mothers as super-<lb/>
erogatory is proved by his turning himself into the father<lb/>
of his nephew Karl, execrating his sister-in-law as the ‘Queen<lb/>
of the Night’, pretending that the Dutch van of his name<lb/>
was really von so that he could use aristocratic clout in the<lb/>
courts to dispossess the poor woman of her maternal rights.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He broke free of Viennese musical conventions to assert a<lb/>
new masculine force, appropriate to the Napoleonic age, which<lb/>
should be characterised by rigour of tonal argument and a<lb/>
kind of genial brutality. The legend about his dedicating his<lb/>
Third Symphony to Bonaparte and then tearing up the dedi-<lb/>
cation page after the assassination of the Duc d’Enghien is<lb/>
still to be accepted as true, but Solomon makes it clear that<lb/>
Beethoven was strongly drawn to the tyrant. Vienna's musical<lb/>
talent assembled at Schénbrunn to welcome the conqueror,<lb/>
but Beethoven alone was not invited. He resented this. He<lb/>
arranged a performance of the Eroica, expecting Napoleon to<lb/>
turn up. Napoleon did not turn up. Beethoven was not alto-<lb/>
gether the fierce republican, the romantic artist shaking his<lb/>
fist at despots. He owed much to his aristocratic patrons; he<lb/>
dreamed of receiving honours at the Tuileries. He had his eye<lb/>
to the main chance. He liked money. He was ready to sell the<lb/>
same piece of music to three different publishers at the same<lb/>
time and pocket three different advances.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He also had his ear, even when it was a deaf one, to<lb/>
the exterior world of sonic innovations. When Schénberg<lb/>
was told that six fingers were required to play his Violin<lb/>
Concerto, he replied: ‘I can wait.’ Beethoven did not want<lb/>
six fingers, but he did want a pianoforte — once called by<lb/>
him, in a gust of patriotism, a Hammerklavier — that could,<lb/>
there and then, crash out his post-rococo imaginings. The<lb/>
fourth horn part of the Ninth Symphony was specially<lb/>
</p>
<p>
265<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="149"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
written for one of the new valve instruments: Beethoven<lb/>
knew a man near Vienna who possessed one. He was a<lb/>
great pianist and a very practical musician. His orchestral<lb/>
parts were hard to play but not impossible. Impossibility<lb/>
hovers, like a fermata, above the soprano parts in the<lb/>
Ninth, but sopranos were women, mothers, sisters-in-law.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is only through the vague operation of analogy that we<lb/>
can find in a symphony like the Evoica — a key work, the<lb/>
work that the composer believed to be his highest orchestral<lb/>
achievement — the properties of the Kantian philosophy and<lb/>
the novels of Stendhal. This music was necessary to the age,<lb/>
but not because of its literary programme. One attaches<lb/>
literary programmes at one’s peril to Beethoven's work, even<lb/>
when he says of the yellowhammer call of the Fifth: “Thus<lb/>
Fate knocks at the door.’ Give Beethoven a text and he does<lb/>
more than merely set it. Fidelio is a free-from-chains mani-<lb/>
festo typical of its time (though more in Paris than in Vienna),<lb/>
but it is also vegetation myth, with Florestan as a flower<lb/>
god, woman most loved when the female lion becomes the<lb/>
faithful boy, mother into son, the composer himself incarcer-<lb/>
ated in his deafness. It is, as well, much more, and the much<lb/>
more is not easily explicated. The music works at a very deep<lb/>
psychic level, subliterary, submythical, multiguous. When<lb/>
Donald Tovey said that the Leonora No. 3 rendered the first<lb/>
act superfluous, he spoke no more than the truth. With the<lb/>
American Solomon’s excellent book (though not as excellent<lb/>
as our own Martin Cooper’s) we know a little more about<lb/>
the man but nothing more about the mystery of his art.<lb/>
That was to be expected.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reprinted in Homage<lb/>
to Qwert Yuiop: Essays, 1986<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
My first copy of Gerard Manley Hopkins’s poems was the<lb/>
second edition of 1930 — a slim blue volume about the<lb/>
same size as the newly published selection (edited by<lb/>
Graham Storey, Oxford University Press, 1967) with which<lb/>
Hopkins joins Dryden, Keats, Spenser and other poets in<lb/>
the ‘New Oxford English Series’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The new, fourth, edition of the Complete Poems (edited<lb/>
by W. H. Gardner and N. H. Mackenzie, Oxford University<lb/>
Press, 1967), published at the same time, is twice as big,<lb/>
but not, unfortunately, with newly discovered ‘terrible’<lb/>
sonnets or odes of the scope of the two shipwreck poems.<lb/>
There are just more fragments than before, and more<lb/>
fugitive verse, and the tale is completed — until the fifth<lb/>
edition — with poems in Latin, Greek and Welsh. Some<lb/>
of the verse written between 1862 and 1868 is to be prized<lb/>
— particularly “The Summer Malison’ (‘No rains shall fresh<lb/>
the flats of sea, / Nor close the clayfield’s sharded sores, /<lb/>
And every heart think loathingly / Its dearest changed to<lb/>
bores.’ — That last line is frightening), and one fragment<lb/>
seems to show that Hopkins might once have taken a<lb/>
Meredithian way: ‘She schools the flighty pupils of her<lb/>
eyes, / With levelled lashes stilling their disquiet; / She<lb/>
</p>
<p>
267<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="150"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
puts in leash her paired lips lest surprise / Bare the condi-<lb/>
tion of a realm at riot.’ But the real oeuvre is unchanged<lb/>
— except that sonnet beginning “The shepherd’s brow,<lb/>
fronting forked lightning’ is not, rightly, removed from<lb/>
the appendix to the main body. And some of the emenda-<lb/>
tions of Hopkins’s friend and first editor, Robert Bridges,<lb/>
have been boldly thrown out and the readings of the<lb/>
original manuscript restored.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bridges could be incredibly wanting in ear. In that final<lb/>
sonnet addressed to himself, he made one line read: “Within<lb/>
her wears, bears, cares and moulds the same’, thus killing<lb/>
a sequence based on mingled end-rime and head-rime.<lb/>
Hopkins-lovers always penned in the original ‘combs’ for<lb/>
‘moulds’, and now they have ‘combs’ in print. In “The<lb/>
Soldier Bridges had ‘He of all can handle a rope best’<lb/>
where Hopkins wrote ‘reeve a rope best’ — an exact tech-<lb/>
nical word as well as a necessary head-rime. Re-reading<lb/>
‘The Brothers’, I am shocked to find ‘Eh, how all rung! /<lb/>
Young dog, he did give tongue!’ changed by the present<lb/>
editors to “There! The hall rung! / Young dog, he did give<lb/>
tongue!’ — justified by another manuscript reading but<lb/>
inferior to the version I’ve known by heart for thirty-five<lb/>
years.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At least, I think it’s inferior. But once I had an edition<lb/>
of a Chopin nocturne with a misprinted note that made<lb/>
an uncharacteristic dissonance. I got to accept and like<lb/>
this and was disappointed when told eventually that<lb/>
Chopin never wrote it. I think, though, that Hopkins,<lb/>
when revising his work, was over-influenced by a man<lb/>
who was very small beer as a poet; his verse had that<lb/>
small audience for too long, even posthumously. And I<lb/>
think that Bridges erred in holding back publication till<lb/>
1918 (Hopkins died in 1889): he was too timid, though<lb/>
</p>
<p>
268<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
understand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Discussing such inspiration, W. H. Gardner says: *. . .<lb/>
it is likely that James Joyce, E. E. Cummings, and Dylan<lb/>
Thomas were decisively affected by a reading of Hopkins.’<lb/>
Thomas less than you'd think (no sprung rhythm,<lb/>
anyway), Cummings minimally, Joyce not at all. There<lb/>
is, admittedly, a passage in Finnegans Wake that seems<lb/>
deliberately to evoke Hopkins (the description of the<lb/>
sleeping Isobel towards the end), but Joyce’s mature style<lb/>
was formed before Hopkins was published. And yet the<lb/>
two men pursued the same end out of the same temper-<lb/>
ament, and it is an irony that it was only chronology<lb/>
that prevented their meeting. Hopkins was a professor<lb/>
of University College, Dublin, where Joyce was eventually<lb/>
a student, but Joyce was only seven when Hopkins died.<lb/>
Hopkins became a Jesuit, and Joyce was Jesuit-trained.<lb/>
Both made aesthetic philosophies out of the schoolmen<lb/>
— Joyce from Aquinas, Hopkins from Duns Scotus. Joyce<lb/>
saw ‘epiphanies’ flashing out of the current of everyday<lb/>
life; Hopkins observed nature and felt the ‘instress’ of<lb/>
‘inscapes .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Both were obsessed with language and knowledgeable<lb/>
