A Clockwork Orange



Introduction (A Clockwork Orange Resucked)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Glossary of Nadsat Language
Anthony Burgess was born in Manchester in 1917 and was a graduate
of the University there. After six years in the Army he worked
as an instructor for the Central Advisory Council for Forces
Education, as a lecturer in Phonetics and as a grammar school
master. From 1954 till 1960 he was an education officer in the
Colonial Service, stationed in Malaya and Brunei. He has been
called one of the very few literary geniuses of our time.
Certainly he borrowed from no other literary source than himself.
That source produced thirty-two novels, a volume of verse, two
plays, and sixteen works of nonfiction-together with countless
music compositions, including symphonies, operas, and jazz. His
most recent work was A Mouthful of Air: Language,
Languages...Especially English. Anthony Burgess died in 1993.

A Clockwork Orange Resucked
I first published the novella A Clockwork Orange in 1962, which
ought to be far enough in the past for it to be erased from the
world's literary memory. It refuses to be erased, however, and
for this the film version of the book made by Stanley Kubrick may
be held chiefly responsible. I should myself be glad to disown
it for various reasons, but this is not permitted. I receive
mail from students who try to write theses about it or requests
from Japanese dramaturges to turn
It into a sort of Noh play. It seems likely to survive, while
other works of mine that I value more bite the dust. This is not
an unusual experience for an artist. Rachmaninoff used to groan
because he was known mainly for a Prelude in C Sharp Minor which
he wrote as a boy, while the works of his maturity never got into
the programmes. Kids cut their pianistic teeth on a Minuet in G
which Beethoven composed only so that he could detest it. I have
to go on living with A Clockwork Orange, and this means I have a
sort of authorial duty to it. I have a very special duty to it
in the United States, and I had better now explain what this duty
Let me put the situation baldly. A Clockwork Orange has never
been published entire in America. The book I wrote is divided
into three sections of seven chapters each. Take out your pocket
calculator and you will find that these add up to a total of
twenty-one chapters. 21 is the symbol for human maturity, or
used to be, since at 21 you got the vote and assumed adult
responsibility. Whatever its symbology, the number 21 was the
number I started out with. Novelists of my stamp are interested
in what is called arithmology, meaning that number has to mean
something in human terms when they handle it. The number of
chapters is never entirely arbitrary. Just as a musical composer
starts off with a vague image of bulk and duration, so a novelist
begins with an image of length, and this image is expressed in
the number of sections and the number of chapters in which the
work will be disposed. Those twenty-one chapters were important
to me.
But they were not important to my New York publisher. The book
he brought out had only twenty chapters. He insisted on cutting
out the twenty-first. I could, of course, have demurred at this
and taken my book elsewhere, but it was considered that he was
being charitable in accepting the work at all, and that all other
New York, or Boston, pub-lishers would kick out the manuscript on
its dog-ear. I needed money
back in 1961, even the pittance I was being offered as an
advance, and
if the condition of the book's acceptance was also its
so be it. So there is a profound difference between A Clockwork
as Great Britain knows it and the somewhat slimmer volume that
bears the same name in the United States of America.
Let us go further. The rest of the world was sold the book out
Great Britain, and so most versions-certainly the French,
Italian, Spanish, Catalan, Russian, Hebrew, Rumanian, and German
translations-have the original twenty-one chapters. Now when
Stanley Kubrick made his film-though he made it in England-he
followed the American version and, so it seemed to his audiences
outside America, ended the story somewhat prematurely. Audiences
did not exactly clamour for their money back, but they wondered
why Kubrick left out the dénouement. People wrote to me about
this-indeed much of my later life has been expended on Xeroxing
statements of intention and the frustrations of intention-while
both Kubrick and my New York publisher coolly bask in the rewards
of their misdemeanor. Life is of course, terrible.
What happens in that twenty-first chapter? You now have the
chance to
find out. Briefly, my young thuggish protagonist grows up. He
grows bored with violence and recognizes that human energy is
better expended on creation than destruction. Senseless violence
is a prerogative of youth, which has much energy but little
talent for the constructive. Its dynamism has to find an outlet
in smashing telephone kiosks, derailing trains, stealing cars and
smashing them and, of course, in the much more satisfactory
activity of destroying human beings. There comes a time,
however, when violence is seen as juvenile and boring. It is the
repartee of the stupid and ignorant. My young hoodlum comes to
the revelation of the need to get something done in life-to
marry, to beget children, to keep the orange of the world turning
in the
Rookers of Bog, or hands of God, and perhaps even create
something-music, say. After all, Mozart and Mendelssohn were
composing deathless music in their teens or nadsats, and all my
hero was doing was razrezzing and giving the old in-out. It is
with a kind of shame that this growing youth looks back on his
devastating past. He wants a different kind of future.
There is no hint of this change of intention in the twentieth
chapter. The boy is conditioned, then deconditioned, and he
foresees with glee a resumption of the operation of free and
violent will. 'I was cured all right,' he says, and so the
American book ends. So the film ends too. The twenty-first
chapter gives the novel the quality of genuine fiction, an art
founded on the principle that human beings change. Their is, in
fact, not much point in writing a novel unless you can show the
possibility of moral transformation, or an increase in wisdom,
operating in your chief character or characters. Even trashy
best-sellers show people changing. When a fictional work fails
to show change, when it merely indicates that human character is
set, stony, unregenerable, then you are out of the field of the
novel and into that of the fable or the allegory. The American or
Kubrickian Orange is a fable; the British or world one is a
But my New York publisher believed that my twenty-first chapter
was a sellout. It was veddy veddy British, don't you know. It
was bland and it showed a Pelagian unwillingness to accept that a
human being could be a model for unregenerable evil. The
Americans, he said in effect, were tougher than the British and
could face up to reality. Soon they would be facing up to it in
Vietnam. My book was Kennedyan and accepted the notion of moral
progress. What was really wanted was a Nixonian book with no
shred of optimism in it. Let us have evil prancing on the page
and, up to the very last line, sneering in the face of all the
inherited beliefs, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, and Holy Roller,
about people being able to make themselves better. Such a book
would be sensational, and so it is. But I do not think it is a
fair picture of human life.
I do not think so because, by definition, a human being is
endowed with free will. He can use this to choose between good
and evil. If he can only perform good or only perform evil, then
he is a clockwork orange-meaning that he has the appearance of an
organism lovely with colour and juice but is in fact only a
clockwork toy to be wound up by God or the Devil or (since this
is increasingly replacing both) the Almighty State. It is as
inhuman to be totally good as it is to be totally evil. The
important thing is moral choice. Evil has to exist along with
good, in order that moral choice may operate. Life is sustained
by the grinding opposition of moral entities. This is what the
television news is about. Unfortunately there is so much
original sin in us all that we find evil rather attractive. To
devastate is easier and more spectacular than to create. We like
to have the pants scared off us by visions of cosmic destruction.
To sit down in a dull room and compose the Missa solennis or The
Anatomy of Melancholy does not make headlines or news flashes.
Unfortunately my little squib of a book was found attractive to
many because it was as odorous as a crateful of bad eggs with the
miasma of original sin.
It seems priggish or Pollyannaish to deny that my intention in
writing the work was to titillate the nastier propensities of my
readers. My own healthy inheritance of original sin comes out in
the book and I enjoyed raping and ripping by proxy. It is the
novelist’s innate cowardice that makes him depute to imaginary
personalities the sins that he is too cautious to commit for
himself. But the book does also have a moral lesson, and it is
the weary traditional one of the fundamental importance of moral
choice. It is because this lesson sticks out like a sore thumb
that I tend to disparage A Clockwork Orange as a work too
didactic to be artistic. It is not the novelist’s job to preach;
it is his duty to show. I have shown enough, though the curtain
of an invented lingo gets in the way-another aspect of my
cowardice. Nadsat, a Russified version of English, was meant to
muffle the raw response we expect from pornography. It turns the
book into a linguistic adventure. People preferred the film
because they are scared, rightly, of language.
I don’t think I have to remind readers what the title means.
Clockwork oranges don’t exist, except in the speech of old
Londoners. The image was a bizarre one, always used for a
bizarre thing. “He’s as queer as a clockwork orange,” meant he
was queer to the limit of queerness. It did not primarily denote
homosexuality, though a queer, before restrictive legislation
came in, was a term used for a member of the inverted fraternity.
Europeans who translated the title as Arancia a Orologeria or
Orange Mécanique could not understand its Cockney resonance and
they assumed that it meant a hand grenade, a cheaper kind of
explosive pineapple. I mean it to stand for the application of a
mechanistic morality to a living organism oozing with juice and
Readers of the twenty-first chapter must decide for themselves
whether it enhances the book they presumably know or is really a
discardable limb. I meant the book to end in this way, but my
aesthetic judgement may have been faulty. Writers are rarely
their own best critics, nor are critics. “Quod scripsi scripsi”
said Pontius Pilate when he made Jesus Christ the King of the
Jews. “What I have written I have written.” We can destroy what
we have written but we cannot unwrite it. I leave what I wrote
with what Dr. Johnson called frigid indifference to the judgement
of that .00000001 of the American population which cares about
such things. Eat this sweetish segment or spit it out. You are
Anthony Burgess
November, 1986


Part 1
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is
Pete, Georgie, and Dim. Dim being really dim, and we sat in
the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do
with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.
The Ko Part 1 rova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto, and you may, O
my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos were like,
things changing so skorry these days and everybody very
quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither.
Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They
had no license for selling liquor, but there was no law yet
against prodding some of the new veshches which they used
to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen
minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels and Saints in
your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg. Or you
could peet milk with knives in it, as we used to say, and this
would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty
twenty-to-one, and that was what we were peeting this evening I'm starting off the story with.
Our pockets were full of deng, so there was no real need
from the point of view of crasting any more pretty polly to
tolchock some old veck in an alley and viddy him swim in his
blood while we counted the takings and divided by four, nor
to do the ultra-violent on some shivering starry grey-haired
ptitsa in a shop and go smecking off with the till's guts. But,
they say, money isn't everything.
The four of us were dressed in the height of fashion,
which in those days was a pair of black very tight tights with
the old jelly mould, as we called it, fitting on the crotch
underneath the tights, this being to protect and also a sort of
a design you could viddy clear enough in a certain light, so
that I had one in the shape of a spider, Pete had a rooker (a
hand, that is), Georgie had a very fancy one of a flower, and
poor old Dim had a very hound-and-horny one of a clown's
litso (face, that is). Dim not ever having much of an idea of
things and being, beyond all shadow of a doubting thomas,
the dimmest of we four. Then we wore waisty jackets without
lapels but with these very big built-up shoulders ('pletchoes'
we called them) which were a kind of a mockery of having real
shoulders like that. Then, my brothers, we had these off-white
cravats which looked like whipped-up kartoffel or spud with a
sort of a design made on it with a fork. We wore our hair not
too long and we had flip horrorshow boots for kicking.
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
There were three devotchkas sitting at the counter all
together, but there were four of us malchicks and it was
usually like one for all and all for one. These sharps were
dressed in the heighth of fashion too, with purple and green
and orange wigs on their gullivers, each one not costing less
than three or four weeks of those sharps' wages, I should
reckon, and make-up to match (rainbows round the glazzies,
that is, and the rot painted very wide). Then they had long
black very straight dresses, and on the groody part of them
they had little badges of like silver with different malchicks'
names on them - Joe and Mike and suchlike. These were supposed to be the names of the different malchicks they'd
spatted with before they were fourteen. They kept looking
our way and I nearly felt like saying the three of us (out of the
corner of my rot, that is) should go off for a bit of pol and
leave poor old Dim behind, because it would be just a matter
of kupetting Dim a demi-litre of white but this time with a
dollop of synthemesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been
playing like the game. Dim was very very ugly and like his
name, but he was a horrorshow filthy fighter and very handy
with the boot.
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
The chelloveck sitting next to me, there being this long big
plushy seat that ran round three walls, was well away with his
glazzies glazed and sort of burbling slovos like "Aristotle
wishy washy works outing cyclamen get forficulate smartish".
He was in the land all right, well away, in orbit, and I knew
what it was like, having tried it like everybody else had done,
but at this time I'd got to thinking it was a cowardly sort of a
veshch, O my brothers. You'd lay there after you'd drunk the
old moloko and then you got the messel that everything all
round you was sort of in the past. You could viddy it all right,
all of it, very clear - tables, the stereo, the lights, the
and the malchicks - but it was like some veshch that used to
be there but was not there not no more. And you were sort of
hypnotized by your boot or shoe or a finger-nail as it might
be, and at the same time you were sort of picked up by the old
scruff and shook like you might be a cat. You got shook and
shook till there was nothing left. You lost your name and
your body and your self and you just didn't care, and you
waited until your boot or finger-nail got yellow, then
yellower and yellower all the time. Then the lights started
cracking like atomics and the boot or finger-nail or, as it
might be, a bit of dirt on your trouser-bottom turned into a
big big big mesto, bigger than the whole world, and you were
just going to get introduced to old Bog or God when it was
all over. You came back to here and now whimpering sort of,
with your rot all squaring up for a boohoohoo. Now that's
very nice but very cowardly. You were not put on this earth
just to get in touch with God. That sort of thing could sap all
the strength and the goodness out of a chelloveck.
