Stanley Kubrick's A clockwork orange: based on the novel by Anthony Burgess (21 page)

"All right, that will do very well."  Then this horrible veck

sort of bowed and danced off like an actor while the lights

came up on me blinking and with my rot square for howling.

Dr. Brodsky said to the audience: "Our subject is, you see,

impelled towards the good by, paradoxically, being impelled

towards evil.  The intention to act violently is accompanied by

strong feelings of physical distress.  To counter these the sub-

ject has to switch to a diametrically opposed attitude.  Any

questions?"

"Choice," rumbled a rich deep goloss.   I viddied it belonged

to the prison charlie.  "He has no real choice, has he?  Self-

interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that grotesque act

of self-abasement.  Its insincerity was clearly to be seen.  He

ceases to be a wrongdoer.  He ceases also to be a creature

capable of moral choice."

"These are subtleties," like smiled Dr. Brodsky.  "We are not

concerned with motive, with the higher ethics.  We are con-

cerned only with cutting down crime - "

"And," chipped in this bolshy well-dressed Minister, "with

relieving the ghastly congestion in our prisons."

"Hear hear," said somebody.

There was a lot of govoreeting and arguing then and I just

stood there, brothers, like completely ignored by all these

ignorant bratchnies, so I creeched out:

"Me, me, me.  How about me?  Where do I come into all

this?  Am I just some animal or dog?"  And that started

them off govoreeting real loud and throwing slovos at me.  So

I creeched louder, still creeching: "Am I just to be like a clock-

work orange?"  I didn't know what made me use those slovos,

brothers, which just came like without asking into my gulli-

ver.  And that shut all those vecks up for some reason for a

minoota or two.  Then one very thin starry professor type

chelloveck stood up, his neck like all cables carrying like

power from his gulliver to his plott, and he said:

"You have no cause to grumble, boy.  You made your choice

and all this is a consequence of your choice.  Whatever now

ensues is what you yourself have chosen."  And the prison

charlie creeched out:

"Oh, if only I could believe that."  And you could viddy the

Governor give him a look like meaning that he would not

climb so high in like Prison Religion as he thought he would.

Then loud arguing started again, and then I could slooshy the

slovo Love being thrown around, the prison charles himself

creeching as loud as any about Perfect Love Casteth Out Fear

and all that cal.  And now Dr. Brodsky said, smiling all over his

litso:

"I am glad, gentlemen, this question of Love has been

raised.  Now we shall see in action a manner of Love that was

thought to be dead with the Middle Ages."  And then the lights

went down and the spotlights came on again, one on your

poor and suffering Friend and Narrator, and into the other

there like rolled or sidled the most lovely young devotchka

you could ever hope in all your jeezny, O my brothers, to

viddy.  That is to say, she had real horrorshow groodies all of

which you could like viddy, she having on platties which came

down down down off her pletchoes.  And her nogas were like

Bog in His Heaven, and she walked like to make you groan in

your keeshkas, and yet her litso was a sweet smiling young

like innocent litso.  She came up towards me with the light like

it was the like light of heavenly grace and all that cal coming

with her, and the first thing that flashed into my gulliver was

that I would like to have her right down there on the floor

with the old in-out real savage, but skorry as a shot came the

sickness, like a like detective that had been watching round a

corner and now followed to make his grahzny arrest.  And

now the von of lovely perfume that came off her made me

want to think of starting to heave in my keeshkas, so I

knew I had to think of some new like way of thinking about

her before all the pain and thirstiness and horrible sickness

come over me real horrorshow and proper.  So I creeched out:

"O most beautiful and beauteous of devotchkas, I throw

like my heart at your feet for you to like trample all over.  If I

had a rose I would give it to you.  If it was all rainy and cally

now on the ground you could have my platties to walk on so

as not to cover your dainty nogas with filth and cal."  And as I

was saying all this, O my brothers, I could feel the sickness

like slinking back.  "Let me," I creeched out, "worship you and

be like your helper and protector from the wicked like world."

Then I thought of the right slovo and felt better for it, saying:

"Let me be like your true knight," and down I went again on

the old knees, bowing and like scraping.

And then I felt real shooty and dim, it having been like an

act again, for this devotchka smiled and bowed to the audi-

ence and like danced off, the lights coming up to a bit of

applause.  And the glazzies of some of these starry vecks in the

audience were like popping out at this young devotchka with

dirty and like unholy desire, O my brothers.

"He will be your true Christian," Dr. Brodsky was creeching

out, "ready to turn the other cheek, ready to be crucified

rather than crucify, sick to the very heart at the thought even

of killing a fly."  And that was right, brothers, because when he

said that I thought of killing a fly and felt just that tiny bit

sick, but I pushed the sickness and pain back by thinking of the

fly being fed with bits of sugar and looked after like a bleeding

pet and all that cal.  "Reclamation," he creeched.  "Joy before

the Angels of God."