about music (Hopkins’s song ‘Falling Rain’ uses quarter-<lb/>
tones long before the experimental Central Europeans).<lb/>
Make a context question out of mixed fragments, and you<lb/>
will sometimes find it hard to tell one author from the<lb/>
other. ‘Forwardlike, but however, and like favourable<lb/>
heaven heard these’ might do for a Stephen Dedalus inter-<lb/>
ior monologue; actually it comes from ‘The Bugler's First<lb/>
</p>
<p>
269<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="151"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Communion’; ‘Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root,<lb/>
gripe and wrest them’ is from Ulysses but would do for a<lb/>
Hopkins poem about martyrs. The eschewal of hyphens<lb/>
helps the resemblance: ‘fallowbootfellow’ will do for both.<lb/>
But the kinship goes deeper than compressed syntax, a<lb/>
love of compound words, and a devotion to Anglo-<lb/>
Saxonisms. Musicians both, they were both concerned with<lb/>
bringing literature closer to music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t, of course, mean that they pursued conventional<lb/>
‘melodiousness’, like unmusical Swinburne who, hearing<lb/>
“Three Blind Mice’ for the first time in his maturity, said<lb/>
that it evoked ‘the cruel beauty of the Borgias’. It was rather<lb/>
that they envied music its power of expression through<lb/>
thythmic patterns, and also the complexity of meaning<lb/>
granted by that multilinear technique which is the glory<lb/>
of the music of the West. All that sprung rhythm does is<lb/>
to give the prosodic foot the same rights as a beat in music.<lb/>
A musical bar can have four crotchets or eight quavers or<lb/>
sixteen semi-quavers, but there are still only four beats. A<lb/>
line in a Hopkins sonnet always has its statutory five beats<lb/>
(or six, if it is an Alexandrine sonnet), and there can be<lb/>
any number of syllables from five to twenty — sometimes<lb/>
more, if we get senza misura ‘outriders’. “Who fired France<lb/>
for Mary without spot’ has nine syllables; ‘Cuckoo-echoing,<lb/>
bell-swarméd, lake-charméd, rook-racked, river-rounded’<lb/>
has sixteen: both lines come from the same sonnet. Music<lb/>
always had the freedom of prose with the intensity of verse;<lb/>
since Hopkins, English poetry has been able to enjoy liberty<lb/>
without laxity, on the analogy of music. This is why<lb/>
Hopkins is sometimes called ‘the liberator’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there’s more to it than just rhythm. There have to<lb/>
be the sforzandi of music — heavy head-rimes, like ‘part,<lb/>
pen, pack’ (which means ‘separate the sheep from the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
270<lb/>
</p>
<p>
goats; pen the sheep and send the goats packing’) and<lb/>
there have to be internal rhymes, like ‘each tucked string<lb/>
tells, each hung bell’s / Bow swung finds tongue to fling<lb/>
out broad its name’ so that we seem to be listening to the<lb/>
effects of repetition-with-a-difference that are the essence<lb/>
of melodic phrases. But, most important of all, every line<lb/>
must have the solidity of content of a sequence of chords,<lb/>
or else the sense of multiple significance we find in a<lb/>
passage of counterpoint. There’s no space for the purely<lb/>
functional, since in music nothing is purely functional.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hence that compression in Hopkins that sometimes<lb/>
causes difficulty: ‘the uttermost mark / Our passion-<lb/>
plunged giant risen’ or ‘rare gold, bold steel, bare / In<lb/>
both, care but share care’ or ‘that treads through, prick-<lb/>
proof, thick / Thousands of thorns, thoughts’. In striving<lb/>
to catch a single meaning, we catch more than one; some-<lb/>
times, as with ‘thorns, thoughts’, two words seem to merge<lb/>
into each other, becoming a new word, and what one<lb/>
might call an auditory iridescence gives powerful contra-<lb/>
puntal effect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Joyce lived later and was able to go further. Words like _<lb/>
‘cropse’ (which means ‘a body interred and, through its<lb/>
fertilisation of the earth, able to produce vegetation which<lb/>
may stand as a figure of the possibility of human resur-<lb/>
rection) are the logical conclusion of the Hopkinsian<lb/>
method: contrapuntal simultaneity is achieved without the<lb/>
tricks of speed or syntactical ambiguity. But Joyce's aim<lb/>
was comic, while Hopkins brought what he glumly knew<lb/>
would be called ‘oddity’ to the inscaping of ecstasy or<lb/>
spiritual agony. ‘I am gall, I am heartburn’ to express the<lb/>
bitterness of the taste of damnation, which is the taste<lb/>
of oneself, is a dangerous phrase, and my old professor,<lb/>
H. B. Charlton (who spoke of Hopkins as though he were<lb/>
</p>
<p>
271<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="152"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a young upstart), could always get an easy seminar laugh<lb/>
by talking about metaphorical stomach trouble. There are<lb/>
plenty of more sophisticated sniggers available nowadays<lb/>
for those who find Hopkins’s response to male beauty —<lb/>
physical or spiritual — classically queer: “When limber<lb/>
liquid youth, that to all I teach / Yields tender as a pushed<lb/>
peach’ or the close catalogue of the strength and beauty<lb/>
of Harry Ploughman. And sometimes the colloquial<lb/>
(‘black, ever so black on it’) or the stuttering (“Behind<lb/>
where, where was a, where was a place?’) carries connota-<lb/>
tions of affectedness guaranteed, with the right camp recite,<lb/>
to bring the house down. Hopkins took frightful risks,<lb/>
but they are all justified by the sudden blaze of success,<lb/>
when the odd strikes as the right and inevitable.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Success’ is an inadequate word for a poet who never<lb/>
aimed at the rhetorical and technical tour de force for its<lb/>
own sake. He is, as we have to be reminded, not one of<lb/>
those little priests whom Joyce remarked at UCD — writers<lb/>
of devotional verse; he is a religious poet of the highest<lb/>
rank — perhaps greater than Donne, certainly greater than<lb/>
Herbert and Crashaw. The devotional writer deals in<lb/>
conventional images of piety; the religious poet shocks,<lb/>
even outrages, by wresting the truths of his faith from<lb/>
their safe dull sanctuaries and placing them in the physical<lb/>
world. Herbert does it: ““You must sit down,” says Love,<lb/>
“and taste my meat.” / So I did sit and eat.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hopkins does it more often. The natural world is<lb/>
notated with such freshness that we tend to think that<lb/>
he is merely a superb nature poet, a Wordsworth with<lb/>
genius. And then we're suddenly hit by the ‘instress’ of<lb/>
revelation: theological properties are as real as the kestrel<lb/>
or the fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls. Reading him, even the<lb/>
agnostic may regret that the “Marvellous Milk’ is no longer<lb/>
</p>
<p>
272<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
From Urgent Copy: Literary Studies, 1968<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="153"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I acclaim Anthony Burgess’s new novel as the curiosity of<lb/>
the day. A Clockwork Orange is told in the first person.<lb/>
That is the extent of its resemblance to anything much<lb/>
else, though a hasty attempt at orientation might suggest<lb/>
Colin MacInnes and the prole parts of Nineteen Eighty-<lb/>
Four as distant reference points.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fifteen-year-old Alex pursues a zealously delinquent<lb/>
career through the last decade of the present century,<lb/>
robbing, punching, kicking, slashing, raping, murdering,<lb/>
going to jail etc. He finds plenty of time to talk to the<lb/>
reader at the top of his voice in his era’s hip patois, an<lb/>
amalgam of Russian (the political implications of this are<lb/>
not explored), gypsy jargon, rhyming slang and a touch<lb/>
of schoolboy’s facetious-biblical.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All this is done so thoroughly — there are getting on for<lb/>
twenty neologisms on the first page — that the less adven-<lb/>
turous reader, especially if he may happen to be giving up<lb/>
smoking, will be tempted to let the book drop. That would<lb/>
be a pity, because soon you pick up the language and<lb/>
begin to see, as the action develops, that this speech not<lb/>
only gives the book its curious flavour, but also fits in with<lb/>
its prevailing mood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="154"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is a sort of cheerful horror which many British<lb/>
readers, adventurous or not, will not be up to stomaching.<lb/>
Even I, all-tolerant as I am, found the double child-rape<lb/>
scene a little uninviting, especially since it takes place to<lb/>
the accompaniment of Beethoven's Ninth, choral section.<lb/>