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
The stereo was on and you got the idea that the singer's
goloss was moving from one part of the bar to another,
flying up to the ceiling and then swooping down again and
whizzing from wall to wall. It was Berti Laski rasping a real
starry oldie called 'You Blister My Paint'. One of the three
ptitsas at the counter, the one with the green wig, kept pushing her belly out and pulling it in in time to what they called
the music. I could feel the knives in the old moloko starting
to prick, and now I was ready for a bit of twenty-to-one. So I
yelped: "Out out out out!" like a doggie, and then I cracked
this veck who was sitting next to me and well away and
burbling a horrorshow crack on the ooko or earhole, but he
didn't feel it and went on with his "Telephonic hardware and
when the farfarculule gets rubadubdub". He'd feel it all right
when he came to, out of the land.
"Where out?" said Georgie.
"Oh, just to keep walking," I said, "and viddy what turns up,
O my little brothers."
So we scatted out into the big winter nochy and walked
down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby
Avenue, and there we found what we were pretty well looking
for, a malenky jest to start off the evening with. There was a
doddery starry schoolmaster type veck, glasses on and his rot
open to the cold nochy air. He had books under his arm and a
crappy umbrella and was coming round the corner from the
Public Biblio, which not many lewdies used these days. You
never really saw many of the older bourgeois type out after
nightfall those days, what with the shortage of police and we
fine young malchickiwicks about, and this prof type chelloveck was the only one walking in the whole of the street. So
we goolied up to him, very polite, and I said: "Pardon me,
He looked a malenky bit poogly when he viddied the four
of us like that, coming up so quiet and polite and smiling, but
he said: "Yes? What is it?" in a very loud teacher-type goloss,
as if he was trying to show us he wasn't poogly. I said:
"I see you have books under your arm, brother. It is indeed
a rare pleasure these days to come across somebody that still
reads, brother."
"Oh," he said, all shaky. "Is it? Oh, I see." And he kept
looking from one to the other of we four, finding himself now like
in the middle of a very smiling and polite square.
"Yes," I said. "It would interest me greatly, brother, if you
would kindly allow me to see what books those are that you
have under your arm. I like nothing better in this world than a
good clean book, brother."
"Clean," he said. "Clean, eh?" And then Pete skvatted these
three books from him and handed them round real skorry.
Being three, we all had one each to viddy at except for Dim.
The one I had was called 'Elementary Crystallography', so I
opened it up and said: "Excellent, really first-class," keeping
turning the pages. Then I said in a very shocked type goloss:
"But what is this here? What is this filthy slovo? I blush to
look at this word. You disappoint me, brother, you do
"But," he tried, "but, but."
"Now," said Georgie, "here is what I should call real dirt.
There's one slovo beginning with an f and another with a c."
He had a book called 'The Miracle of the Snowflake.'
"Oh," said poor old Dim, smotting over Pete's shoulder and
going too far, like he always did, "it says here what he done to
her, and there's a picture and all. Why," he said, "you're
nothing but a filthy-minded old skitebird."
"An old man of your age, brother," I said, and I started to
rip up the book I'd got, and the others did the same with the
ones they had. Dim and Pete doing a tug-of-war with 'The
Rhombohedral System'. The starry prof type began to creech:
"But those are not mine, those are the property of the municipality, this is sheer wantonness and vandal work," or some
such slovos. And he tried to sort of wrest the books back off
of us, which was like pathetic. "You deserve to be taught a
lesson, brother," I said, "that you do." This crystal book I had
was very tough-bound and hard to razrez to bits, being real
starry and made in days when things were made to last like,
but I managed to rip the pages up and chuck them in handfuls
of like snowflakes, though big, all over this creeching old
veck, and then the others did the same with theirs, old Dim
just dancing about like the clown he was. "There you are," said
Pete. "There's the mackerel of the cornflake for you, you dirty
reader of filth and nastiness."
"You naughty old veck, you," I said, and then we began to
filly about with him. Pete held his rookers and Georgie sort
of hooked his rot wide open for him and Dim yanked out his
false zoobies, upper and lower. He threw these down on the
pavement and then I treated them to the old boot-crush,
though they were hard bastards like, being made of some new
horrorshow plastic stuff. The old veck began to make sort of
chumbling shooms - "wuf waf wof" - so Georgie let go of
holding his goobers apart and just let him have one in the
toothless rot with his ringy fist, and that made the old veck
start moaning a lot then, then out comes the blood, my
brothers, real beautiful. So all we did then was to pull his
outer platties off, stripping him down to his vest and long
underpants (very starry; Dim smecked his head off near), and
then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot, and we let him go. He
went sort of staggering off, it not having been too hard of a
tolchock really, going "Oh oh oh", not knowing where or
what was what really, and we had a snigger at him and then
riffled through his pockets, Dim dancing round with his
crappy umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn't much in them.
There were a few starry letters, some of them dating right
back to 1960 with "My dearest dearest" in them and all that
chepooka, and a keyring and a starry leaky pen. Old Dim gave
up his umbrella dance and of course had to start reading one
of the letters out loud, like to show the empty street he could
read. "My darling one," he recited, in this very high type
goloss, "I shall be thinking of you while you are away and
hope you will remember to wrap up warm when you go out
at night." Then he let out a very shoomny smeck - "Ho ho ho"
- pretending to start wiping his yahma with it. "All right," I
said. "Let it go, O my brothers." In the trousers of this
veck there was only a malenky bit of cutter (money, that is) -
not more than three gollies - so we gave all his messy little
coin the scatter treatment, it being hen-korm to the amount
of pretty polly we had on us already. Then we smashed the
umbrella and razrezzed his platties and gave them to the
blowing winds, my brothers, and then we'd finished with the
starry teacher type veck. We hadn't done much, I know, but
that was only like the start of the evening and I make no appy
polly loggies to thee or thine for that. The knives in the milk
plus were stabbing away nice and horrorshow now.
The next thing was to do the sammy act, which was one
way to unload some of our cutter so we'd have more of an
incentive like for some shop-crasting, as well as it being a way
of buying an alibi in advance, so we went into the Duke of
New York on Amis Avenue and sure enough in the snug there
were three or four old baboochkas peeting their black and
suds on SA (State Aid). Now we were the very good malchicks, smiling good evensong to one and all, though these
wrinkled old lighters started to get all shook, their veiny old
rookers all trembling round their glasses, and making the suds
spill on the table. "Leave us be, lads," said one of them, her
face all mappy with being a thousand years old, "we're only
poor old women." But we just made with the zoobies, flash
flash flash, sat down, rang the bell, and waited for the boy to
come. When he came, all nervous and rubbing his rookers on
his grazzy apron, we ordered us four veterans - a veteran
being rum and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just
then, some liking a dash of lime in it, that being the Canadian
variation. Then I said to the boy:
"Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing
something. Large Scotchmen all round and something to take
away." And I poured my pocket of deng all over the table, and
the other three did likewise, O my brothers. So double
firegolds were bought in for the scared starry lighters, and
they knew not what to do or say. One of them got out
"Thanks, lads," but you could see they thought there was
something dirty like coming. Anyway, they were each given a
bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take away, and I
gave money for them to be delivered each a dozen of black
and suds that following morning, they to leave their stinking
old cheenas' addresses at the counter. Then with the cutter
that was left over we did purchase, my brothers, all the meat
pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps and chocbars in that
mesto, and those too were for the old sharps. Then we said:
"Back in a minoota," and the old ptitsas were still saying:
"Thanks, lads," and "God bless you, boys," and we were going
out without one cent of cutter in our carmans.
"Makes you feel real dobby, that does," said Pete. You could
viddy that poor old Dim the dim didn't quite pony all that,
but he said nothing for fear of being called gloopy and a
domeless wonderboy. Well, we went off now round the
corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and cancers
shop still open. We'd left them alone near three months now
and the whole district had been very quiet on the whole, so
the armed millicents or rozz patrols weren't round there
much, being more north of the river these days. We put our
maskies on - new jobs these were, real horrorshow, wonderfully done really; they were like faces of historical personalities (they gave you the names when you bought) and I
had Disraeli, Pete had Elvis Presley, Georgie had Henry VIII
and poor old Dim had a poet veck called Peebee Shelley; they
were a real like disguise, hair and all, and they were some very
special plastic veshch so you could roll it up when you'd done
with it and hide it in your boot - then three of us went in.
Pete keeping chasso without, not that there was anything to
worry about out there. As soon as we launched on the shop
we went for Slouse who ran it, a big portwine jelly of a veck
who viddied at once what was coming and made straight for
the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-oiled
pooshka, complete with six dirty rounds. Dim was round that
counter skorry as a bird, sending packets of snoutie flying and
cracking over a big cut-out showing a sharp with all her
zoobies going flash at the customers and her groodies near
hanging out to advertise some new brand of cancers. What
you could viddy then was a sort of a big ball rolling into the
inside of the shop behind the curtain, this being old Dim and
Slouse sort of locked in a death struggle. Then you could
slooshy panting and snoring and kicking behind the curtain
and veshches falling over and swearing and then glass going
smash smash smash. Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of
froze behind the counter. We could tell she would creech
murder given one chance, so I was round that counter very
skorry and had a hold of her, and a horrorshow big lump she
was too, all nuking of scent and with flipflop big bobbing
groodies on her. I'd got my rooker round her rot to stop her
belting out death and destruction to the four winds of
heaven, but this lady doggie gave me a large foul big bite on it
and it was me that did the creeching, and then she opened up
beautiful with a flip yell for the millicents. Well, then she
to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights for the
scales, and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had for opening
cases, and that brought the red out like an old friend. So we
had her down on the floor and a rip of her platties for fun and
a gentle bit of the boot to stop her moaning. And, viddying
her lying there with her groodies on show, I wondered should
I or not, but that was for later on in the evening. Then we
cleaned the till, and there was flip horrorshow takings that
nochy, and we had a few packs of the very best top cancers
apiece, then off we went, my brothers.
"A real big heavy great bastard he was," Dim kept saying. I
didn't like the look of Dim: he looked dirty and untidy, like a
veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of course, but
you should never look as though you have been. His cravat
was like someone had trampled on it, his maskie had been
pulled off and he had floor-dirt on his litso, so we got him in
an alleyway and tidied him up a malenky bit, soaking our
tashtooks in spit to cheest the dirt off. The things we did for
old Dim. We were back in the Duke of New York very skorry
and I reckoned by my watch we hadn't been more than ten
minutes away. The starry old baboochkas were still there on
the black and suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we
said: "Hallo there, girlies, what's it going to be?" They
on the old "Very kind, lads, God bless you, boys," and so we
rang the collocol and brought a different waiter in this time
and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my
brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted. Then I said to
the old baboochkas: "We haven't been out of here, have we?
Been here all the time, haven't we?" They all caught on real
skorry and said:
"That's right, lads. Not been out of our sight, you haven't.
God bless you, boys," drinking.
Not that it mattered much, really. About half an hour went
by before there was any sign of life among the millicents, and
then it was only two very young rozzes that came in, very
pink under their big copper's shlemmies. One said:
"You lot know anything about the happenings at Slouse's
shop this night?"
"Us?" I said, innocent. "Why, what happened?"
"Stealing and roughing. Two hospitalizations. Where've
you lot been this evening?"
"I don't go for that nasty tone," I said. "I don't care much
for these nasty insinuations. A very suspicious nature all this
betokeneth, my little brothers."
"They've been in here all night, lads," the old sharps started
to creech out. "God bless them, there's no better lot of boys
living for kindness and generosity. Been here all the time they
have. Not seen them move we haven't."
"We're only asking," said the other young millicent. "We've
got our job to do like anyone else." But they gave us the nasty
warning look before they went out. As they were going out
we handed them a bit of lip-music: brrrrzzzzrrrr. But, myself, I
couldn't help a bit of disappointment at things as they were
those days. Nothing to fight against really. Everything as easy
as kiss-my-sharries. Still, the night was still very young.
When we got outside of the Duke of New York we viddied by
the main bar's long lighted window, a burbling old pyahnitsa
or drunkie, howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and
going blerp blerp in between as though it might be a filthy old
orchestra in his stinking rotten guts. One veshch I could never
stand was that. I could never stand to see a moodge all filthy
and rolling and burping and drunk, whatever his age might be,
but more especially when he was real starry like this one was.
He was sort of flattened to the wall and his platties were a
disgrace, all creased and untidy and covered in cal and mud
and filth and stuff. So we got hold of him and cracked him
with a few good horrorshow tolchocks, but he still went on
singing. The song went:
And I will go back to my darling, my darling,
When you, my darling, are gone.
But when Dim fisted him a few times on his filthy drunkard's
rot he shut up singing and started to creech: "Go on, do me in,
you bastard cowards, I don't want to live anyway, not in a
stinking world like this one." I told Dim to lay off a bit then,
because it used to interest me sometimes to slooshy what
some of these starry decreps had to say about life and the
world. I said: "Oh. And what's stinking about it?"
He cried out: "It's a stinking world because it lets the young
get on to the old like you done, and there's no law nor order
no more." He was creeching out loud and waving his rookers
and making real horrorshow with the slovos, only the odd
blurp blurp coming from his keeshkas, like something was
orbiting within, or like some very rude interrupting sort of a
moodge making a shoom, so that this old veck kept sort of
threatening it with his fists, shouting: "It's no world for any
old man any longer, and that means that I'm not one bit
scared of you, my boyos, because I'm too drunk to feel the
pain if you hit me, and if you kill me I'll be glad to be dead."