"The point is," this Minister of the Inferior was saying real

gromky, "that it works."

"Oh," the prison charlie said, like sighing, "it works all right,

God help the lot of us."

Part Three

1

"What's it going to be then, eh?"

That, my brothers, was me asking myself the next morning,

standing outside this white building that was like tacked on to

the old Staja, in my platties of the night of two years back in

the grey light of dawn, with a malenky bit of a bag with my

few personal veshches in and a bit of cutter kindly donated by

the vonny Authorities to like start me off in my new life.

The rest of the day before had been very tiring, what with

interviews to go on tape for the telenews and photographs

being took flash flash flash and more like demonstrations of

me folding up in the face of ultra-violence and all that embar-

rassing cal.  And then I had like fallen into the bed and then,as

it looked to me, been waked up to be told to get off out, to

itty off home, they did not want to viddy Your Humble Nar-

rator never not no more, O my brothers.  So there I was, very

very early in the morning, with just this bit of pretty polly in

my left carman, jingle-jangling it and wondering:

"What's it going to be then, eh?"

Some breakfast some mesto, I thought, me not having

eaten at all that morning, every veck being so anxious to

tolchock me off out to freedom.  A chasha of chai only I had

peeted.  This Staja was in a very like gloomy part of the town,

but there were malenky workers' caffs all around and I soon

found one of these, my brothers.  It was very cally and vonny,

with one bulb in the ceiling with fly-dirt like obscuring its bit

of light, and there were early rabbiters slurping away at chai

and horrible-looking sausages and slices of kleb which they

like wolfed, going wolf wolf wolf and then creeching for

more.  They were served by a very cally devotchka but with

very bolshy groodies on her, and some of the eating vecks

tried to grab her, going haw haw haw while she went he he he,

and the sight of them near made me want to sick, brothers.

But I asked for some toast and jam and chai very politely and

with my gentleman's goloss, then I sat in a dark corner to eat

and peet.

While I was doing this, a malenky little dwarf of a veck

ittied in, selling the morning's gazettas, a twisted and grahzny

prestoopnick type with thick glasses on with steel rims, his

platties like the colour of very starry decaying currant pudding.

I kupetted a gazetta, my idea being to get ready for plunging

back into normal jeezny again by viddying what was ittying on

in the world.  This gazetta I had seemed to be like a Govern-

ment gazetta, for the only news that was on the front page

was about the need for every veck to make sure he put the

Government back in again on the next General Election,

which seemed to be about two or three weeks off.  There were

very boastful slovos about what the Government had done,

brothers, in the last year or so, what with increased exports

and a real horrorshow foreign policy and improved social

services and all that cal.  But what the Government was really

most boastful about was the way in which they reckoned the

streets had been made safer for all peace-loving night-walking

lewdies in the last six months, what with better pay for the

police and the police getting like tougher with young hooli-

gans and perverts and burglars and all that cal.  Which inter-

essovatted Your Humble Narrator some deal.  And on the

second page of the gazetta there was a blurry like photograph

of somebody who looked very familiar, and it turned out to

be none other than me me me.  I looked very gloomy and like

scared, but that was really with the flashbulbs going pop pop

all the time.  What it said undrneath my picture was that here

was the first graduate from the new State Institute for Rec-

lamation of Criminal Types, cured of his criminal instincts in a

fortnight only, now a good law-fearing citizen and all that cal.

Then I viddied there was a very boastful article about this

Ludovico's Technique and how clever the Government was

and all that cal.  Then there was another picture of some veck I

thought I knew, and it was this Minister of the Inferior or

Interior.  It seemed that he had been doing a bit of boasting,

looking forward to a nice crime-free era in which there would

be no more fear of cowardly attacks from young hooligans

and perverts and burglars and all that cal.  So I went

arghhhhhh and threw this gazetta on the floor, so that it

covered up stains of spilled chai and horrible spat gobs from

the cally animals that used thus caff.

"What's it going to be then, eh?"

What it was going to be now, brothers, was homeways and

a nice surprise for dadada and mum, their only son and heir

back in the family bosom.  Then I could lay back on the bed in

my own malenky den and slooshy some lovely music, and at

the same time I could think over what to do now with my

jeezny.  The Discharge Officer had given me a long list the day

before of jobs I could try for, and he had telephoned to

different vecks about me, but I had no intention, my brothers,

of going off to rabbit right away.  A malenky bit of a rest first,

yes, and a quiet think on the bed to the sound of lovely

music.

And so the autobus to Center, and then the autobus to

Kingsley Avenue, the flats of Flatblock 18A being just near.