What price the notion that buying classical LPs is our<lb/>
youth’s route to salvation, eh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there's no harm in it really. Mr Burgess has written<lb/>
a fine farrago of outrageousness, one which incidentally<lb/>
suggests a view of juvenile violence I can’t remember having<lb/>
met before: that its greatest appeal is that it’s a big laugh,<lb/>
in which what we ordinarily think of as sadism plays little<lb/>
part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There's a science-fiction interest here too, to do with a<lb/>
machine that makes you good. We get to this rather late<lb/>
on, as is common when a writer of ordinary fiction has a<lb/>
go at such things, but it’s disagreeably plausible when it<lb/>
comes. If you don’t take to it all, then I can’t resist calling<lb/>
you a starry ptitsa who can’t viddy a horrorshow veshch<lb/>
when it’s in front of your glazzies. And yarbles to you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Observer, 13 May 1962<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Here are four novels that must, I suppose, be described<lb/>
as ‘modern’ — modern in the sense that they are of our<lb/>
time and concerned with the ills to which this time is heir.<lb/>
They deal with our indirection and our indifference, our<lb/>
violence and our sexual exploitation of one another, our<lb/>
rebellion and our protest. Anyone who complains that<lb/>
these themes are now drearily familiar is, of course, right,<lb/>
and there are moments when one wonders if the major<lb/>
dilemma of our time isn’t our failure to escape from these<lb/>
platitudinous interpretations of it. It is, I suppose, natural<lb/>
in a time in which so many novels are written that the<lb/>
form should be repetitive; but this means that the novelist<lb/>
we are all looking for is the one who breaks out of the<lb/>
trap.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A similar problem, in more startling form, occurs with<lb/>
Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange. This is a novel,<lb/>
set in the not too remote future, about the time when<lb/>
juvenile delinquent gangs take over cities at night and the<lb/>
government develops a brainwashing programme to cure<lb/>
tendencies to crime and violence. The story is told by one<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of the hooligans, a youth who kills three people, and who,<lb/>
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<p>
after undergoing the treatment, escapes from it and emerges<lb/>
at the end more or less his old self. We get no distance<lb/>
on him, and in the latter part of the book we are clearly<lb/>
expected to be sympathising with him. What is remarkable<lb/>
about the book, however, is the incredible teenage argot<lb/>
that Mr Burgess invents to tell the story in. All Mr Burgess’s<lb/>
powers as a comic writer, which are considerable, have<lb/>
gone into this rich language of his inverted Utopia. If you<lb/>
can stomach the horrors, you'll enjoy the manner.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Punch, 16 May 1962<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Horror Show’<lb/>
Christopher Ricks<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wuen Anthony Burgess published A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
ten years ago, he compacted much of what was in the<lb/>
air, especially the odd mingling of dismay and violence<lb/>
(those teen-age gangs) with pious euphoria about the<lb/>
causes and cures of crime and deviance. Mr Burgess’s<lb/>
narrator hero, Alex, was pungently odious; addicted to<lb/>
mugging and rape, intoxicated with his own command<lb/>
of the language (a newly minted teen-age slang, plus<lb/>
poeticisms, sneers, and sadistic purring). Alex was some-<lb/>
thing both better and worse than a murderer: he was<lb/>
murderous. Because of a brutal rape by Alex, the wife of<lb/>
a novelist dies; because of his lethal clubbing, an old<lb/>
woman dies; because of his exhibitionist ferocity, a fellow<lb/>
prisoner dies.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The second of these killings gets Alex jailed: word<lb/>
reaches him of the new Ludovico Treatment by which he<lb/>
may be reclaimed, and he seeks it and gets it. The treat-<lb/>
ment to watch horrific films of violence (made by one<lb/>
Dr Brodsky) while seething with a painful emetic; the<lb/>
‘cure’ is one that deprives Alex of choice, and takes him<lb/>
beyond freedom and dignity, and extirpates his moral<lb/>
existence. But the grisly bloody failure of his suicide<lb/>
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attempt after his release does not release him. Alex is<lb/>
himself again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The novel was simply pleased, but it knew that aversion<lb/>
therapy must be denied its smug violences. And the early<lb/>
1960s were, after all, the years in which a liberally wishful<lb/>
newspaper like the London Observer could regale its readers<lb/>
with regular accounts of how a homosexual was being<lb/>
‘cured’ by emetics and films.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“To do the ultra-violent’: Alex makes no bones about it.<lb/>
But the film of A Clockwork Orange does not want him to<lb/>
be seen in an ultra-violent light. So it bids for sympathy.<lb/>
There are unobtrusive mitigations: Alex is made younger than<lb/>
in the book. There are obtrusive crassnesses from his jailors:<lb/>
when Alex pauses over the form for Reclamation Treatment,<lb/>
the chief guard shouts, “Dont read it, sign it’ — and of course<lb/>
it has to be signed in triplicate (none of that in the book).<lb/>
There are sentimentalities: where in the book it was his drugs<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
One realises that the film is a re-creation, not a carrying-<lb/>
over, and yet both Kubrick and Burgess are right to call<lb/>
upon each other in what they’ve recently written in defence<lb/>
of the film, Kubrick in the New York Times, February 27,<lb/>
1972, and Burgess in The Listener, February 17. The persis-<lb/>
tent pressure of the film’s Alexculpations is enough to<lb/>
remind one that while A Clockwork Orange is in Burgess’s<lb/>
words ‘a novel about brainwashing,’ the film is not above<lb/>
a bit of brainwashing itself — is indeed righteously unaware<lb/>
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that any of its own techniques or practices could for a<lb/>
moment be asked to subject themselves to the same scru-<lb/>
tiny as they project. Alex is forced to gaze at the Ludovico<lb/>
treatment aversion films: ‘But I could not shut my glazzies,<lb/>
and even if I tried to move my glaz-balls about I still could<lb/>
not get like out of the line of fire of this picture.’ Yet once<lb/>
‘this picture’ has become not one of Dr Brodsky’s pictures<lb/>
but one of Mr Kubrick’s, then two very central figures are<lb/>
surreptitiously permitted to move ‘out of the line of fire<lb/>
of this picture.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First, the creator of the whole fictional ‘horrorshow’<lb/>
itself, For it was crucial to Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange<lb/>
that it should include a novelist who was writing a book<lb/>
called A Clockwork Orange — crucial not because of the<lb/>
fad for such Chinese boxes, but because this was Burgess’s<lb/>
way of taking responsibility (as Kubrick does not take<lb/>
responsibility for Dr Brodsky’s film within his film),<lb/>
Burgess’s way of seeing that the whole enterprise itself was<lb/>
accessible to its own standards of judgment. The novelist<lb/>
FE. Alexander kept at once a curb and an eye on the book,<lb/>
so that other propensities than those of Dr Brodsky were<lb/>
also under moral surveillance. Above all the propensity of<lb/>
the commanding satirist to become the person who most<lb/>
averts his eyes to what he shows: that ‘satire is a sort of<lb/>
glass wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's<lb/>
face but their own.’ But in the film F. Alexander (who is<lb/>
brutally kicked by Alex, and his wife raped before his eyes)<lb/>
is not at work on a book called A Clockwork Orange, and<lb/>
so the film — unlike the book — ensures that it does not<lb/>
have to stand in its own line of fire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nor, secondly and more importantly, does Alex have to.<lb/>
The film cossets him. For the real accusation against the<lb/>
film is certainly not that it is too violent, but that it is not<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
further protected, Alex-wise, by being grotesquely farcical<lb/>
— Alex rams her in the face with a huge sculpture of a penis<lb/>
and testicles, a pretentious art work which she has preten-<lb/>
tiously fussed about and which when touched jerks itself<lb/>
spasmodically.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film reshapes that murder to help Alex out. Similarly<lb/>
with the more important death of the novelist’s wife. ‘She<lb/>