We smecked and then grinned but said nothing, and then he
said: "What sort of a world is it at all? Men on the moon and
men spinning round the earth like it might be midges round a
lamp, and there's not more attention paid to earthly law nor
order no more. So your worst you may do, you filthy cowardly hooligans." Then he gave us some lip-music -
"Prrrrzzzzrrrr" - like we'd done to those young millicents, and
then he started singing again:
Oh dear dear land, I fought for thee
And brought thee peace and victory -
So we cracked into him lovely, grinning all over our litsos,
but he still went on singing. Then we tripped him so he laid
down flat and heavy and a bucketload of beer-vomit came
whooshing out. That was disgusting so we gave him the boot,
one go each, and then it was blood, not song nor vomit, that
came out of his filthy old rot. Then we went on our way.
It was round by the Municipal Power Plant that we came
across Billyboy and his five droogs. Now in those days, my
brothers, the teaming up was mostly by fours or fives, these
being like auto-teams, four being a comfy number for an
auto, and six being the outside limit for gang-size. Sometimes
gangs would gang up so as to make like malenky armies for
big night-war, but mostly it was best to roam in these like
small numbers. Billyboy was something that made me want to
sick just to viddy his fat grinning litso, and he always had this
von of very stale oil that's been used for frying over and over,
even when he was dressed in his best platties, like now. They
viddied us just as we viddied them, and there was like a very
quit kind of watching each other now. This would be real,
this would be proper, this would be the nozh, the oozy, the
britva, not just fisties and boots. Billyboy and his droogs
stopped what they were doing, which was just getting ready
to perform something on a weepy young devotchka they had
there, not more than ten, she creeching away but with her
platties still on. Billyboy holding her by one rooker and his
number-one, Leo, holding the other. They'd probably just
been doing the dirty slovo part of the act before getting down
to a malenky bit of ultra-violence. When they viddied us acoming they let go of this boo-hooing little ptitsa, there
being plenty more where she came from, and she ran with her
thin white legs flashing through the dark, still going "Oh oh
oh". I said, smiling very wide and droogie: "Well, if it isn't
stinking billygoat Billyboy in poison. How art thou, thou
globby bottle of cheap stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in
the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly, thou."
And then we started.
There were four of us to six of them, like I have already
indicated, but poor old Dim, for all his dimness, was worth
three of the others in sheer madness and dirty fighting. Dim
had a real horrorshow length of oozy or chain round his
waist, twice wound round, and he unwound this and began to
swing it beautiful in the eyes or glazzies. Pete and Georgie had
good sharp nozhes, but I for my own part had a fine starry
horrorshow cut-throat britva which, at that time, I could flash
and shine artistic. So there we were dratsing away in the dark,
the old Luna with men on it just coming up, the stars stabbing
away as it might be knives anxious to join in the dratsing.
With my britva I managed to slit right down the front of one
of Billyboy's droog's platties, very very neat and not even
touching the plott under the cloth. Then in the dratsing this
droog of Billyboy's suddenly found himself all opened up like
a peapod, with his belly bare and his poor old yarbles showing, and then he got very razdraz, waving and screaming
and losing his guard and letting in old Dim with his chain
snaking whisssssshhhhhhhhh, so that old Dim chained him
right in the glazzies, and this droog of Billyboy's went tottering off and howling his heart out. We were doing very horrorshow, and soon we had Billyboy's number-one down
underfoot, blinded with old Dim's chain and crawling and
howling about like an animal, but with one fair boot on the
gulliver he was out and out and out.
Of the four of us Dim, as usual, came out the worst in point
of looks, that is to say his litso was all bloodied and his
platties a dirty mess, but the others of us were still cool and
whole. It was stinking fatty Billyboy I wanted now, and there I
was dancing about with my britva like I might be a barber on
board a ship on a very rough sea, trying to get in at him with a
few fair slashes on his unclean oily litso. Billyboy had a nozh,
a long flick-type, but he was a malenky bit too slow and heavy
in his movements to vred anyone really bad. And, my
brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to waltz - left two
three, right two three - and carve left cheeky and right cheeky,
so that like two curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the
same time, one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the
winter starlight. Down this blood poured in like red curtains,
but you could viddy Billyboy felt not a thing, and he went
lumbering on like a filthy fatty bear, poking at me with his
Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents were
coming with pooshkas pushing out of the police-autowindows at the ready. That weepy little devotchka had told
them, no doubt, there being a box for calling the rozzes not
too far behind the Muni Power Plant. "Get you soon, fear
not," I called, "stinking billygoat. I'll have your yarbles off
lovely." Then off they ran, slow and panting, except for
Number One Leo out snoring on the ground, away north
towards the river, and we went the other way. Just round the
next turning was an alley, dark and empty and open at both
ends, and we rested there, panting fast then slower, then
breathing like normal. It was like resting between the feet of
two terrific and very enormous mountains, these being the
flatblocks, and in the windows of all the flats you could
viddy like blue dancing light. This would be the telly. Tonight
was what thy called a worldcast, meaning that the same programme was being viddied by everybody in the world that
wanted to, that being mostly the middle-aged middle-class
lewdies. There would be some big famous stupid comic
chelloveck or black singer, and it was all being bounced off
the special telly satellites in outer space, my brothers. We
waited panting, and we could slooshy the sirening millicents
going east, so we knew we were all right now. But poor old
Dim kept looking up at the stars and planets and the Luna
with his rot wide open like a kid who'd never viddied any such
things before, and he said:
"What's on them, I wonder. What would be up there on
things like that?"
I nudged him hard, saying: "Come, gloopy bastard as thou
art. Think thou not on them. There'll be life like down here
most likely, with some getting knifed and others doing the
knifing. And now, with the nochy still molodoy, let us be on
our way, O my brothers." The others smecked at this, but
poor old Dim looked at me serious, then up again at the stars
and the Luna. So we went on our way down the alley, with the
worldcast blueing on on either side. What we needed now was
an auto, so we turned left coming out of the alley, knowing
right away we were in Priestly Place as soon as we viddied the
big bronze statue of some starry poet with an apey upper lip
and a pipe stuck in a droopy old rot. Going north we came to
the filthy old Filmdrome, peeling and dropping to bits
through nobody going there much except malchicks like me
and my droogs, and then only for a yell or a razrez or a bit of
in-out-in-out in the dark. We could viddy from the poster on
the Filmdrome's face, a couple of fly-dirtied spots trained on
it, that there was the usual cowboy riot, with the archangels
on the side of the US marshal six-shooting at the rustlers out
of hell's fighting legions, the kind of hound-and-horny veshch
put out by Statefilm in those days. The autos parked by the
sinny weren't all that horrorshow, crappy starry veshches
most of them, but there was a newish Durango 95 that I
thought might do. Georgie had one of these polyclefs, as they
called them, on his keyring, so we were soon aboard - Dim
and Pete at the back, puffing away lordly at their cancers - and
I turned on the ignition and started her up and she grumbled
away real horrorshow, a nice warm vibraty feeling grumbling
all through your guttiwuts. Then I made with the noga,
and we backed out lovely, and nobody viddied us take off.
We fillied round what was called the backtown for a bit,
scaring old vecks and cheenas that were crossing the roads
and zigzagging after cats and that. Then we took the road
west. There wasn't much traffic about, so I kept pushing the
old noga through the floorboards near, and the Durango 95
ate up the road like spaghetti. Soon it was winter trees and
dark, my brothers, with a country dark, and at one place I ran
over something big with a snarling toothy rot in the headlamps, then it screamed and squelched under and old Dim at
the back near laughed his gulliver off - "Ho ho ho" - at that.
Then we saw one young malchick with his sharp, lubbilubbing
under a tree, so we stopped and cheered at them, then we
bashed into them both with a couple of half-hearted tolchocks, making them cry, and on we went. What we were after
now was the old surprise visit. That was a real kick and good
for smecks and lashings of the ultra-violent. We came at last
to a sort of village, and just outside this village was a small
sort of a cottage on its own with a bit of garden. The Luna
was well up now, and we could viddy this cottage fine and clear
as I eased up and put the brake on, the other three giggling like
bezoomny, and we could viddy the name on the gate of this
cottage veshch was HOME, a gloomy sort of a name. I got out
of the auto, ordering my droogs to shush their giggles and act
like serious, and I opened this malenky gate and walked up to
the front door. I knocked nice and gentle and nobody came,
so I knocked a bit more and this time I could slooshy somebody coming, then a bolt drawn, then the door inched open
an inch or so, then I could viddy this one glazz looking out
at me and the door was on a chain. "Yes? Who is it?" It
was a sharp's goloss, a youngish devotchka by her sound, so
I said in a very refined manner of speech, a real gentleman's
"Pardon, madam, most sorry to disturb you, but my friend
and me were out for a walk, and my friend has taken bad all of
a sudden with a very troublesome turn, and he is out there on
the road dead out and groaning. Would you have the goodness to let me use your telephone to telephone for an ambulance?"
"We haven't a telephone," said this devotchka. "I'm sorry,
but we haven't. You'll have to go somewhere else." From
inside this malenky cottage I could slooshy the clack clack
clacky clack clack clackity clackclack of some veck typing
away, and then the typing stopped and there was this
chelloveck's goloss calling: "What is it, dear?"
"Well," I said, "could you of your goodness please let him
have a cup of water? It's like a faint, you see. It seems as
though he's passed out in a sort of a fainting fit."
The devotchka sort of hesitated and then said: "Wait." Then
she went off, and my three droogs had got out of the auto
quiet and crept up horrorshow stealthy, putting their maskies
on now, then I put mine on, then it was only a matter of me
putting in the old rooker and undoing the chain, me having
softened up this devotchka with my gent's goloss, so that she
hadn't shut the door like she should have done, us being
strangers of the night. The four of us then went roaring in,
old Dim playing the shoot as usual with his jumping up and
down and singing out dirty slovos, and it was a nice malenky
cottage, I'll say that. We all went smecking into the room
with a light on, and there was this devotchka sort of cowering, a young pretty bit of sharp with real horrorshow
groodies on her, and with her was this chelloveck who was
her moodge, youngish too with horn-rimmed otchkies on
him, and on a table was a typewriter and all papers scattered
everywhere, but there was one little pile of paper like that
must have been what he'd already typed, so here was another
intelligent type bookman type like that we'd fillied with some
hours back, but this one was a writer not a reader. Anyway, he
"What is this? Who are you? How dare you enter my house
without permission." And all the time his goloss was trembling and his rookers too. So I said:
"Never fear. If fear thou hast in thy heart, O brother, pray
banish it forthwith." Then Georgie and Pete went out to find
the kitchen, while old Dim waited for orders, standing next to
me with his rot wide open. "What is this, then?" I said,
up the pile like of typing from off of the table, and the hornrimmed moodge said, dithering:
"That's just what I want to know. What is this? What do
you want? Get out at once before I throw you out." So poor
old Dim, masked like Peebee Shelley, had a good loud smeck
at that, roaring like some animal.
"It's a book," I said. "It's a book what you are writing." I
made the old goloss very coarse. "I have always had the strongest admiration for them as can write books." Then I looked
at its top sheet, and there was the name - A C L O C K W O R K
O R A N G E - and I said: "That's a fair gloopy title. Who ever
heard of a clockwork orange?" Then I read a malenky bit out
loud in a sort of very high type preaching goloss: " - The
attempt to impose upon man, a creature of growth and
capable of sweetness, to ooze juicily at the last round the
bearded lips of God, to attempt to impose, I say, laws and
conditions appropriate to a mechanical creation, against this
I raise my sword-pen - " Dim made the old lip-music at that and
I had to smeck myself. Then I started to tear up the sheets and
scatter the bits over the floor, and this writer moodge went
sort of bezoomny and made for me with his zoobies clenched
and showing yellow and his nails ready for me like claws. So
that was old Dim's cue and he went grinning and going er er
and a a a for this veck's dithering rot, crack crack, first left
fistie then right, so that our dear old droog the red - red vino
on tap and the same in all places, like it's put out by the same
big firm - started to pour and spot the nice clean carpet and
the bits of this book that I was still ripping away at, razrez
razrez. All this time this devotchka, his loving and faithful
wife, just stood like froze by the fireplace, and then she
started letting out little malenky creeches, like in time to the
like music of old Dim's fisty work. Then Georgie and Pete
came in from the kitchen, both munching away, though with
their maskies on, you could do that with them on and no
trouble. Georgie with like a cold leg of something in one
rooker and half a loaf of kleb with a big dollop of maslo on it
in the other, and Pete with a bottle of beer frothing its gulliver off and a horrorshow rookerful of like plum cake. They
went haw haw haw, viddying old Dim dancing round and
fisting the writer veck so that the writer veck started to platch
like his life's work was ruined, going boo hoo hoo with a
very square bloody rot, but it was haw haw haw in a muffled
eater's way and you could see bits of what they were eating. I
didn't like that, it being dirty and slobbery, so I said:
"Drop that mounch. I gave no permission. Grab hold of this
veck here so he can viddy all and not get away." So they put
down their fatty pishcha on the table among all the flying
paper and they clopped over to the writer veck whose hornrimmed otchkies were cracked but still hanging on, with old
Dim still dancing round and making ornaments shake on the
mantelpiece (I swept them all off then and they couldn't shake
no more, little brothers) while he fillied with the author of 'A
Clockwork Orange', making his litso all purple and dripping
away like some very special sort of a juicy fruit. "All right,
Dim," I said. "Now for the other veshch, Bog help us all." So
did the strong-man on the devotchka, who was still creech
creech creeching away in very horrorshow four-in-a-bar,
locking her rookers from the back, while I ripped away at this
and that and the other, the others going haw haw haw still,
and real good horrorshow groodies they were that then exhibited their pink glazzies, O my brothers, while I untrussed and
got ready for the plunge. Plunging, I could slooshy cries of
agony and this writer bleeding veck that Georgie and Pete held
on to nearly got loose howling bezoomny with the filthiest
of slovos that I already knew and others he was making up.