You will believe me, my brothers, when I say that my heart

was going clopclopclop with the like excitement.  All was very

quiet, it still being early winter morning, and when I ittied into

the vestibule of the flatblock there was no veck about, only

the nagoy vecks and cheenas of the Dignity of Labour.  What

surprised me, brothers, was the way that had been cleaned up,

there being no longer any dirty ballooning slovos from the

rots of the Dignified Labourers, not any dirty parts of the

body added to their naked plotts by dirty-minded pencilling

malchicks.  And what also surprised me was that the lift was

working.  It came purring down when I pressed the electric

knopka, and when I got in I was surprised again to viddy all

was clean inside the like cage.

So up I went to the tenth floor, and there I saw 10-8 as it

had been before, and my rooker trembled and shook as I

took out of my carman the little klootch I had for opening

up.  But I very firmly fitted the klootch in the lock and turned,

then opened up then went in, and there I met three pairs of

surprised and almost frightened glazzies looking at me, and it

was pee and em having their breakfast, but it was also another

veck that I had never viddied in my jeezny before, a bolshy

thick veck in his shirt and braces, quite at home, brothers,

slurping away at the milky chai and munchmunching at his

eggiweg and toast.  And it was this stranger veck who spoke

first, saying:

"Who are you, friend?  Where did you get hold of a key?

Out, before I push your face in.  Get out there and knock.

Explain your business, quick."

My dad and mum sat like petrified, and I could viddy they

had not yet read the gazetta, then I remembered that the ga-

zetta did not arrive till papapa had gone off to his work.  But

then mum said: "Oh, you've broken out.  You've escaped.

Whatever shall we do?  We shall have the police here, oh oh

oh.  Oh, you bad and wicked boy, disgracing us all like this."

And, believe it or kiss my sharries, she started to go boo hoo.

So I started to try and explain, they could ring up the Staja if

they wanted, and all the time this stranger veck sat there like

frowning and looking as if he could push my litso in with his

hairy bolshy beefy fist.  So I said:

"How about you answering a few, brother?  What are you

doing here and for how long?  I didn't like the tone of what

you said just then.  Watch it.  Come on, speak up."  He was a

working-man type veck, very ugly, about thirty or forty, and

he sat now with his rot open at me, not govoreeting one

single slovo.  Then my dad said:

"This is all a bit bewildering, son.  You should have let us

know you were coming.  We thought it would be at least

another five or six years before they let you out.  Not," he

said, and he said it very like gloomy, "that we're not very

pleased to see you again and a free man, too."

"Who is this?" I said.  "Why can't he speak up?  What's going

on in here?"

"This is Joe," said my mum.  "He lives here now.  The lodger,

that's what he is.  Oh, dear dear dear," she went.

"You," said this Joe.  "I've heard all about you, boy.  I know

what you've done, breaking the hearts of your poor grieving

parents.  So you're back, eh?  Back to make life a misery for

them once more, is that it?  Over my dead corpse you will,

because they've let me be more like a son to them than like a

lodger."  I could nearly have smecked loud at that if the old

razdraz within me hadn't started to wake up the feeling of

wanting to sick, because this veck looked about the same age

as my pee and em, and there he was like trying to put a son's

protecting rooker round my crying mum, O my brothers.

"So," I said, and I near felt like collapsing in all tears myself.

"So that's it, then.  Well, I give you five large minootas to clear

all your horrible cally veshches out of my room."  And I made

for this room, this veck being a malenky bit too slow to stop

me.  When I opened the door my heart cracked to the carpet,

because I viddied it was no longer like my room at all,

brothers.  All my flags had gone off the walls and this veck had

put up pictures of boxers, also like a team sitting smug with

folded rookers and silver like shield in front.  And then I vid-

died what else was missing.  My stereo and my disc-cupboard

were no longer there, nor was my locked treasure-chest that

contained bottles and drugs and two shining clean syringes.

"There's been some filthy vonny work going on here," I

creeched.  "What have you done with my own personal

veshches, you horrible bastard?"  This was to this Joe, but it was

my dad that answered, saying:

"That was all took away, son, by the police.  This new regu-

lation, see, about compensation for the victims."

I found it very hard not to be very ill, but my gulliver was

aching shocking and my rot was so dry that I had to take a

skorry swig from the milk-bottle on the table, so that this Joe

said: "Filthy piggish manners."  I said:

"But she died.  That one died."

"It was the cats, son," said my dad like sorrowful, "that were

left with nobody to look after them till the will was read, so

they had to have somebody in to feed them.  So the police

sold your things, clothes and all, to help with the looking

after of them.  That's the law, son.  But you were never much

of a one for following the law."

I had to sit down then, and this Joe said: "Ask permission