died, you see. She was brutally raped and beaten. The<lb/>
shock was very great.’ But the film — by then nearing its<lb/>
end — doesn’t want Alex to have this death on our<lb/>
consciences, so the novelist (who is manifestly half-mad<lb/>
to boot) is made to mutter that the doctor said it was<lb/>
pneumonia she died of, during the flu epidemic, but that<lb/>
he knew, etc., etc. Or, not to worry, Alex-lovers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then there is the brutal killing within the prison cell,<lb/>
when they all beat up the homosexual newcomer:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, seeing the old krovvy flow red in the red<lb/>
light, I felt the old joy like rising up in my keeshkas<lb/>
... So they all stood around while I cracked at this<lb/>
prestoopnick in the near dark. I fisted him all over,<lb/>
dancing about with my boots on though unlaced,<lb/>
and then I tripped him and he went crash crash on<lb/>
to the floor. I gave him one real horrorshow kick on<lb/>
the gulliver and he went ohhhhh, then he sort of<lb/>
snorted off to like sleep.<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
No place for any of that in the film, since it would entail<lb/>
being more perturbed about Alex than would be conven-<lb/>
sent. No, better to show all the convicts as good-natured<lb/>
buffoons and to let the prison guards monopolise detest-<lb/>
ability. The film settles for a happy swap, dispensing with<lb/>
the killing in the cell and proffering instead officialdom’s<lb/>
humiliating violence in shining a torch up Alex’s rectum.<lb/>
None of that in the book.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘When a novelist puts his thumb in the scale, to pull<lb/>
down the balance to his own predilection, that is immor-<lb/>
ality (D. H. Lawrence). As a novelist, Burgess controls<lb/>
his itching thumb (he does after all include within himself<lb/>
as much of a polemicist for Original Sin and for Christian<lb/>
extremity as his co-religionists Graham Greene and William<lb/>
Golding). But the film is not content with having a thumb<lb/>
in the pan — it insists on thumbs down for most and<lb/>
thumbs up for Alex. Thumbs down for Dr Brodsky, who<lb/>
is made to say that the aversion drug will cause a deathlike<lb/>
terror and paralysis; thumbs down for the Minister of the<lb/>
Interior, who bulks proportionately larger and who has<lb/>
what were other men’s words put into his mouth, and<lb/>
whose asinine classy ruthlessness allows the audience to<lb/>
vent its largely irrelevant feelings about ‘politicians,’ thus<lb/>
not having to vent any hostility upon Alex; thumbs down<lb/>
for Alex’s spurious benefactors, who turn out to be mad<lb/>
schemers against the bad government, and not only that<lb/>
but very vengeful — the novelist and his friends torture<lb/>
Alex with music to drive him to suicide (the book told<lb/>
quite another story).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But thumbs up for the gladiatorial Alex. For it is not<lb/>
just the killings that are whitewashed. Take the two girls<lb/>
he picks up and takes back to his room. In the book,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
what matters to Alex — and to our sense of Alex — is<lb/>
</p>
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283<lb/>
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<pb n="158"/>
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</p>
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that they couldn't have been more than ten years old,<lb/>
that he got them viciously drunk, that he gave himself<lb/>
a ‘hypo jab’ so that he could better exercise ‘the strange<lb/>
and weird desires of Alexander the Large,’ and that they<lb/>
ended up bruised and screaming. The film, which wants<lb/>
to practise a saintlike charity of redemption towards Alex<lb/>
but also to make things assuredly easy for itself, can’t<lb/>
have any of that. So the ten-year-olds become jolly<lb/>
dollies; no drink, no drugs, no bruises, just the three of<lb/>
them having a ball. And to make double sure that Alex<lb/>
is not dislodged from anybody’s affection, the whole<lb/>
thing is speeded up so that it twinkles away like frantic<lb/>
fun from a silent film. Instead of the cold brutality of<lb/>
Alex’s ‘the old in-out,’ a warm Rowan and Martin laugh-<lb/>
in-out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Conversely, Alex’s fight with his friends is put into silent<lb/>
slow motion, draping its balletic gauzes between us and<lb/>
Alex. And when one of these droogs later takes his revenge<lb/>
on Alex by smashing him across the eyes with a milk bottle<lb/>
and leaving him to the approaching police, this too has<lb/>
become something very different from what it was in the<lb/>
book. For there it was not a milk bottle that Dim wielded<lb/>
but his chain: ‘and it snaked whishhhh and he chained<lb/>
me gentle and artistic like on the glazlids, me just closing<lb/>
them up in time.’ The difference which that makes is that<lb/>
the man who is there so brutally hurt is the man who had<lb/>
so recently exulted in Dim’s prowess with that chain:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dim had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain<lb/>
round his waist, twice wound round, and he unwound<lb/>
this and began to swing it beautiful in the eyes or<lb/>
glazzies . . . Old Dim with his chain snaking<lb/>
whissssssshhhhhhhhbh, so that old Dim chained him<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
The novel, though it has failures of judgement which<lb/>
sometimes let in a gloat, does not flinch from showing<lb/>
Alex’s exultation. The movie takes out the book’s first act<lb/>
of violence, the protracted sadistic taunting of an aged<lb/>
book lover and then his beating up:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘You naughty old veck, you,’ I said, and then we<lb/>
began to filly about with him. Pete held his rookers<lb/>
and Georgie sort of hooked his rot wide open for<lb/>
him and Dim yanked out his false zoobies, upper and<lb/>
lower. He threw these down on the pavement and<lb/>
then I treated them to the old boot-crush, though<lb/>
they were hard bastards like, being made of some new<lb/>
horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck began to make<lb/>
sort of chumbling shooms — ‘wuf waf wof’ — so<lb/>
Georgie let go of holding his goobers apart and just<lb/>
let him have one in the toothless rot with his ringy<lb/>
fist, and that made the old veck start moaning a lot<lb/>
then, then out comes the blood, my brothers, real<lb/>
beautiful. So all we did then was to pull his outer<lb/>
platties off, stripping him down to his vest and long<lb/>
underpants (very starry; Dim smecked his head off<lb/>
near), and then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot, and<lb/>
we let him go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film holds us off from Alex’s blood-lust, and it lets<lb/>
Alex off by mostly showing us the only show of violence.<lb/>
The beating of the old drunk is done by four silhouetted<lb/>
figures with their sticks — horribly violent in some ways,<lb/>
of course, but held at a distance. That distance would be<lb/>
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artistically admirable if its intention was to preclude the<lb/>
pornography of bloodthirstiness rather than to preclude<lb/>
our realising, making real to ourselves, Alex’s bloodthirst-<lb/>
iness. Likewise the gang fight is at first the frenzied destruc-<lb/>
tiveness of a Western and is then a stylised distanced<lb/>
drubbing; neither of these incriminates Alex as the book<lb/>
had honourably felt obliged to do. The first page of the<lb/>
book knows that Alex longs to see someone ‘swim in his<lb/>
blood,’ and the book never forgets what it early shows:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we tripped him so he laid down flat and heavy<lb/>
and a bucket-load of beer-vomit came whooshing out.<lb/>
That was disgusting so we gave him the boot, one go<lb/>
each, and then it was blood, not song nor vomit, that<lb/>
came out of his filthy old rot. Then we went on our<lb/>
way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to<lb/>
waltz — left two three, right two three — and carve<lb/>
left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two curtains<lb/>
of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one<lb/>
on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter<lb/>
starlight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film does not let Alex shed that blood. But it isn’t<lb/>
against blood-letting or hideous brutality, it just insists on<lb/>
enlisting them. So we see Alex’s face spattered with blood<lb/>
at the police station, the wall too; and we see a very great<lb/>
deal of blood-streaming violence in the aversion therapy<lb/>
film which the emetic-laden Alex is forced to witness.<lb/>
What this selectivity of violence does is ensure that the<lb/>
aversion film outdoes anything that we have as yet been<lb/>
made to contemplate (Alex’s horrorshows are mostly<lb/>