Then after me it was right old Dim should have his turn, which
he did in a beasty snorty howly sort of a way with his Peebee
Shelley maskie taking no notice, while I held on to her. Then
there was a changeover, Dim and me grabbing the slobbering
writer veck who was past struggling really, only just coming
out with slack sort of slovos like he was in the land in a milkplus bar, and Pete and Georgie had theirs. Then there was like
quiet and we were full of like hate, so smashed what was left
to be smashed - typewriter, lamp, chairs - and Dim, it was
typical of old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung
on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said no. "Out
out out out," I howled. The writer veck and his zheena were
not really there, bloody and torn and making noises. But
they'd live.
So we got into the waiting auto and I left it to Georgie to
take the wheel, me feeling that malenky bit shagged, and we
went back to town, running over odd squealing things on the
We yeckated back townwards, my brothers, but just outside,
not far from what they called the Industrial Canal, we viddied
the fuel needle had like collapsed, like our own ha ha ha
needles had, and the auto was coughing kashl kashl kashl. Not
to worry overmuch, though, because a rail station kept
flashing blue - on off on off - just near. The point was
whether to leave the auto to be sobiratted by the rozzes or,
us feeling like in a hate and murder mood, to give it a fair
tolchock into the starry watersfor a nice heavy loud plesk
before the death of the evening. This latter we decided on, so
we got out and, the brakes off, all four tolchocked it to the
edge of the filthy water that was like treacle mixed with
human hole products, then one good horrorshow tolchock
and in she went. We had to dash back for fear of the filth
splashing on our platties, but splussshhhh and glolp she went,
down and lovely. "Farewell, old droog," called Georgie, and
Dim obliged with a clowny great guff - "Huh huh huh huh."
Then we made for the station to ride the one stop to Center,
as the middle of the town was called. We paid our fares nice
and polite and waited gentlemanly and quiet on the platform,
old Dim fillying with the slot machines, his carmans being full
of small malenky coin, and ready if need be to distribute
chocbars to the poor and starving, though there was none
such about, and then the old espresso rapido came lumbering
in and we climbed aboard, the train looking to be near empty.
To pass the three-minute ride we fillied about with what they
called the upholstery, doing some nice horrorshow tearingout of the seats' guts and old Dim chaining the okno till the
glass cracked and sparkled in the winter air, but we were all
feeling that bit shagged and fagged and fashed, it having been
an evening of some small energy expenditure, my brothers,
only Dim, like the clowny animal he was, full of the joys-of,
but looking all dirtied over and too much von of sweat on
him, which was one thing I had against old Dim.
We got out at Center and walked slow back to the
Korova Milkbar, all going yawwwww a malenky bit and exhibiting to moon and star and lamplight our back fillings, because we were still only growing malchicks and had school in
the daytime, and when we got into the Korova we found it
fuller than when we'd left earlier on. But the chelloveck that
had been burbling away, in the land, on white and synthemesc
or whatever, was still on at it, going: "Urchins of deadcast in
the way-ho-hay glill platonic time weatherborn." It was probable that this was his third or fourth lot that evening, for he
had that pale inhuman look, like he'd become a 'thing', and like
his litso was really a piece of chalk carved. Really, if he
to spend so long in the land, he should have gone into one of
the private cubies at the back and not stayed in the big mesto,
because here some of the malchickies would filly about with
him a malenky bit, though not too much because there were
powerful bruiseboys hidden away in the old Korova who
could stop any riot. Anyway, Dim squeezed in next to this
veck and, with his big clown's yawp that showed his hanging
grape, he stabbed this veck's foot with his own large filthy
sabog. But the veck, my brothers, heard nought, being now all
above the body.
It was nadsats milking and coking and fillying around
(nadsats were what we used to call the teens), but there were a
few of the more starry ones, vecks and cheenas alike (but not
of the bourgeois, never them) laughing and govoreeting at the
bar. You could tell them from their barberings and loose
(big stringy sweaters mostly) that they'd been on rehearsals at
the TV studios around the corner. The devotchkas among them
had these very lively litsos and wide big rots, very red, showing a lot of teeth, and smecking away and not caring about
the wicked world one whit. And then the disc on the stereo
twanged off and out (it was Johnny Zhivago, a Russky
koshka, singing 'Only Every Other Day'), and in the like interval, the short silence before the next one came on, one of
these devotchkas - very fair and with a big smiling red rot and
in her late thirties I'd say - suddenly came with a burst of
singing, only a bar and a half and as though she was like giving
an example of something they'd all been govoreeting about,
and it was like for a moment, O my brothers, some great bird
had flown into the milkbar, and I felt all the little malenky
hairs on my plott standing endwise and the shivers crawling
up like slow malenky lizards and then down again. Because I
knew what she sang. It was from an opera by Friedrich Gitterfenster called 'Das Bettzeug', and it was the bit where she's
snuffing it with her throat cut, and the slovos are 'Better like
this maybe'. Anyway, I shivered.
But old Dim, as soon as he'd slooshied this dollop of song
like a lomtick of redhot meat plonked on your plate, let off
one of his vulgarities, which in this case was a lip-trump followed by a dog-howl followed by two fingers pronging twice
at the air followed by a clowny guffaw. I felt myself all of a
fever and like drowning in redhot blood, slooshying and
viddying Dim's vulgarity, and I said: "Bastard. Filthy drooling
mannerless bastard." Then I leaned across Georgie, who was
between me and horrible Dim, and fisted Dim skorry on the
rot. Dim looked very surprised, his rot open, wiping the
krovvy off of his goober with his rook and in turn looking
surprised at the red flowing krovvy and at me. "What for did
you do that for?" he said in his ignorant way. Not many
viddied what I'd done, and those that viddied cared not. The
stereo was on again and was playing a very sick electronic
guitar veshch. I said:
"For being a bastard with no manners and not the dook of
an idea how to comport yourself publicwise, O my
Dim put on a hound-and-horny look of evil, saying: "I
don't like you should do what you done then. And I'm not
your brother no more and wouldn't want to be." He'd taken a
big snotty tashtook from his pocket and was mopping the red
flow puzzled, keeping on looking at it frowning as if he
thought that blood was for other vecks and not for him. It
was like he was singing blood to make up for his vulgarity
when that devotchka was singing music. But that devotchka
was smecking away ha ha ha now with her droogs at the bar,
her red rot working and her zoobies ashine, not having no-
ticed Dim's filthy vulgarity. It was me really Dim had done
wrong to. I said:
"if you don't like this and you wouldn't want that, then you
know what to do, little brother." Georgie said, in a sharp way
that made me look:
"All right. Let's not be starting."
"That's clean up to Dim," I said. "Dim can't go on all his
jeezny being as a little child." And I looked sharp at Georgie.
Dim said, and the red krovvy was easing its flow now:
"What natural right does he have to think he can give the
orders and tolchock me whenever he likes? Yarbles is what I
say to him, and I'd chain his glazzies out as soon as look."
"Watch that," I said, as quiet as I could with the stereo
bouncing all over the walls and ceiling and the in-the-land
veck beyond Dim getting loud now with his "Spark nearer,
ultoptimate", I said: "Do watch that, O Dim, if to continue to
be on live thou dost wish."
"Yarbles," said Dim, sneering, "great bolshy yarblockos to
you. What you done then you had no right. I'll meet you with
chain or nozh or britva any time, not having you aiming tolchocks at me reasonless, it stands to reason I won't have
"A nozh scrap any time you say," I snarled back. Pete said:
"Oh now, don't, both of you malchicks. Droogs, aren't we?
It isn't right droogs should behave thiswise. See, there are
some loose-lipped malchicks over there smecking at us, leering like. We mustn't let ourselves down."
"Dim," I said, "has got to learn his place. Right?"
"Wait," said Georgie. "What is all this about place? This is
first I ever hear about lewdies learning their place."
Pete said: "If the truth is known, Alex, you shouldn't have
given old Dim that uncalled-for tolchock. I'll say it once and
no more. I say it with all respect, but if it had been me you'd
given it to you'd have to answer. I say no more." And he
drowned his litso in his milk-glass.
I could feel myself getting all razdraz inside, but I tried to
cover it, saying calm: "There has to be a leader. Discipline
there has to be. Right?" None of them skazatted a word or
nodded even. I got more razdraz inside, calmer out. "I," I
"have been in charge long now. We are all droogs, but somebody has to be in charge. Right? Right?" They all like nodded,
wary like. Dim was osooshing the last of the krovvy off. It
was Dim who said now:
"Right, right. Doobidoob. A bit tired, maybe, everybody is.
Best not to say more." I was surprised and just that malenky
bit poogly to sloosh Dim govoreeting that wise. Dim said:
"Bedways is rightways now, so best we go homeways. Right?" I
was very surprised. The other two nodded, going right right
right. I said:
"You understand about that tolchock on the rot, Dim.
It was the music, see. I get all bezoomny when any veck
interferes with a ptitsa singing, as it might be. Like that
"Best we go off homeways and get a bit of spatchka," said
Dim. "A long night for growing malchicks. Right?" Right right
nodded the other two. I said:
"I think it best we go home now. Dim has made a real
horrorshow suggestion. If we don't meet day-wise, O my
brothers, well then - same time same place tomorrow?"
"Oh yes," said Georgie. "I think that can be arranged."
"I might," said Dim, "be just that malenky bit late. But same
place and near same time tomorrow surely." He was still
wiping at his goober, though no krovvy flowed any longer
now. "And," he said, "it is to be hoped there won't be no more
of them singing ptitsas in here." Then he gave his old Dim guff,
a clowny big hohohohoho. It seemed like he was too dim to
take much offence.
So off we went our several ways, me belching arrrrgh on
the cold coke I'd peeted. I had my cut-throat britva handy in
case any of Billyboy's droogs should be around near the flatblock waiting, or for that matter any of the other bandas or
gruppas or shaikas that from time to time were at war with
one. Where I lived was with my dadda and mum in the flats of
Municipal Flatblock 18A, between Kingsley Avenue and Wilsonsway. I got to the big main door with no trouble, though I
did pass one young malchick sprawling and creeching and
moaning in the gutter, all cut about lovely, and saw in the
lamplight also streaks of blood here and there like signatures,
my brothers, of the night's fillying. And too I saw just by 18A
a pair of devotchka's neezhnies doubtless rudely wrenched off
in the heat of the moment, O my brothers. And so in. In the
hallway was the good old municipal painting on the walls -
vecks and ptitsas very well developed, stern in the dignity of
labour, at workbench and machine with not one stitch of
platties on their well-developed plotts. But of course some of
the malchicks living in 18A had, as was to be expected, embellished and decorated the said big painting with handy
pencil and ballpoint, adding hair and stiff rods and dirty ballooning slovos out of the dignified rots of these nagoy (bare,
that is) cheenas and vecks. I went to the lift, but there was no
need to press the electric knopka to see if it was working or
not, because it had been tolchocked real horrorshow this
night, the metal doors all buckled, some feat of rare strength
indeed, so I had to walk the ten floors up. I cursed and panted
climbing, being tired in plott if not so much in brain. I wanted
music very bad this evening, that singing devotchka in the
Korova having perhaps started me off. I wanted like a big feast
of it before getting my passport stamped, my brothers, at
sleep's frontier and the stripy shest lifted to let me through.
I opened the door of 10-8 with my own little klootch, and
inside our malenky quarters all was quiet, the pee and em both
being in sleepland, and mum had laid out on the table on
malenky bit of supper - a couple of lomticks of tinned spongemeat with a shive or so of kleb and butter, a glass of the old
cold moloko. Hohoho, the old moloko, with no knives or
synthemesc or drencrom in it. How wicked, my brothers,
innocent milk must always seem to me now. Still I drank and
ate growling, being more hungry than I thought at first, and I
got fruit-pie from the larder and tore chunks off it to stuff
into my greedy rot. Then I tooth-cleaned and clicked, cleaning
out the old rot with my yahzick or tongue, then I went into
my own little room or den, easing off my platties as I did so.
Here was my bed and my stereo, pride of my jeezny, and my
discs in their cupboard, and banners and flags on the wall,
these being like remembrances of my corrective school life
since I was eleven, O my brothers, each one shining and blazoned with name or number: SOUTH 4; METRO CORSKOL BLUE DIVISION; THE BOYS OF ALPHA.
The little speakers of my stereo were all arranged round the
room, on ceiling, walls, floor, so, lying on my bed slooshying
the music, I was like netted and meshed in the orchestra. Now
what I fancied first tonight was this new violin concerto by
the American Geoffrey Plautus, played by Odysseus Choerilos
with the Macon (Georgia) Philharmonic, so I slid it from
where it was neatly filed and switched on and waited.
Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all
nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow,
glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of
lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made
flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and
behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and
there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out
again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of
wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or
like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense
now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and
those strings were like a cage of silk around my bed. Then flute
and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick
thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers.
Pee and em in their bedroom next door had learnt now not to
knock on the wall with complaints of what they called noise.