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<p>
allowed to flicker past). It is not an accident, and it is<lb/>
culpably coercive, that the most long-drawn-out, realistic,<lb/>
and hideous act of brutality is that meted on Alex by his<lb/>
ex-companions, now policemen. Battered and all but<lb/>
drowned, Alex under violence is granted the mercy neither<lb/>
of slow motion nor of speeding up. But the film uses this<lb/>
mercilessness for its own specious mercy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is no difficulty in agreeing with Kubrick that people<lb/>
do get treated like that; and nobody should be treated like<lb/>
that. At this point the film doesn’t at all gloat over the<lb/>
violence which it makes manifest but doesn’t itself manifest.<lb/>
Right. But Burgess’s original artistic decision was the oppo-<lb/>
site: it was to ensure that we should deeply know of but<lb/>
not know about what they did to Alex: ‘I will not go into<lb/>
what they did, but it was all like panting and thudding<lb/>
against this like background of whirring farm machines and<lb/>
the twittwittwittering in the bare or nagoy branches.’ I will<lb/>
not go into what they did: that was Burgess as well as Alex<lb/>
speaking. Kubrick does not speak, but he really goes into<lb/>
what they did. By doing so he ensures our sympathy for<lb/>
Alex, but at the price of an enfeebling circularity. ‘Pity the<lb/>
monster, urges Robert Lowell. I am a man more sinned<lb/>
against than sinning, the film allows Alex to intimate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The pain speaks for Alex, and so does the sexual humour.<lb/>
For Kubrick has markedly sexed things up. Not just that<lb/>
modern sculpture of a penis, but the prison guard's ques-<lb/>
tion (‘Are you or have you ever been a homosexual?’), and<lb/>
the social worker’s hand clapped hard but lovingly on<lb/>
Alex’s genitals, and the prison chaplains amiable eagerness<lb/>
to reassure Alex about masturbation, and the bare breasted<lb/>
nurse and the untrousered doctor at it behind the curtains<lb/>
of the hospital bed. All of this may seem to be just good<lb/>
clean fun (though also most uninventively funny), but it<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
too takes its part within the forcible reclamation of Alex<lb/>
which Kubrick no less than Dr Brodsky is out to achieve.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The sexual farce is to excriminate Alex as a bit of a dog<lb/>
rather than one hell of a rat, and the tactic pays off — but<lb/>
cheaply — in the very closing moments of the film, when<lb/>
Alex, cured of his cure and now himself again, is listening<lb/>
to great music. In the film his fantasy is of a voluptuous<lb/>
slow-motion lovemaking, rape-ish rather than rape, all<lb/>
surrounded by costumed grandees applauding — amiable<lb/>
enough, in a way, and a bit like Billy Liar. The book ends<lb/>
with the same moment, but with an unsentimental certainty<lb/>
as to what kind of lust it still is that is uppermost for Alex:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh it was gorgeosity and yamyumyum. When it came<lb/>
to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running<lb/>
and running on like very light and mysterious nogas,<lb/>
carving the whole litso [face] of the creeching world<lb/>
with my cutthroat britva. And there was the slow<lb/>
movement and the lovely last sighing movement still<lb/>
to come. I was cured all right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film raises real questions, and not just of the are-<lb/>
liberals-really-liberal? sort. On my left, Jean-Jacques<lb/>
Rousseau; on my right, Robert Ardrey — this is factitious<lb/>
and fatuous. When Kubrick and Burgess were stung into<lb/>
replying to criticism, both claimed that the accusation’ of<lb/>
gratuitous violence was gratuitous. Yet Kubrick makes too<lb/>
easy a diclaimer — too easy in terms of the imagination<lb/>
and its sources of energy, though fair enough in repudiating<lb/>
the charge of ‘fascism’ — when he says that he should not<lb/>
be denounced as a fascist, ‘no more than any well-balanced<lb/>
commentator who read “A Modest Proposal” would have<lb/>
accused Dean Swift of being a cannibal.’<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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<p>
Agreed, but it would be Swift’s imagination, not his<lb/>
behaviour, that would be at stake, and there have always<lb/>
been those who found ‘A Modest Proposal’ a great deal<lb/>
more equivocally disconcerting than Kubrick seems to. As<lb/>
Dr Johnson said of Swift, “The greatest difficulty that<lb/>
occurs, in analysing his character, is to discover by what<lb/>
depravity of intellect he took delight in revolving ideas,<lb/>
from which almost every other mind shrinks with disgust.’<lb/>
So that to invoke Swift is apt (Alex’s slang ‘gulliver’ for<lb/>
head is not just Russian golova) but isnt a brisk accusation-<lb/>
stopper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Again, when Burgess insists: “It was certainly no pleasure<lb/>
to me to describe acts of violence when writing the novel,’<lb/>
there must be a counter-insistence: that on such a matter<lb/>
no writer's say-so can simply be accepted, since a writer<lb/>
mustn't be assumed to know so — the sincerity in question<lb/>
is of the deepest and most taxing kind. The aspiration<lb/>
need not be doubted:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What my, and Kubrick's, parable tries to state is that<lb/>
it is preferable to have a world of violence undertaken<lb/>
in full awareness — violence chosen as an act of will<lb/>
_ than a world conditioned to be good or harmless.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When so put, few but B. E Skinner are likely to contest<lb/>
it. But there are still some urgent questions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
1, Isnt this alternative too blankly stark? And isn't the<lb/>
book better than the film just because it doesn't take instant<lb/>
refuge in the antithesis, but has a subtler sense of respon-<lb/>
sibilities and irresponsibilities here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
2. Isn't ‘the Judaeo-Christian ethic that A Clockwork<lb/>
Orange tries to express more profoundly disconcerting<lb/>
than it is suggested by Burgess’s hospitable formulation?<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
is, does not think of it as somehow patently unimpeach-<lb/>
able. ‘The wish to diminish free will is, I should think,<lb/>
a sin against the Holy Ghost’ (Burgess). Those who do<lb/>
not believe in the Holy Ghost need not believe that there<lb/>
is such a thing as the sin against the Holy Ghost — no<lb/>
reassuring worst of sins.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
3. Isn't the moral and spiritual crux here more cruelly<lb/>
unresolvable, a hateful siege of contraries? T. S. Eliot sought<lb/>
to resolve it:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So far as we are human, what we do must be either<lb/>
evil or good; so far as we do evil or good, we are<lb/>
human; and it is better, in a paradoxical way, to do<lb/>
evil than to do nothing: at least, we exist. It is true<lb/>
to say that the glory of man is his capacity for salva-<lb/>
tion; it is also true to say that his glory is his capacity<lb/>
for damnation. The worst that can be said of most<lb/>
of our malefactors, from statesmen to thieves, is that<lb/>
they are not men enough to be damned. |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But Eliot’s teeth are there on edge, and so are ours; those<lb/>
who do not share the religion of Eliot and Burgess may<lb/>
think that no primacy should be granted to Eliot’s principle<lb/>
— nor to its humane counter-principle, that it is better to<lb/>
do nothing than to do evil.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
4. Is this film worried enough about films? Each medium<lb/>
</p>
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<p>
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<p>
will have its own debasements when seduced by violence.<lb/>
A novel has but words, and words can gloat and collude<lb/>
only in certain ways. A play has people speaking words,<lb/>
and what Dr Johnson deplored in the blinding of Gloucester<lb/>
in King Lear constitutes the artistic opportunity of drama,<lb/>
that we both intensely feel that great violence is perpetrated<lb/>
and intensely know that it is not: ‘an act too horrid to be<lb/>
endured in a dramatic exhibition, and such as must always<lb/>
compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity.’ But<lb/>
the medium of film is an equivocal one (above all how far<lb/>
people are really part of the medium), which is why it is<lb/>
so peculiarly fitted both to use and to abuse equivocations.<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange was a novel about the abuses of the<lb/>
film (its immoralities of violence and brainwashing), and<lb/>
it included — as the film of A Clockwork Orange does not<lb/>