I had taught them. Now they would take sleep-pills. Perhaps,
knowing the joy I had in my night music, they had already
taken them. As I slooshied, my glazzies tight shut to shut in
the bliss that was better than any synthemesc Bog or God, I
knew such lovely pictures. There were vecks and ptitsas, both
young and starry, lying on the ground screaming for mercy,
and I was smecking all over my rot and grinding my boot in
their litsos. And there were devotchkas ripped and creeching
against walls and I plunging like a shlaga into them, and
indeed when the music, which was one movement only, rose
to the top of its big highest tower, then, lying there on my
bed with glazzies tight shut and rookers behind my gulliver, I
broke and spattered and cried aaaaaaah with the bliss of it.
And so the lovely music glided to its glowing close.
After that I had lovely Mozart, the Jupiter, and there were
new pictures of different litsos to be ground and splashed, and
it was after this that I thought I would have just one last disc
only before crossing the border, and I wanted something
starry and strong and very firm, so it was J. S. Bach I had, the
Brandenburg Concerto just for middle and lower strings. And,
slooshying with different bliss than before, I viddied again this
name on the paper I'd razrezzed that night, a long time ago it
seemed, in that cottage called HOME. The name was about a
clockwork orange. Listening to the J. S. Bach, I began to pony
better what that meant now, and I thought, slooshying away
to the brown gorgeousness of the starry German master, that
I would like to have tolchecked them both harder and ripped
them to ribbons on their own floor.
The next morning I woke up at oh eight oh oh hours, my
brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and
bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow
with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school. I thought
how I would have a malenky bit longer in the bed, an hour or
two say, and then get dressed nice and easy, perhaps even
having a splosh about in the bath, make toast for myself and
slooshy the radio or read the gazetta, all on my oddy knocky.
And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I still felt like
itty off to the old skolliwoll and see what was vareeting in
the great seat of gloopy useless learning, O my brothers. I
heard my papapa grumbling and trampling and then ittying off
to the dyeworks where he rabbited, and then my mum called
in in a very respectful goloss as she did now I was growing up
big and strong:
"It's gone eight, son. You don't want to be late again."
So I called back: "A bit of pain in my gulliver. Leave us be
and I'll try to sleep it off and then I'll be right as dodgers
this after." I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said:
"I'll put your breakfast in the oven then, son. I've got to be
off myself now." Which was true, there being this law for
everybody not a child nor with child nor ill to go out rabbiting. My mum worked at one of the Statemarts, as they
called them, filling up the shelves with tinned soup and beans
and all that cal. So I slooshied her clank a plate in the gasoven like and then she was putting her shoes on and then
getting her coat from behind the door and then sighing again,
then she said: "I'm off now, son." But I let on to be back in
sleepland and then I did doze off real horrorshow, and I had a
queer and very real like sneety, dreaming for some reason of
my droog Georgie. In this sneety he'd got like very much
older and very sharp and hard and was govoreeting about
discipline and obedience and how all the malchicks under his
control had to jump hard at it and throw up the old salute
like being in the army, and there was me in line like the rest
saying yes sir and no sir, and the I viddied clear that Georgie
had these stars on his pletchoes and he was like a general. And
then he brought in old Dim with a whip, and Dim was a lot
more starry and grey and had a few zoobies missing as you
could see when he let out a smeck, viddying me, and then my
droog Georgie said, pointing like at me: "That man has filth
and cal all over his platties," and it was true. Then I
"Don't hit, please don't, brothers," and started to run. And I
was running in like circles and Dim was after me, smecking his
gulliver off, cracking with the old whip, and each time I got a
real horrorshow tolchock with this whip there was like a very
loud electric bell ringringring, and this bell was like a sort
of a pain too.
Then I woke up real skorry, my heart going bap bap bap,
and of course there was really a bell going brrrrr, and it was
our front-door bell. I let on that nobody was at home, but
this brrrrr still ittied on, and then I heard a goloss shouting
through the door: "Come on then, get out of it, I know
you're in bed." I recognized the goloss right away. It was the
goloss of P. R. Deltoid (a real gloopy nazz, that one) what
they called my Post-Corrective Adviser, an overworked veck
with hundreds on his books. I shouted right right right, in a
goloss of like pain, and I got out of bed and attired myself, O
my brothers, in a very lovely over-gown of like silk, with
designs of like great cities all over this over-gown. Then I put
my nogas into very comfy wooly toofles, combed my
luscious glory, and was ready for P. R. Deltoid. When I
opened up he came shambling in looking shagged, a battered
old shlapa on his gulliver, his raincoat filthy. "Ah, Alex boy,"
he said to me. "I met your mother, yes. She said something
about a pain somewhere. Hence not at schol, yes."
"A rather intolerable pain in the head, brother, sir," I said in
my gentleman's goloss. "I think it should clear by this afternoon."
"Or certainly by this evening, yes," said P. R. Deltoid. "The
evening is the great time, isn't it, Alex boy? Sit," he said,
sit," as though this was his domy and me his guest. And he sat
in this starry rocking-chair of my dad's and began rocking, as
if that was all he had come for. I said:
"A cup of the old chai, sir? Tea, I mean."
"No time," he said. And he rocked, giving me the old glint
under frowning brows, as if with all the time in the world. "No
time, yes," he said, gloopy. So I put the kettle on. Then I
"To what do I owe the extreme pleasure? Is anything
wrong, sir?"
"Wrong?" he said, very skorry and sly, sort of hunched
looking at me but still rocking away. Then he caught sight of
an advert in the gazetta, which was on the table - a lovely
smecking young ptitsa with her groodies hanging out to advertise, my brothers, the Glories of the Jugoslav Beaches.
Then, after sort of eating her up in two swallows, he said:
"Why should you think in terms of there being anything
wrong? Have you been doing something you shouldn't,
"Just a manner of speech," I said, "sir."
"Well," said P. R. Deltoid, "it's just a manner of speech from
me to you that you watch out, little Alex, because next time,
as you very well know, it's not going to be the corrective
school any more. Next time it's going to be the barry place
and all my work ruined. If you have no consideration for your
horrible self you at least might have some for me, who have
sweated over you. A big black mark, I tell you in confidence,
for every one we don't reclaim, a confession of failure for
every one of you that ends up in the stripy hole."
"I've been doing nothing I shouldn't, sir," I said. "The mil-
licents have nothing on me, brother, sir I mean."
"Cut out this clever talk about millicents," said P. R. Deltoid
very weary, but still rocking. "Just because the police have not
picked you up lately doesn't, as you very well know, mean
you've not been up to some nastiness. There was a bit of a
fight last night, wasn't there? There was a bit of shuffling
nozhes and bike-chains and the like. One of a certain fat boy's
friends was ambulanced off late from near the Power Plant
and hospitalized, cut about very unpleasantly, yes. Your name
was mentioned. The word has got through to me by the usual
channels. Certain friends of yours were named also. There
seems to have been a fair amount of assorted nastiness last
night. Oh, nobody can prove anything about anybody, as
usual. But I'm warning you, little Alex, being a good friend to
you as always, the one man in this sick and sore community
who wants to save you from yourself."
"I appreciate all that, sir," I said, "very sincerely."
"Yes, you do, don't you?" he sort of sneered. "Just watch it,
that's all, yes. We know more than you think, little Alex."
Then he said, in a goloss of great suffering, but still rocking
away: "What gets into you all? We study the problem and
we've been studying it for damn well near a century, yes, but
we get no further with our studies. You've got a good home
here, good loving parents, you've got not too bad of a brain.
Is it some devil that crawls inside you?"
"Nobody's got anything on me, sir," I said. "I've been out of
the rookers of the millicents for a long time now."
"That's just what worries me," sighed P. R. Deltoid. "A bit
too long of a time to be healthy. You're about due now by my
reckoning. That's why I'm warning you, little Alex, to keep
your handsome young proboscis out of the dirt, yes. Do I
make myself clear?"
"As an unmuddied lake, sir," I said. "Clear as an azure sky of
deepest summer. You can rely on me, sir." And I gave him a
nice zooby smile.
But when he'd ookadeeted and I was making this very
strong pot of chai, I grinned to myself over this veshch that
P. R. Deltoid and his droogs worried about. All right, I do
bad, what with crasting and tolchocks and carves with the
britva and the old in-out-in-out, and if I get loveted, well, too
bad for me, O my little brothers, and you can't run a country
with every chelloveck comporting himself in my manner of
the night. So if I get loveted and it's three months in this
mesto and another six in that, and the, as P. R. Deltoid so
kindly warns, next time, in spite of the great tenderness of my
summers, brothers, it's the great unearthly zoo itself, well, I
say: "Fair, but a pity, my lords, because I just cannot bear to
be shut in. My endeavour shall be, in such future as stretches
out its snowy and lilywhite arms to me before the nozh
overtakes or the blood spatters its final chorus in twisted
metal and smashed glass on the highroad, to not get loveted
again." Which is fair speeching. But, brothers, this biting of
their toe-nails over what is the cause of badness is what turns
me into a fine laughing malchick. They don't go into the cause
of goodness, so why the other shop? If lewdies are good
that's because they like it, and I wouldn't ever interfere with
their pleasures, and so of the other shop. And I was patronizing the other shop. More, badness is of the self, the one, the
you or me on our oddy knockies, and that self is made by old
Bog or God and is his great pride and radosty. But the not-self
cannot have the bad, meaning they of the government and the
judges and the schools cannot allow the bad because they
cannot allow the self. And is not our modern history, my
brothers, the story of brave malenky selves fighting these big
machines? I am serious with you, brothers, over this. But
what I do I do because I like to do.
So now, this smiling winter morning, I drink this very
strong chai with moloko and spoon after spoon after spoon
of sugar, me having a sladky tooth, and I dragged out of the
oven the breakfast my poor old mum had cooked for me. It
was an egg fried, that and no more, but I made toast and ate
egg and toast and jam, smacking away at it while I read the
gazetta. The gazetta was the usual about ultra-violence and
bank robberies and strikes and footballers making everybody
paralytic with fright by threatening to not play next Saturday
if they did not get higher wages, naughty malchickiwicks as
they were. Also there were more space-trips and bigger stereo
TV screens and offers of free packets of soapflakes in exchange for the labels on soup-tins, amazing offer for one
week only, which made me smeck. And there was a bolshy big
article on Modern Youth (meaning me, so I gave the old bow,
grinning like bezoomny) by some very clever bald chelloveck.
I read this with care, my brothers, slurping away at the old
chai, cup after tass after chasha, crunching my lomticks of
black toast dipped in jammiwam and eggiweg. This learned
veck said the usual veshches, about no parental discipline, as
he called it, and the shortage of real horrorshow teachers
who would lambast bloody beggary out of their innocent
poops and make them go boohoohoo for mercy. All this was
gloopy and made me smeck, but it was like nice to go on
knowing one was making the news all the time, O my
brothers. Every day there was something about Modern
Youth, but the best veshch they ever had in the old gazetta
was by some starry pop in a doggy collar who said that in his
considered opinion and he was govoreeting as a man of Bog
like ferreting his way into like young innocent flesh, and it was
the adult world that could take the responsibility for this with
their wars and bombs and nonsense. So that was all right. So
he knew what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young
innocent malchicks could take no blame. Right right right.
When I'd gone erk erk a couple of razzes on my full innocent stomach, I started to get out day platties from my wardrobe, turning the radio on. There was music playing, a very
nice malenky string quartet, my brothers, by Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have a smeck, though,
thinking of what I'd viddied once in one of these like articles
on Modern Youth, about how Modern Youth would be better
off if A Lively Appreciation Of The Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry would like
quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more
Civilized. Civilized my syphilised yarbles. Music always sort
sharpened me up, O my brothers, and made me feel like
old Bog himself, ready to make with the old donner and blitzen and have vecks and ptitsas creeching away in my ha ha
power. And when I'd cheested up my litso and rookers a bit
and done dressing (my day platties were like student-wear: the
old blue pantalonies with sweater with A for Alex) I thought
here at last was time to itty off to the disc-bootick (and
cutter too, my pockets being full of pretty polly) to see about
this long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven
Number Nine (the Choral Symphony, that is), recorded on
Masterstroke by the Esh Sham Sinfonia under L. Muhaiwir. So
out I went, brothers.
The day was very different from the night. The night belonged to me and my droogs and all the rest of the nadsats,
and the starry bourgeois lurked indoors drinking in the
gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry ones, and
there always seemed to be more rozzes or millicents about
during the day, too. I got the autobus from the corner and
rode to Center, and then I walked back to Taylor Place, and
there was the disc-bootick I favoured with my inestimable
custom, O my brothers. It had the gloopy name of MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow mesto and skorry, most
times, at getting the new recordings. I walked in and the only
other customers were two young ptitsas sucking away at icesticks (and this, mark, was dead cold winter and sort of
shuffling through the new pop-discs - Johnny Burnaway,
Stash Kroh, The Mixers, Lay Quit Awhile With Ed And Id
Molotov, and all the rest of that cal). These two ptitsas
couldn't have been more than ten, and they too, like me, it
seemed, evidently, had decided to take the morning off from
the old skolliwoll. They saw themselves, you could see, as real
grown-up devotchkas already, what with the old hip-swing
when they saw your Faithful Narrator, brothers, and padded
groodies and red all ploshed on their goobers. I went up to
the counter, making with the polite zooby smile at old Andy
behind it (always polite himself, always helpful, a real horrorshow type of a veck, though bald and very very thin). He
"Aha. I know what you want, I think. Good news, good
news. It has arrived." And with like big conductor's rookers
beating time he went to get it. The two young ptitsas started
giggling, as they will at that age, and I gave them a like cold
glazzy. Andy was back real skorry, waving the great shiny
white sleeve of the Ninth, which had on it, brothers, the
frowning beetled like thunderbolted litso of Ludwig van himself. "Here," said Andy. "Shall we give it the trial spin?"