— some thinking and feeling which Kubrick should not<lb/>
have thought that he could merely cut:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This time the film like jumped right away on a young<lb/>
devotchka who was being given the old in-out by first<lb/>
one malchick then another then another then another,<lb/>
she creeching away very gromky through the speakers<lb/>
and like very pathetic and tragic music going on at<lb/>
the same time. This was real, very real, though if you<lb/>
thought about it properly you couldn't imagine<lb/>
lewdies actually agreeing to having all this done to<lb/>
them in a film, and if these films were made by the<lb/>
Good or the State you couldn’t imagine them being<lb/>
allowed to take these films without like interfering<lb/>
with what was going on. So it must have been very<lb/>
clever what they called cutting or editing or some<lb/>
such veshch. For it was very real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[...J<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="162"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The minds of this Dr Brodsky and Dr Branom .. .<lb/>
They must have been more cally and filthy than any<lb/>
prestoopnick in the Staja itself. Because I did not<lb/>
think it was possible for any veck to even think of<lb/>
making films of what I was forced to viddy, all tied<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up to this chair and my glazzies made to be wide<lb/>
open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The film of A Clockwork Orange doesn't have the moral<lb/>
courage that could altogether deal with that. Rather, like<lb/>
Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove, it has a central failure of courage<lb/>
and confidence, manifest in its need to caricature (bold<lb/>
in manner, timid at heart) and in its determination that<lb/>
nobody except Alex had better get a chance. Burgess says:<lb/>
‘The point is that, if we are going to love mankind, we<lb/>
will have to love Alex as a not unrepresentative member<lb/>
of it. A non-Christian may be thankful that he is not<lb/>
under the impossibly cruel, and cruelty-causing, injunction<lb/>
to love mankind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘All Life is One: The Clockwork Testament, or<lb/>
Enderby’s End’<lb/>
A. 8. Byatt<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tue plot of The Clockwork Testament, or Enderby’ End<lb/>
concerns the final activities, in New York, of the minor<lb/>
poet, EX. Enderby, eponymous protagonist of Inside Mr<lb/>
Enderby and Enderby Outside. He is indirectly responsible<lb/>
for the film, The Wreck of the Deutschland, developed (by<lb/>
rewrite men) ‘out of an idea by E X. Enderby’ ‘based on<lb/>
the story by G. M. Hopkins S. J. Real horrorshow sinny,<lb/>
as Alex, the hero of A Clockwork Orange, would have said,<lb/>
transposed to Nazi times, incorporating ‘over-explicit<lb/>
scenes of nuns being violated by teenage stormtroopers’<lb/>
and advertised by a ‘gaudy poster showing a near-naked<lb/>
nun facing, with carmined lips opening in orgasm, the<lb/>
rash-smart sloggering brine’.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Called to American attention by this democratic<lb/>
medium, Enderby has become Professor of Creative<lb/>
Writing at the University of Manhattan. He is occupied<lb/>
with a long poem about the conflict between St Augustine<lb/>
and Pelagius or Morgan, the British heretic, who believed<lb/>
God had left man free to choose between Good and Evil.<lb/>
He is harassed by journalists, who are gleefully perturbed<lb/>
about outbreaks of nunslaughter in Manhattan and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
293<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="163"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ashton-under-Lyne, and by teenage thugs whom he pinks<lb/>
with a swordstick in the subway. He is threatened by black<lb/>
power, women’s lib, free verse, a female Christ. He has<lb/>
two mild heart attacks. And a final showdown with a<lb/>
mysterious female visitor, as in Enderby Outside, who knows<lb/>
his poems. This one, unlike the golden lady of the earlier<lb/>
book, intends to shoot him because her knowledge of his<lb/>
work is restricting her freedom to compose. She announces<lb/>
herself as Dr Greaving from Goldengrove.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Enderby proclaimed in the first book that all women<lb/>
were stepmothers: rendered impotent, more or less, by<lb/>
terror of his own particularly gross one, he retreated into<lb/>
cloacal austerity and prolonged adolescent fantasy,<lb/>
supported by her legacy to him, some shares and some<lb/>
repulsive dietary habits. But women are also bitch goddesses,<lb/>
white goddesses, moon goddesses and sun goddesses, with<lb/>
whom Enderby’s relations are agonised, embarrassed and<lb/>
incomplete. He masters this last, Americano-Hopkins<lb/>
Muse, at a cost.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess returns, with his own mixture of crude gusto<lb/>
and verbal intricacy, to a concentration of themes: the<lb/>
freedom of the will, the nature of Good and Evil (and<lb/>
their difference from right and wrong) and the relationship<lb/>
between art and morals, the proposition that all life is one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In The Wanting Seed, a repellent and gripping fable of<lb/>
the future, he turned the debate between Pelagius and<lb/>
Augustine into a historical principle, the Cycle. Pelphase<lb/>
— belief in human perfectibility, liberal values, standardiza-<lb/>
tion, rules, order. Interphase — disappointment, breeding<lb/>
repression. Gusphase — belief in original sin, human nature<lb/>
as destructive, use of war, sex and flesheating as social<lb/>
organising forces, Pelphase is rational, Gusphase religious<lb/>
and magical.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess, like Enderby, sees both extremes as myths.<lb/>
Enderby quotes Wagner — wir sind ein wenig frei. A little<lb/>
free — to choose between good and evil. That is the moral<lb/>
of that book with a moral, A Clockwork Orange. Alex is<lb/>
chemically conditioned to ‘like present the other cheek’.<lb/>
The Pelagian chaplain warns him — ‘when a man cannot<lb/>
choose, he ceases to be a man’, But the existence of choice<lb/>
involves the existence of evil, violence, horror, as according<lb/>
to Enderby and Burgess, does art.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Enderby’s epic The Pet Beast, the Minotaur, double<lb/>
natured, man, God, beast, gentle and flesh-eating at the<lb/>
centre of the lawgiver’s labyrinth, is crucified by the<lb/>
Pelagian liberator. But the daedale labyrinth contains<lb/>
the Cretan culture — with the death of the Beast, who<lb/>
is original sin, civilisation crashes into dust. Alex,<lb/>
conditioned to be repelled by violence, is conditioned<lb/>
to be repelled by Beethoven. Enderby, in this book,<lb/>
describes God as a kind of infinite Ninth Symphony<lb/>
playing itself eternally, unconcerned with human rights<lb/>
and wrongs. Aesthetic good is morally neutral, although<lb/>
it contains the knowledge of Good and Evil, beauty and<lb/>
destruction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It may be that one needs a Catholic upbringing to<lb/>
appreciate the full urgency of Burgess’s dichotomies. Like<lb/>
the Pet Beast, everything in his world is dual, flesh and<lb/>
spirit, as well as good and evil. Those who can claim that<lb/>
all life is one are either dangerous normative doctors and<lb/>
psychologists or the representatives of the White Goddess,<lb/>
tempting Enderby to the violence inherent in the flesh<lb/>
and beauty and sex which he has always feared.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Clockwork Testament makes intricate connexions<lb/>
between these themes, Hopkins, film and book of the<lb/>
Clockwork Orange and all sorts of aspects of contemporary<lb/>
</p>
<p>
295<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="164"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
art and life. It succeeds because it is ferociously funny and<lb/>
wildly, verbally inventive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are various tours-de-force — the Hopkins-Enderby<lb/>
script of the Wreck of the Deutschland, an excruciating<lb/>
illustrative transcript of the television show, complete with<lb/>
commercials (for an aerosol product called Mansex) full<lb/>
of double-entendres and horrible puns. There are Enderby’s<lb/>
encounters with the Creative Writing of his students.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is a miraculous moment when Enderby, having<lb/>
undergone the poems of Black Hatred (‘It will be your<lb/>
balls next whitey’) and some ‘sloppy and fungoid’ imita-<lb/>
tion Hart Crane, suddenly produces on demand his idea<lb/>
of a good poem. ‘Queen and huntress chaste and fair.’<lb/>
The White Goddess again. Dangerous but orderly, in<lb/>