But I
wanted it back home on my stereo to slooshy on my oddy
knocky, greedy as hell. I fumbled out the deng to pay and one
of the little ptitsas said:
"Who you getten, bratty? What biggy, what only?" These
young devotchkas had their own like way of govoreeting.
"The Heaven Seventeen? Luke Sterne? Goggly Gogol?" And
both giggled, rocking and hippy. Then an idea hit me and
made me near fall over with the anguish and ecstasy of it, O
my brothers, so I could not breathe for near ten seconds. I
recovered and made with my new-clean zoobies and said:
"What you got back home, little sisters, to play your fuzzy
warbles on?" Because I could viddy the discs they were buying
were these teeny pop veshches. "I bet you got little save tiny
portable like picnic spinners." And they sort of pushed their
lower lips out at that. "Come with uncle," I said, "and hear all
proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are
invited." And I like bowed. They giggled again and one said:
"Oh, but we're so hungry. Oh, but we could so eat." The
other said: "Yah, she can say that, can't she just." So I said:
"Eat with uncle. Name your place."
Then they viddied themselves as real sophistoes, which was
like pathetic, and started talking in big-lady golosses about
the Ritz and the Bristol and the Hilton and Il Ristorante Granturco. But I stopped that with "Follow uncle," and I led them
to the Pasta Parlour just round the corner and let them fill
their innocent young litsos on spaghetti and sausages and
cream-puffs and banana-splits and hot choc-sauce, till I near
sicked with the sight of it, I, brothers, lunching but frugally
a cold ham-slice and a growling dollop of chilli. These two
young ptitsas were much alike, though not sisters. They had
the same ideas or lack of, and the same colour hair - a like
dyed strawy. Well, they would grow up real today. Today I
would make a day of it. No school this afterlunch, but education certain, Alex as teacher. Their names, they said, were
Marty and Sonietta, bezoomny enough and in the heighth of
their childish fashion, so I said:
"Righty right, Marty and Sonietta. Time for the big spin.
Come." When we were outside on the cold street they
thought they would not go by autobus, oh no, but by taxi, so
I gave them the humour, though with a real horrorshow ingrin, and I called a taxi from the rank near Center. The driver,
a starry whiskery veck in very stained platties, said:
"No tearing up, now. No nonsense with them seats. Just reupholstered they are." I quieted his gloopy fears and off we
spun to Municipal Flatblock 18A, these two bold little ptitsas
giggling and whispering. So, to cut all short, we arrived, O my
brothers, and I led the way up to 10-8, and they panted and
smecked away the way up, and then they were thirsty, they
said, so I unlocked the treasure-chest in my room and gave
these ten-year-young devotchkas a real horrorshow Scotchman apiece, though well filled with sneezy pins-and-needles
soda. They sat on my bed (yet unmade) and leg-swung, smecking and peeting their highballs, while I spun their like pathetic
malenky discs through my stereo. Like peeting some sweet
scented kid's drink, that was, in like very beautiful and lovely
and costly gold goblets. But they went oh oh oh and said,
"Swoony" and "Hilly" and other weird slovos that were the
heighth of fashion in that youth group. While I spun this cal
for them I encouraged them to drink and have another, and
they were nothing loath, O my brothers. So by the time their
pathetic pop-discs had been twice spun each (there were two:
'Honey Nose', sung by Ike Yard, and 'Night After Day After
Night', moaned by two horrible yarbleless like eunuchs whose
names I forget) they were getting near the pitch of like young
ptitsa's hysterics, what with jumping all over my bed and me in
the room with them.
What was actually done that afternoon there is no need to
describe, brothers, as you may easily guess all. Those two
were unplattied and smecking fit to crack in no time at all, and
they thought it the bolshiest fun to viddy old Uncle Alex
standing there all nagoy and pan-handled, squirting the hypodermic like some bare doctor, then giving myself the old jab
of growling jungle-cat secretion in the rooker. Then I pulled
the lovely Ninth out of its sleeve, so that Ludwig van was now
nagoy too, and I set the needle hissing on to the last movement, which was all bliss. There it was then, the bass strings
like govoreeting away from under my bed at the rest of the
orchestra, and then the male human goloss coming in and
telling them all to be joyful, and then the lovely blissful tune
all about Joy being a glorious spark like of heaven, and then I
felt the old tigers leap in me and then I leapt on these two
young ptitsas. This time they thought nothing fun and
stopped creeching with high mirth, and had to submit to the
strange and weird desires of Alexander the Large which, what
with the Ninth and the hypo jab, were choodessny and zammechat and very demanding, O my brothers. But they were
both very very drunken and could hardly feel very much.
When the last movement had gone round for the second
time with all the banging and creeching about Joy Joy Joy
Joy, then these two young ptitsas were not acting the big lady
sophisto no more. They were like waking up to what was
being done to their malenky persons and saying that they
wanted to go home and like I was a wild beast. They looked
like they had been in some big bitva, as indeed they had, and
were all bruised and pouty. Well, if they would not go to
school they must stil have their education. And education
they had had. They were creeching and going ow ow ow as
they put their platties on, and they were like punchipunching
me with their teeny fists as I lay there dirty and nagoy and fair
shagged and fagged on the bed. This young Sonietta was creeching: "Beast and hateful animal. Filthy horror." So I let
get their things together and get out, which they did, talking
about how the rozzes should be got on to me and all that cal.
Then they were going down the stairs and I dropped off to
sleep, still with the old Joy Joy Joy Joy crashing and howling
What happened, though, was that I woke up late (near seventhirty by my watch) and, as it turned out, that was not so
clever. You can viddy that everything in this wicked world
counts. You can pony that one thing always leads to another.
Right right right. My stereo was no longer on about Joy and I
Embrace Ye O Ye Millions, so some veck had dealt it the off,
and that would be either pee or em, both of them now being
quite clear to the slooshying in the living-room and, from the
clink clink of plates and slurp slurp of peeting tea from cups,
at their tired meal after the day's rabbiting in factory the one,
store the other. The poor old. The pitiable starry. I put on
over-gown and looked out, in guise of loving only son, to
"Hi hi hi, there. A lot better after the day's rest. Ready now
for evening work to earn that little bit." For that's what they
said they believed I did these days. "Yum, yum, mum. Any of
that for me?" It was like some frozen pie that she'd unfroze
and then warmed up and it looked not so very appetitish, but
I had to say what I said. Dad looked at me with a not-sopleased suspicious like look but said nothing, knowing he
dared not, and mum gave me a tired like little smeck, to thee
fruit of my womb my only son sort of. I danced to the bathroom and had a real skorry cheest all over, feeling dirty and
gluey, then back to my den for the evening's platties. Then,
shining, combed, brushed and gorgeous, I sat to my lomtick
of pie. Papapa said:
"Not that I want to pry, son, but where exactly is it you go
to work of evenings?"
"Oh," I chewed, "it's mostly odd things, helping like. Here
and there, as it might be." I gave him a straight dirty glazzy,
to say to mind his own and I'd mind mine. "I never ask for
money, do I? Not money for clothes or for pleasures? All
right, then, why ask?"
My dad was like humble mumble chumble. "Sorry, son," he
said. "But I get worried sometimes. Sometimes I have dreams.
You can laugh if you like, but there's a lot in dreams. Last
night I had this dream with you in it and I didn't like it one
"Oh?" He had gotten me interessovatted now, dreaming of
me like that. I had like a feeling I had had a dream, too, but I
could not remember proper what. "Yes?" I said, stopping
chewing my gluey pie.
"It was vivid," said my dad. "I saw you lying on the street and
you had been beaten by other boys. These boys were like the
boys you used to go around with before you were sent to
that last Corrective School."
"Oh?" I had an in-grin at that, papapa believing I had really
reformed or believing he believed. And then I remembered my
own dream, which was a dream of that morning, of Georgie
giving his general's orders and old Dim smecking around
toothless as he wielded the whip. But dreams go by opposites
I was once told. "Never worry about thine only son and heir,
O my father," I said. "Fear not. He canst taketh care of
"And," said my dad, "you were like helpless in your blood
and you couldn't fight back." That was real opposites, so I had
another quiet malenky grin within and then I took all the deng
out of my carmans and tinkled it on the saucy table-cloth. I
"Here, dad, it's not much. It's what I earned last night. But
perhaps for the odd peet of Scotchman in the snug somewhere for you and mum."
"Thanks, son," he said. "But we don't go out much now. We
daren't go out much, the streets being what they are. Young
hooligans and so on. Still, thanks. I'll bring her home a
of something tomorrow." And he scooped this ill-gotten
pretty into his trouser carmans, mum being at the cheesting of
the dishes in the kitchen. And I went out with loving smiles all
When I got to the bottom of the stairs of the flatblock I
was somewhat surprised. I was more than that. I opened my
rot like wide in the old stony gapes. They had come to meet
me. They were waiting by the all scrawled-over municipal
wall-painting of the nagoy dignity of labour, bare vecks and
cheenas stern at the wheels of industry, like I said, with all
dirt pencilled from their rots by naughty malchicks. Dim had a
big thick stick of black greasepaint and was tracing filthy
slovos real big over our municipal painting and doing the old
Dim guff - wuh huh huh - while he did it. But he turned round
when Georgie and Pete gave me the well hello, showing their
shining droogy zoobies, and he horned out: "He are here, he
have arrived, hooray," and did a clumsy turnitoe bit of dancing.
"We got worried," said Georgie. "There we were awaiting
and peeting away at the old knify moloko, and you might
have been like offended by some veshch or other, so round
we come to your abode. That's right, Pete, right?"
"Oh, yes, right," said Pete.
"Appy polly loggies," I said careful. "I had something of a pain
in the gulliver so had to sleep. I was not wakened when I gave
orders for wakening. Still, here we all are, ready for what
the old nochy offers, yes?" I seemed to have picked up that
yes? from P. R. Deltoid, my Post-Corrective Adviser. Very
"Sorry about the pain," said Georgie, like very concerned.
"Using the gulliver too much like, maybe. Giving orders and
discipline and such, perhaps. Sure the pain is gone? Sure
not be happier going back to the bed?" And they all had a bit
of a malenky grin.
"Wait," I said. "Let's get things nice and sparkling clear.
sarcasm, if I may call it such, does not become you, O my
little friends. Perhaps you have been having a bit of a quiet
govoreet behind my back, making your own little jokes and
such-like. As I am your droog and leader, surely I am entitled
to know what goes on, eh? Now then, Dim, what does that
great big horsy gape of a grin portend?" For Dim had his rot
open in a sort of bezoomny soundless smeck. Georgie got in
very skorry with:
"All right, no more picking on Dim, brother. That's part of
the new way."
"New way?" I said. "What's this about a new way? There's
been some very large talk behind my sleeping back and no
error. Let me slooshy more." And I sort of folded my rookers
and leaned comfortable to listen against the broken banisterrail, me being still higher than them, droogs as they called
themselves, on the third stair.
"No offence, Alex," said Pete, "but we wanted to have things
more democratic like. Not like you like saying what to do and
what not all the time. But no offence."
George said: "Offence is neither here nor elsewhere. It's the
matter of who has ideas. What ideas has he had?" And he kept
his very bold glazzies turned full on me. "It's all the small
malenky veshches like last night. We're growing up, brothers."
"More," I said, not moving. "Let me slooshy more."
"Well," said Georgie, "if you must have it, have it then. We
itty round, shop-crasting and the like, coming out with a pitiful rookerful of cutter each. And there's Will the English in
the Muscleman coffee mesto saying he can fence anything that
any malchick cares to try to crast. The shiny stuff, the ice,"
said, still with these like cold glazzies on me. "The big big
money is available is what Will the English says."
"So," I said, very comfortable out but real razdraz within.
"Since when have you been consorting and comporting with
Will the English?"
"Now and again," said Georgie, "I get around all on my oddy
knocky. Like last Sabbath for instance. I can live my own
jeezny, droogy, right?"
I didn't care for any of this, my brothers. "And what will
you do," I said, "with the big big big deng or money as you so
highfaluting call it? Have you not every veshch you need? If
you need an auto you pluck it from the trees. If you need
pretty polly you take it. Yes? Why this sudden shilarny for
being the big bloated capitalist?"
"Ah," said Georgie, "you think and govoreet sometimes like
a little child." Dim went huh huh huh at that. "Tonight," said
Georgie, "we pull a mansize crast."
So my dream had told truth, then. Georgie the general
saying what we should do and what not do, Dim with the whip
as mindless grinning bulldog. But I played with care, with great
care, the greatest, saying, smiling: "Good. Real horrorshow.
Initiative comes to them as wait. I have taught you much,
little droogie. Now tell me what you have in mind, Georgieboy."
"Oh," said Georgie, cunning and crafty in his grin, "the old
moloko-plus first, would you not say? Something to sharpen
us up, boy, but you especially, we having the start on you."
"You have govoreeted my thoughts for me," I smiled away.
"I was about to suggest the dear old Korova. Good good
good. Lead, little Georgie." And I made with a like deep bow,
smiling like bezoomny but thinking all the time. But when we
got into the street I viddied that thinking is for the gloopy
ones and that the oomny ones use like inspiration and what
Bog sends. For now it was lovely music that came to my aid.
There was an auto ittying by and it had its radio on, and I
could just slooshy a bar or so of Ludwig van (it was the Violin
Concerto, last movement), and I viddied right at once what to
do. I said, in like a thick deep goloss: "Right, Georgie, now,"
and I whisked out my cut-throat britva. Georgie said: "Uh?"
but he was skorry enough with his nozh, the blade coming
sloosh out of the handle, and we were on to each other. Old
Dim said: "Oh no, not right that isn't, and made to uncoil the
chain round his tally, but Pete said, putting his rooker firm on
old Dim: "Leave them. It's right like that." So then Georgie
Your Humble did the old quiet cat-stalk, looking for openings,
knowing each other's style a bit too horrorshow really. Georgie
now and then going lurch lurch with his shining nozh but not
no wise connecting. And all the time lewdies passed by and
viddied all this but minded their own, it being perhaps a
common street-sight. But then I counted odin dva tree and
went ak ak ak with the britva, though not at litso or glazzies
but at Georgie's nozh-holding rooker and, my little brothers,
he dropped. He did. He dropped his nozh with a tinkle tankle
on the hard winter sidewalk. I had just ticklewickled his
with my britva, and there he was looking at the malenky
dribble of krovvy that was redding out in the lamplight. "Now,"
I said, and it was me that was starting, because Pete had given
old Dim the soviet not to uncoil the oozy from round his
tally and Dim had taken it, "now, Dim, let's thou and me have
all this now, shall us?" Dim went, "Aaaaaaarhgh," like some
bolshy bezoomny animal, and snaked out the chain from his
waist real horrorshow and skorry, so you had to admire. Now
the right style for me here was to keep low like in frog-dancing
to protect litso and glazzies, and this I did, brothers, so that
poor old Dim was a malenky bit surprised, him being accustomed to the straight face-on lash lash lash. Now I will say
that he whished me horrible on the back so that it stung like
bezoomny, but that pain told me to dig in skorry once and for
all and be done with old Dim. So I swished with the britva at
his left noga in its very tight tight and I slashed two inches of
cloth and drew a malenky drop of krovvy to make Dim real
bezoomny. Then while he went hauwwww hauwww hauwww
like a doggie I tried the same style as for Georgie, banking all
on one move - up, cross, cut - and I felt the britva go just deep
enough in the meat of old Dim's wrist and he dropped his
snaking oozy yelping like a little child. Then he tried to drink
in all the blood from his wrist and howl at the same time, and
there was too much krovvy to drink and he went bubble
bubble bubble, the red like fountaining out lovely, but not for
very long. I said:
"Right, my droogies, now we should know. Yes, Pete?"
"I never said anything," said Pete. "I never govoreeted one
slovo. Look, old Dim's bleeding to death."
"Never," I said. "One can die but once. Dim died before he
was born. That red red krovvy will soon stop." Because I had
not cut into the like main cables. And I myself took a clean
tashtook from my carman to wrap round poor old dying
Dim's rooker, howling and moaning as he was, and the
krovvy stopped like I said it would, O my brothers. So they
knew now who was master and leader, sheep, thought I.
It did not take long to quieten these two wounded soldiers
down in the snug of the Duke of New York, what with large
brandies (bought with their own cutter, me having given all to
my dad, and a wipe with tashtooks dipped in the water-jug.
The old ptitsas we'd been so horrorshow to last night were
there again, going, "Thanks, lads" and "God bless you, boys"
like they couldn't stop, though we had not repeated the old
sammy act with them. But Pete said: "What's it to be, girls?"
and bought black and suds for them, him seeming to have a
fair amount of pretty polly in his carmans, so they were on
louder than ever with their "God bless and keep you all,lads"
and "We'd never split on you, boys" and "The best lads breathing, that's what you are." At last I said to Georgie:
"Now we're back to where we were, yes? Just like before
and all forgotten, right?"
"Right right right," said Georgie. But old Dim still looked a
bit dazed and he even said: "I could have got that big bastard,
see, with my oozy, only some veck got in the way," as though
he'd been dratsing not with me but with some other malchick.
I said:
"Well, Georgieboy, what did you have in mind?"
"Oh," said Georgie, "not tonight. Not this nochy, please."
"You're a big strong chelloveck," I said, "like us all. We're
not little children, are we, Georgieboy? What, then, didst
thou in thy mind have?"
"I could have chained his glazzies real horrorshow," said
Dim, and the old baboochkas were stil on with their "Thanks,
"It was this house, see," said Georgie. "The one with the two
lamps outside. The one with the gloopy name like."
"What gloopy name?"
"The Mansion or the Manse or some such piece of gloop.
Where this very starry ptitsa lives with her cats and all these
very starry valuable veshches."
"Such as?"
"Gold and silver and like jewels. It was Will the English who
like said."
"I viddy," I said. "I viddy horrorshow." I knew where he
meant - Oldtown, just beyond Victoria Flatblock. Well, the
real horrorshow leader knows always when like to give and
show generous to his like unders. "Very good, Georgie," I said.
"A good thought, and one to be followed. Let us at once itty."
And as we were going out the old baboochkas said: "We'll say
nothing, lads. Been here all the time you have, boys." So I
said: "Good old girls. Back to buy more in ten minutes." And
so I led my three droogs out to my doom.
Just past the Duke of New York going east was offices and
then there was the starry beat-up biblio and then was the
bolshy flatblock called Victoria Flatblock after some victory
or other, and then you came to the like starry type houses of
the town in what was called Oldtown. You got some of the
real horrorshow ancient domies here, my brothers, with
starry lewdies living in them, thin old barking like colonels
with sticks and old ptitsas who were widows and deaf starry
damas with cats who, my brothers, had felt not the touch of
any chelloveck in the whole of their pure like jeeznies. And
here, true, there were starry veshches that would fetch their
share of cutter on the tourist market - like pictures and jewels
and other starry pre-plastic cal of that type. So we came nice
and quiet to this domy called the Manse, and there were globe
lights outside on iron stalks, like guarding the front door on
each side, and there was a light like dim on in one of the
rooms on the ground level, and we went to a nice patch of
street dark to watch through the window what was ittying on.
This window had iron bars in front of it, like the house was a
prison, but we could viddy nice and clear what was ittying on.
What was ittying on was that this starry ptitsa, very grey in
the voloss and with a very liny like litso, was pouring the old
moloko from a milk-bottle into saucers and then setting
these saucers down on the floor, so you could tell there were
plenty of mewing kots and koshkas writhing about down
there. And we could viddy one or two, great fat scoteenas,
jumping up on to the table with their rots open going mare
mare mare. And you could viddy this old baboochka talking
back to them, govoreeting in like scoldy language to her
pussies. In the room you could viddy a lot of old pictures on
the walls and starry very elaborate clocks, also some like
vases and ornaments that looked starry and dorogoy. Georgie
whispered: "Real horrorshow deng to be gotten for them,
brothers. Will the English is real anxious." Pete said: "How
Now it was up to me, and skorry, before Georgie started
telling us how. "First veshch," I whispered, "is to try the
way, the front. I will go very polite and say that one of my
droogs has had a like funny fainting turn on the street. Georgie
can be ready to show, when she opens, thatwise. Then to
ask for water or to phone the doc. Then in easy." Georgie
"She may not open." I said:
"We'll try it, yes?" And he sort of shrugged his pletchoes,
making with a frog's rot. So I said to Pete and old Dim: "You
two droogies get either side of the door. Right?" They
nodded in the dark right right right. "So," I said to Georgie,
and I made bold straight for the front door. There was a
bellpush and I pushed, and brrrrrrr brrrrr sounded down the
hall inside. Alike sense of slooshying followed, as though the
ptitsa and her koshkas all had their ears back at the brrrrrr
brrrrrr, wondering. So I pushed the old zvonock a malenky bit
more urgent. I then bent down to the letter-slit and called
through in a refined like goloss: "Help, madam, please. My
friend has just had a funny turn on the street. Let me phone a
doctor, please." Then I could viddy a light being put on in the
hall, and then I could hear the old baboochka's nogas
going flip flap in flip-flap slippers to nearer the front door,
and I got the idea, I don't know why, that she had a big fat
pussycat under each arm. Then she called out in a very surprising deep like goloss:
"Go away. Go away or I shoot." Georgie heard that and
wanted to giggle. I said, with like suffering and urgency in my
gentleman's goloss:
"Oh, please help, madam. My friend's very ill."
"Go away," she called. "I know your dirty tricks, making me
open the door and then buy things I don't want. Go away. I
tell you." That was real lovely innocence, that was. "Go away,"
she said again, "or I'll set my cats on to you." A malenky bit
bezoomny she was, you could tell that, through spending her
jeezny all on her oddy knocky. Then I looked up and I viddied
that there was a sash-window above the front door and that
it would be a lot more skorry to just do the old pletcho climb
and get in that way. Else there'd be this argument all the long
nochy. So I said:
"Very well, madam. If you won't help I must take my
suffering friend elsewhere." And I winked my droogies all away
quiet, only me crying out: "All right, old friend, you will
meet some good samaritan some place other. This old lady
perhaps cannot be blamed for being suspicious with so many
scoundrels and rogues of the night about. No, indeed not."
Then we waited again in the dark and I whispered: "Right.
Return to the door. Me stand on Dim's pletchoes. Open that
window and me enter, droogies. Then to shut up that old
ptitsa and open up for all. No trouble." For I was like showing
who was leader and the chelloveck with the ideas. "See," I said.
"Real horrorshow bit of stonework over that door, a nice
hold for my nogas." They viddied all that, admiring perhaps I
thought, and said and nodded Right right right in the dark.
So back tiptoe to the door. Dim was our heavy strong
malchick and Pete and Georgie like heaved me up on to Dim's
bolshy manly pletchoes. All this time, O thanks to worldcasts
on the gloopy TV and, more, lewdies' night-fear through lack
of night-police, dead lay the street. Up there on Dim's pletchoes I viddied that this stonework above the door would
take my boots lovely. I kneed up, brothers, and there I was.
The window, as I had expected, was closed, but I outed with
my britva and cracked the glass of the window smart with the
bony handle thereof. All the time below my droogies were
hard breathing. So I put in my rooker through the crack and
made the lower half of the window sail up open silversmooth and lovely. And I was, like getting into the bath, in.
And there were my sheep down below, their rots open as they
looked up, O brothers.
I was in bumpy darkness, with beds and cupboards and
bolshy heavy stoolies and piles of boxes and books about.
But I strode manful towards the door of the room I was in,
seeing a like crack of light under it. The door went
squeeeeeeeeeeak and then I was on a dusty corridor with
other doors. All this waste, brothers, meaning all these
rooms and but one starry sharp and her pussies, but perhaps
the kots and koshkas had like separate bedrooms, living on
cream and fish-heads like royal queens and princes. I could
hear the like muffled goloss of this old ptitsa down below
saying: "Yes yes yes, that's it," but she would be govoreeting to
these mewing sidlers going maaaaaaa for more moloko.
Then I saw the stairs going down to the hall and I thought to
myself that I would show these fickle and worthless droogs of
mine that I was worth the whole three of them and more. I
would do all on my oddy knocky. I would perform the old
ultra-violence on the starry ptitsa and on her pusspots if need
be, then I would take fair rookerfuls of what looked like real
polezny stuff and go waltzing to the front door and open up
showering gold and silver on my waiting droogs. They must
learn all about leadership.
So down I ittied, slow and gentle, admiring in the stairwell
grahzny pictures of old time - devotchkas with long hair and
high collars, the like country with trees and horses, the holy
bearded veck all nagoy hanging on a cross. There was a real
musty von of pussies and pussy-fish and starry dust in this
domy, different from the flatblocks. And then I was downstairs and I could viddy the light in this front room where she
had been doling moloko to the kots and koshkas. More, I
could viddy these great overstuffed scoteenas going in and
out with their tails waving and like rubbing themselves on the
door-bottom. On a like big wooden chest in the dark hall I
could viddy a nice malenky statue that shone in the light of
the room, so I crasted this for my own self, it being like a
young thin devotchka standing on one noga with her rookers
out, and I could see this was made of silver. So I had this
when I ittied into the lit-up room, saying: "Hi hi hi. At last
meet. Our brief govoreet through the letter-hole was not,
shall we say, satisfactory, yes? Let us admit not, oh verily
you stinking starry old sharp." And I like blinked in the light
this room and the old ptitsa in it. It was full of kots and
koshkas all crawling to and fro over the carpet, with bits of
fur floating in the lower air, and these fat scoteenas were all
different shapes and colours, black, white, tabby, ginger, tortoise-shell, and of all ages, too, so that there were kittens
fillying about with each other and there were pussies fullgrown and there were real dribbling starry ones very badtempered. Their mistress, this old ptitsa, looked at me fierce
like a man and said:
"How did you get in? Keep your distance, you villainous
young toad, or I shall be forced to strike you."