culture, history and language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Times, 6 June 1974<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Afterword<lb/>
Stanley Edgar Hyman<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ANTHONY Burgess is one of the newest and most talented<lb/>
of the younger British writers. Although he is forty-five,<lb/>
he has devoted himself to writing only in the last few<lb/>
years; with enormous productivity, he has published ten<lb/>
novels since 1956; before that he was a composer, and a<lb/>
civil servant in Malaya and Brunei. His first novel to be<lb/>
published in this country, The Right to an Answer, appeared<lb/>
in 1961. It was followed the next year by Devil of a State,<lb/>
and by A Clockwork Orange early in 1963. A fourth novel,<lb/>
The Wanting Seed, is due out later in 1963. Burgess seems<lb/>
to me the ablest satirist to appear since Evelyn Waugh,<lb/>
and the word ‘satire’ is inadequate to his range.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Right to an Answer is a terribly funny, terribly bitter<lb/>
smack at English life in a provincial city (apparently the<lb/>
author’ birthplace, Manchester). The principal activity of<lb/>
the townspeople seems to be the weekend exchange of<lb/>
wives, and their dispirited slogan is “Bit of fun’ (prophet-<lb/>
ically heard by Mr Raj, a visiting Ceylonese, as ‘bitter<lb/>
fun’). The book’s ironic message is Love. It ends quoting<lb/>
Raj’s unfinished manuscript on race relations: “Love seems<lb/>
inevitable, necessary, as normal and as easy a process as<lb/>
respiration, but unfortunately .. .’ the manuscript breaks<lb/>
</p>
<p>
297<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="165"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
off. Raj’s love has just led him to kill two people and blow<lb/>
his brains out. One thinks of A Passage to India, several<lb/>
decades more sour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Devil of a State is less bitter, more like early Waugh. Its<lb/>
comic target is the uranium-rich East African state of<lb/>
Dunia (obviously based on the oil-rich Borneo state of<lb/>
Brunei). In what there is of a plot, the miserable protago-<lb/>
nist, Frank Lydgate, a civil servant, struggles with the rival<lb/>
claims of his wife and his native mistress, only to be<lb/>
snatched from both of them by his first wife, a formidable<lb/>
female spider of a woman. The humour derives mainly<lb/>
from incongruity: the staple food in Dunia is Chinese<lb/>
spaghetti; the headhunters upriver shrink a Belgian head<lb/>
with eyeglasses and put Brylcreem on its hair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Neither book at all prepares one for the savagery of<lb/>
Burgess’ next novel. A Clockwork Orange is a nightmarish<lb/>
fantasy of a future England where the hoodlums take over<lb/>
after dark. Its subject is the dubious redemption of one<lb/>
such hoodlum, Alex, told by himself. The society is a limp<lb/>
and listless socialism at some future time when men are<lb/>
on the moon: hardly anyone still reads, although streets<lb/>
are named Amis Avenue and Priestley Place; Jonny<lb/>
Zhivago, a ‘Russky’ pop singer, is a juke-box hit, and the<lb/>
teenage language is three-quarters Russian; everybody ‘not<lb/>
a child nor with child nor ill’ must work; criminals have<lb/>
to be rehabilitated because all the prison space will soon<lb/>
be needed for politicals; there is an opposition and elec-<lb/>
tions, but they reelect the Government.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A streak of grotesque surrealism runs all through Burgess’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
State, a political meeting is held in a movie theatre while<lb/>
polecats walk the girders near the roof, sneer down at the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
298<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
audience, and dislodge bits of dried excrement on their<lb/>
heads. By A Clockwork Orange this has become truly<lb/>
infernal. As the hoodlums drive to their ‘surprise visit,<lb/>
they run over a big snarling toothy thing that screams and<lb/>
squelches, and as they drive back they run over ‘odd<lb/>
squealing things’ all the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Alex has no interest in women except as objects of<lb/>
violence and rape (the term for the sex act in his vocabu-<lb/>
lary is characteristically mechanical, ‘the old in-out in-out’).<lb/>
No part of the female body is mentioned except the size<lb/>
of the breasts (it would also interest a Freudian to know<lb/>
that the hoodlums’ drink is doped milk). Alex’s only<lb/>
‘esthetic’ interest is his passion for symphonic music. He<lb/>
lies naked on his bed, surrounded by his stereo speakers,<lb/>
listening to Mozart or Bach while he daydreams of grinding<lb/>
his boot into the faces of men, or raping ripped screaming<lb/>
girls, and at the music's climax he has an orgasm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A‘ running lecture on free will, first from the prison<lb/>
chaplain, then from the writer, strongly suggests that the<lb/>
books intention is Christian. Deprived of his capacity for<lb/>
moral choice by science, Burgess appears to be saying, Alex<lb/>
is only a ‘clockwork orange,’ something mechanical that<lb/>
appears organic. Free to will, even if he wills to sin, Alex is<lb/>
capable of salvation, like Pinky in Brighton Rock (Devil of<lb/>
a State, incidentally, is dedicated to Greene). But perhaps<lb/>
this is to confine Burgess’ ironies and ambiguities within<lb/>
simple orthodoxy. Alex always was a clockwork orange, a<lb/>
machine for mechanical violence far below the level of<lb/>
choice, and his dreary socialist England is a giant clockwork<lb/>
orange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perhaps the most fascinating thing about the book is<lb/>
its language. Alex thinks and talks in the ‘nadsat’ (teenage)<lb/>
vocabulary of the future. A doctor in the book explains<lb/>
</p>
<p>
299<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="166"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
it. ‘Odd bits of old rhyming slang,’ he says. ‘A bit of gipsy<lb/>
talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav. Propaganda.<lb/>
Subliminal penetration.’ Nadsat is not quite so hard to<lb/>
decipher as Cretan Linear B, and Alex translates some of<lb/>
it. I found that I could not read the book without<lb/>
compiling a glossary; I reprint it here, although it is entirely<lb/>
unauthorised, and some of it is guesswork.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first the vocabulary seems incomprehensible: ‘you<lb/>
could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or<lb/>
one or two other veshches.’ Then the reader, even if he<lb/>
knows no Russian, discovers that some of the meaning is<lb/>
clear from context: ‘to tolchock some old veck in an alley<lb/>
and viddy him swim in his blood.’ Other words are intel-<lb/>
ligible after a second context: when Alex kicks a fallen<lb/>
enemy on the ‘gulliver’ it might be any part of the body,<lb/>
but when a glass of beer is served with a gulliver, ‘gulliver’<lb/>
is ‘head.’ (Life is easier, of course, for those who know the<lb/>
Russian word golova.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess has not used Russian words mechanically, but<lb/>
with great ingenuity, as the transformation into ‘gulliver,’<lb/>
with its Swiftian associations, suggests. Others are bril-<lb/>
liantly anglicised: khorosho (good or well) as ‘horrorshow’;<lb/>
liudi (people) as ‘lewdies’; militsia (militia or police) as<lb/>
‘millicents’; odinock (lonesome) as ‘oddy knocky.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burgess uses some Russian words in an American slang<lb/>
extension, such as nadsat itself, the termination of the Russian<lb/>
numbers eleven to nineteen, which he breaks off indepen-<lb/>
dently on the analogy of our ‘teen.’ Thus fopat (to dig with<lb/>
a shovel) is used as ‘dig’ in the sense of enjoy or understand;<lb/>
koshka (cat) and ptitsa (bird) become the hip ‘cat’ and ‘chick’;<lb/>
neezhny (lower) turns into ‘neezhnies’ (underpants); pooshka<lb/>
(cannon) becomes the term for a pistol; rozha (grimace)<lb/>
turns into ‘rozz,’ one of the words for policeman; samyi (the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
300<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
most) becomes ‘sammy’ (generous); soomka (bag) is the slang<lb/>
‘ugly woman’; vareet (to cook up) is also used in the slang<lb/>
sense, for something preparing or transpiring.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The ‘gypsy talk,’ I would guess, includes Alex’s phrase<lb/>
‘O my brothers,’ and ‘crark’ (to yowl?), ‘cutter’ (money),<lb/>
‘filly’ (to fool with), and such. The rhyming slang includes<lb/>
‘luscious glory’ for ‘hair’ (rhyming with ‘upper story’?) and<lb/>
‘pretty polly’ for ‘money’ (rhyming with ‘lolly’ of current<lb/>
slang). Others are inevitable associations, such as ‘cancer’<lb/>
for ‘cigarette’ and ‘charlie’ for ‘chaplain.’ Others are<lb/>
produced simply by schoolboy transformations: ‘appy polly<lb/>
loggy’ (apology), ‘baddiwad’ (bad), ‘eggiweg’ (egg), ‘skol-<lb/>
liwoll’ (school), and so forth. Others are amputations:<lb/>
‘suff’ (guffaw), ‘pee and em’ (pop and mom), ‘sarky’<lb/>
(sarcastic), ‘sinny’ (cinema). Some appear to be portman-<lb/>
teau words: ‘chumble’ (chatter-mumble), ‘mounch’ (mouth-<lb/>
munch), ‘shive’ (shiv-shave), ‘skriking’ (striking-scratching).<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are slight inconsistencies, when Burgess (or Alex)<lb/>
forgets his word and invents another or uses our word,<lb/>
but on the whole he handles his Russianate vocabulary in<lb/>
a masterly fashion. It has a wonderful sound, particularly<lb/>
in abuse, when ‘grahzny bratchny’ sounds infinitely better<lb/>
than ‘dirty bastard.’ Coming to literature by way of music,<lb/>
Burgess has a superb ear, and he shows an interest in the<lb/>
texture of language rare among current novelists. (He<lb/>
confessed in a recent television interview that he is obsessed<lb/>
by words.) As a most promising writer of the 6os, Burgess<lb/>
has followed novels that remind us of Forster and Waugh<lb/>
with an eloquent and shocking novel that is quite unique.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After A Clockwork Orange, Burgess wrote The Wanting<lb/>
Seed, which appeared in England in 1962 and will soon be<lb/>
published in the United States. It is a look centuries ahead<lb/>
to a future world almost as repulsive as Alex's. Perpetual<lb/>
</p>
<p>
301<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="167"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Peace has been established, and the main effort of govern-<lb/>
ment is to hold down human reproduction. Contraceptive<lb/>
pills are universal, infanticide is condoned, homosexuality<lb/>
is officially encouraged, and giving birth more than once<lb/>
is a criminal act. We see this world as it affects the lives of<lb/>
‘Tristram Foxe, a schoolteacher, his wife Beatrice-Joanna, a<lb/>
natural Urmutter, and his brother Derek, Beatrice-Joanna’s<lb/>
lover, who holds high office in the government by pretending<lb/>
to be homosexual. In this world of sterile rationalism, meat<lb/>
is unknown and teeth are atavistic, God has been replaced<lb/>
by ‘Mr Livedog,’ a figure of fun (‘God knows’ becomes<lb/>
‘Dog-nose’), and the brutal policemen are homosexuals<lb/>
who wear black lipstick to match their ties.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As a result of all the organised blasphemy against life,<lb/>
in Burgess’ fable, crops and food animals are mysteriously<lb/>
stricken all over the world, and as rations get more and<lb/>
more meagre, order breaks down. The new phase is<lb/>
heralded by Beatrice-Joanna, who gives birth in a kind of<lb/>
manger to twin sons, perhaps separately fathered by the<lb/>
two men in heer life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the new world of fertility is no better than the world<lb/>
of sterility that it supplants. Soon England is swept by canni-<lb/>
balism (the epicene flesh of policemen is particularly<lb/>
esteemed), there are public sex orgies to make the crops grow,<lb/>
and Christian worship returns, using consecrated human<lb/>
flesh in place of wine and wafer (‘eucharistic ingestion’ is the<lb/>
new slogan). The check on population this time is a return<lb/>
to old-fashioned warfare with rifles, in which armies of men<lb/>
fight armies of women; war is visibly ‘a massive sexual act.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At the end, Tristram, who as a representative man of<lb/>
both new orders has been in prison and the army, is<lb/>
reunited with his wife and her children, but nothing has<lb/>
changed fundamentally. The cycle, now in its Augustinian<lb/>
</p>
<p>
302<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
phase with the emphasis on human depravity, will soon<lb/>
enough swing back to its Pelagian phase, with the emphasis<lb/>
on human perfectibility.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Wanting Seed shows Burgess’ familiar preoccupation<lb/>
with language. His vocabulary rivals that of Wallace<lb/>
Stevens: a woman is ‘bathycolpous’ (deep-bosomed), a<lb/>
male secretary is ‘flavicomous (blond), a Chinese magnate<lb/>
is ‘mactated’ (sacrificially killed), moustaches are ‘cornicu-<lb/>
late’ (horned). The book is full of Joycean jokes: in a long<lb/>
sequence of paired names for the public fertility rites, one<lb/>
pair is “Tommy Eliot with Kitty Elphick,’ which is, of<lb/>
course, Old Possum with one of his Practical Cats; war<lb/>
poetry is read to the army on Saturday mornings, on order<lb/>
of Captain Auden-Isherwood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On her way to the State Provision Store to buy her<lb/>
ration of vegetable dehydrate, synthelac, compressed cereal<lb/>
sheets, and ‘nuts’ or nutrition units, Beatrice-Joanna stops<lb/>
to take a breath of the sea, and Burgess’ beautiful sentence<lb/>
is an incantation of sea creatures: ‘Sand-hoppers, mermaids’<lb/>
purses, sea gooseberries, cuttle bones, wrasse, blenny and<lb/>
bullhead, tern, gannet and herring gull.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like any satirist, Burgess extrapolates an exaggerated future<lb/>
to get at present tendencies he abhors. These include almost<lb/>
everything around. He does not like mindless violence, but<lb/>
he does not like mechanical reconditioning either; he detests<lb/>
sterile peace and fertile war about equally. Beneath Anthony ©<lb/>
Burgess’ wild comedy there is a prophetic (sometimes cranky<lb/>
and shrill) voice warning and denouncing us, but beneath<lb/>
that, on the deepest level, there is love: for mankind, and<lb/>
for mankind’s loveliest invention, the art of language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From the first American edition of<lb/>
A Clockwork Orange, 1963<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="168"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
My novella A Clockwork Orange, especially when it was<lb/>
transformed into a highly coloured and explicit film, has<lb/>
apparently qualified me as a major spokesman on violence.<lb/>
I learned recently that another book of mine, 198s, has<lb/>
become a kind of textbook for the Red Brigades. I can<lb/>
claim, nevertheless, no special interest in violence, except<lb/>
the fascination that it arouses in all human beings. Violence<lb/>
fascinates because it is the obverse of the one thing that<lb/>
humanity shares with God — the ability to create. Creation<lb/>
requires talent and violence does not, but both have the<lb/>
same result — transformation of natural material, excitement<lb/>
bordering on the orgasmatic, a sense of power. If there is<lb/>
shame in the perpetration of violence, as opposed to the<lb/>
quasi-religious elation of producing a work of art, this is<lb/>
easily qualified by a sense of an exalted end of which<lb/>
violence is the means — the building of a better society, for<lb/>
instance. When the perpetrator of violence wears a uniform<lb/>
— that of the state police or of a revolutionary paramilitary<lb/>
force — the violence is wholly excused and takes on the<lb/>
lineaments of sanctity. What was done to Aldo Moro<lb/>
provoked, in the doers, elation and shame at the elation,<lb/>
but the shame was dissolved in a sense of political purpose.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
305<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="169"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Violence has traditionally been the preserve of the private<lb/>
sector of society and condemned as a criminal act. In our<lb/>
century, however, the State has seen the advantages of<lb/>
using it. Such States as have used it and still use it began<lb/>
as revolutionary groups operating in the private sector —<lb/>
the Fascists, the Nazis, the Communists — but elevation<lb/>
of the revolutionaries to full statehood — in other words,<lb/>
turning them into the forces of official reaction — has<lb/>
sanctified violence as a tool of statecraft.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Violence can only be countered by violence, and we<lb/>
must now accept the enactment of brutality, often for the<lb/>
highest declared purpose, as an ineradicable aspect of<lb/>
contemporary life. I do not mean solely torture and killing,<lb/>
but also violence done to the stability of the community<lb/>
through such devices as inflation, and the more terrible<lb/>
violence, enacted in the name of technological progress,<lb/>
done to the environment. We have all come to terms with<lb/>
violence: it is our daily news and our nightly entertain-<lb/>
ment. Once I saw a public way out of it, now I can only<lb/>
see hope in the refusal of the individual to accept violence<lb/>
as a norm of our society and, in consequence, to be<lb/>
prepared for martyrdom. It is a grim prospect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16 March 1982<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
</body>
</text>
</TEI>