I had a real horrorshow smeck at that, viddying that she
had in her veiny rooker a crappy wood walking-stick which
she raised at me threatening. So, making with my shiny
zoobies, I ittied a bit nearer to her, taking my time, and on the
way I saw on a like sideboard a lovely little veshch, the loveliest malenky veshch any malchick fond of music like myself
could ever hope to viddy with his own two glazzies, for it was
like the gulliver and pletchoes of Ludwig van himself, what
they call a bust, a like stone veshch with stone long hair and
blind glazzies and the big flowing cravat. I was off for that
right away, saying: "Well, how lovely and all for me." But
ittying towards it with my glazzies like full on it and my
greedy rooker held out, I did not see the milk saucers on the
floor and into one I went and sort of lost balance. "Whoops,"
I said, trying to steady, but this old ptitsa had come up behind
me very sly and with great skorriness for her age and then she
went crack crack on my gulliver with her bit of a stick. So I
found myself on my rookers and knees trying to get up and
saying: "Naughty, naughty naughty." And then she was going
crack crack crack again, saying: "Wretched little slummy
bedbug, breaking into real people's houses." I didn't like this
crack crack eegra, so I grasped hold of one end of her stick as
it came down again and then she lost her balance and was
trying to steady herself against the table, but then the tablecloth came off with a milk-jug and a milk-bottle going all
drunk then scattering white splosh in all directions, then she
was down on the floor, grunting, going: "Blast you, boy, you
shall suffer." Now all the cats were getting spoogy and running
and jumping in a like cat-panic, and some were blaming each
other, hitting out cat-tolchocks with the old lapa and ptaaaaa
and grrrrr and kraaaaark. I got up on to my nogas, and there
was this nasty vindictive starry forella with her wattles ashake
and grunting as she like tried to lever herself up from the
floor, so I gave her a malenky fair kick in the litso, and she
didn't like that, crying: "Waaaaah," and you could viddy her
veiny mottled litso going purplewurple where I'd landed the
old noga.
As I stepped back from the kick I must have like trod on the
tail of one of these dratsing creeching pusspots, because I
slooshied a gromky yauuuuuuuuw and found that like fur and
teeth and claws had like fastened themselves around my leg,
and there I was cursing away and trying to shake it off holding
this silver malenky statue in one rooker and trying to climb
over this old ptitsa on the floor to reach lovely Ludwig van in
frowning like stone. And then I was into another saucer brimful of creamy moloko and near went flying again, the whole
veshch really a very humorous one if you could imagine it
sloochatting to some other veck and not to Your Humble
Narrator. And then the starry ptitsa on the floor reached over
all the dratsing yowling pusscats and grabbed at my noga, still
going "Waaaaah" at me, and, my balance being a bit gone, I
went really crash this time, on to sploshing moloko and
skriking koshkas, and the old forella started to fist me on the
litso, both of us being on the floor, creeching: "Thrash him,
beat him, pull out his finger-nails, the poisonous young
beetle," addressing her pusscats only, and then, as if like obeying the starry old ptitsa, a couple of koshkas got on to me
and started scratching like bezoomny. So then I got real bezoomny myself, brothers, and hit out at them, but this baboochka said: "Toad, don't touch my kitties," and like
scratched my litso. So then I screeched: "You filthy old
soomka", and upped with the little malenky like silver statue
and cracked her a fine fair tolchock on the gulliver and that
shut her up real horrorshow and lovely.
Now as I got up from the floor among all the crarking kots
and koshkas what should I slooshy but the shoom of the old
police-auto siren in the distance, and it dawned on me skorry
that the old forella of the pusscats had been on the phone to
the millicents when I thought she'd been govoreeting to the
mewlers and mowlers, her having got her suspicions skorry
on the boil when I'd rung the old zvonock pretending for
help. So now, slooshying this fearful shoom of the rozzvan, I belted for the front door and had a rabbiting time undoing all the locks and chains and bolts and other protective
veshches. Then I got it open, and who should be on the doorstep but old Dim, me just being able to viddy the other two of
my so-called droogs belting off. "Away," I creeched to Dim.
"The rozzes are coming." Dim said: "You stay to meet them
huh huh huh," and then I viddied that he had his oozy out, and
then he upped with it and it snaked whishhh and he chained
me gentle and artistic like on the glazlids, me just closing
them up in time. Then I was howling around trying to viddy
with this howling great pain, and Dim said: "I don't like you
should do what you done, old droogy. Not right it wasn't to
get on to me like the way you done, brat." And then I could
slooshy his bolshy lumpy boots beating off, him going huh
huh huh into the darkmans, and it was only about seven
seconds after that I slooshied the millicent-van draw up with a
filthy great dropping siren-howl, like some bezoomny animal
snuffing it. I was howling too and like yawing about and I
banged my gulliver smack on the hall-wall, my glazzies being
tight shut and the juice astream from them, very agonizing. So
there I was like groping in the hallway as the millicents arrived. I couldn't viddy them, of course, but I could slooshy
and damn near smell the von of the bastards, and soon I could
feel the bastards as they got rough and did the old twist-arm
act, carrying me out. I could also slooshy one millicent goloss
saying from like the room I'd come out of with all the kots
and koshkas in it: "She's been nastily knocked but she's
breathing," and there was loud mewing all the time.
"A real pleasure this is," I heard another millicent goloss say
as I was tolchocked very rough and skorry into the auto.
"Little Alex all to our own selves." I creeched out:
"I'm blind, Bog bust and bleed you, you grahzny bastards."
"Language, language," like smecked a goloss, and then I got
a like backhand tolchock with some ringy rooker or other
full on the rot. I said:
"Bog murder you, you vonny stinking bratchnies. Where are
the others? Where are my stinking traitorous droogs? One of
my cursed grahzny bratties chained me on the glazzies. Get
them before they get away. It was all their idea, brothers.
They like forced me to do it. I'm innocent, Bog butcher you."
By this time they were all having like a good smeck at me with
the heighth of like callousness, and they'd tolchocked me into
the back of the auto, but I still kept on about these so-called
droogs of mine and then I viddied it would be no good, because they'd all be back now in the snug of the Duke of New
York forcing black and suds and double Scotchmen down the
unprotesting gorloes of those stinking starry ptitsas and
they saying: "Thanks, lads. God bless you, boys. Been here
all the time you have, lads. Not been out of our sight you
All the time we were sirening off to the rozz-shop, me being
wedged between two millicents and being given the odd
thump and malenky tolchock by these smecking bullies. Then I
found I could open up my glazlids a malenky bit and viddy
like through all tears a kind of steamy city going by, all the
lights like having run into one another. I could viddy now
through smarting glazzies these two smecking millicents at the
back with me and the thin-necked driver and the fat-necked
bastard next to him, this one having a sarky like govoreet at
me, saying: "Well, Alex boy, we all look forward to a pleasant
evening together, don't we not?" I said:
"How do you know my name, you stinking vonny bully?
May Bog blast you to hell, grahzny bratchny as you are, you
sod." So they all had a smeck at that and I had my ooko like
twisted by one of these stinking millicents at the back with
me. The fat-necked not-driver said:
"Everybody knows little Alex and his droogs. Quite a
famous young boy our Alex has become."
"It's those others," I creeched. "Georgie and Dim and Pete.
No droogs of mine, the bastards."
"Well," said the fat-neck, "you've got the evening in front of
you to tell the whole story of the daring exploits of those
young gentlemen and how they led poor little innocent Alex
astray." Then there was the shoom of another like police siren
passing this auto but going the other way.
"Is that for those bastards?" I said. "Are they being picked up
by you bastards?"
"That," said fat-neck, "is an ambulance. Doubtless for your
old lady victim, you ghastly wretched scoundrel."
"It was all their fault," I creeched, blinking my smarting glazzies. "The bastards will be peeting away in the Duke of New
York. Pick them up blast you, you vonny sods." And then
there was more smecking and another malenky tolchock, O
my brothers, on my poor smarting rot. And then we arrived at
the stinking rozz-shop and they helped me get out of the auto
with kicks and pulls and they tolchocked me up the steps and I
knew I was going to get nothing like fair play from these
stinky grahzny bratchnies, Bog blast them.
They dragged me into this very bright-lit whitewashed cantora, and it had a strong von that was a mixture of like sick
and lavatories and beery rots and disinfectant, all coming
from the barry places near by. You could hear some of the
plennies in their cells cursing and singing and I fancied I could
slooshy one belting out:
'And I will go back to my darling, my darling,
When you, my darling, are gone.'
But there were the golosses of millicents telling them to shut
it and you could even slooshy the zvook of like somebody
being tolchocked real horrorshow and going
owwwwwwwww, and it was like the goloss of a drunken
starry ptitsa, not a man. With me in this cantora were four
millicents, all having a good loud peet of chai, a big pot of it
being on the table and they sucking and belching away over
their dirty bolshy mugs. They didn't offer me any. All that
gave me, my brothers, was a crappy starry mirror to look
into, and indeed I was not your handsome young Narrator
any longer but a real strack of a sight, my rot swollen and my
glazzies all red and my nose bumped a bit also. They all had a
real horrorshow smeck when they viddied my like dismay, and
one of them said: "Love's young nightmare like." And then a
top millicent came in with like stars on his pletchoes to show
he was high high high, and he viddied me and said: "Hm." So
then they started. I said:
"I won't say one single solitary slovo unless I have my
lawyer here. I know the law, you bastards." Of course they all
had a good gromky smeck at that and then the stellar top
"Righty right, boys, we'll start off by showing him that we
know the law, too, but that knowing the law isn't everything."
He had a like gentleman's goloss and spoke in a very weary
sort of a way, and he nodded with a like droogy smile at one
very big fat bastard. This big fat bastard took off his tunic
you could viddy he had a real big starry pot on him, then he
came up to me not too skorry and I could get the von of the
milky chai he'd been peeting when he opened his rot in a like
very tired leery grin at me. He was not too well shaved for a
rozz and you could viddy like patches of dried sweat on his
shirt under the arms, and you could get this von of like
earwax from him as he came close. Then he clenched his stinking red rooker and let me have it right in the belly, which was
unfair, and all the other millicents smecked their gullivers off
at that, except the top one and he kept on with this weary like
bored grin. I had to lean against the white-washed wall so
that all the white got on to my platties, trying to drag the old
breath back and in great agony, and then I wanted to sick up
the gluey pie I'd had before the start of the evening. But I
couldn't stand that sort of veshch, sicking all over the floor,
so I held it back. Then I saw that this fatty bruiseboy was
turning to his millicent droogs to have a real horrorshow
smeck at what he'd done, so I raised my right noga and before
they could creech at him to watch out I'd kicked him smart
and lovely on the shin. And he creeched murder, hopping
But after that they all had a turn, bouncing me from one to
the other like some very weary bloody ball, O my brothers,
and fisting me in the yarbles and the rot and the belly and
dealing out kicks, and then at last I had to sick up on the floor
and, like some real bezoomny veck, I evan said: "Sorry,
brothers, that was not the right thing at all. Sorry sorry
sorry." But they handed me starry bits of gazetta and made me
wipe it, and then they made me make with the sawdust. And then
they said, almost like dear old droogs, that I was to sit down
and we'd all have a quiet like govoreet. And then P. R. Deltoid
came in to have a viddy, his office being in the same building,
looking very tired and grahzny, to say: "So it's happened, Alex
boy, yes? Just as I thought it would. Dear dear dear, yes."
Then he turned to the millicents to say: "Evening, inspector.
Evening, sergeant. Evening, evening, all. Well, this is the end
the line for me, yes. Dear dear, this boy does look messy,
doesn't he? Just look at the state of him."
"Violence makes violence," said the top millicent in a very
holy type goloss. "He resisted his lawful arresters."
"End of the line, yes," said P. R. Deltoid again. He looked at
me with very cold glazzies like I had become a thing and was
no more a bleeding very tired battered chelloveck. "I suppose
I'll have to be in court tomorrow."
"It wasn't me, brother, sir," I said, a malenky bit weepy.
"Speak up for me, sir, for I'm not so bad. I was led on by the
treachery of the others,sir."
"Sings like a linnet," said the top rozz, sneery. "Sings the
roof off lovely, he does that."
"I'll speak," said cold P. R. Deltoid. "I'll be there tomorrow,
don't worry."
"If you'd like to give him a bash in the chops, sir," said the
top millicent, "don't mind us. We'll hold him down. He must
be another great disappointment to you."
P. R. Deltoid then did something I never thought any man
like him who was supposed to turn us baddiwads into real
horrorshow malchicks would do, especially with all those
rozzes around. He came a bit nearer and he spat. He spat. He
spat full in my litso and then wiped his wet spitty rot with the
back of his rooker. And I wiped and wiped and wiped my spaton litso with my bloody tashtook, saying "Thank you, sir,
thank you very much, sir, that was very kind of you, sir, thank
you." And then P. R. Deltoid walked out without another
The millicents now got down to making this long statement for me to sign, and I thought to myself, Hell and blast
you all, if all you bastards are on the side of the Good then
I'm glad I belong to the other shop. "All right," I said to
"you grahzny bratchnies as you are, you vonny sods. Take it,
take the lot. I'm not going to crawl around on my brooko
any more, you merzky gets. Where do you want it taking
from, you cally vonning animals? From my last corrective?
Horrorshow, horrorshow, here it is, then." So I gave it to
them, and I had this shorthand milicent, a very quiet and
scared type chelloveck, no real rozz at all, covering page after
page after page after. I gave them the ultra-violence, the
crasting, the dratsing, the old in-out-in-out, the lot, right up to
this night's veshch with the bugatty starry ptitsa with the
mewing kots and koshkas. And I made sure my so-called
droogs were in it, right up to the shiyah. When I'd got
through the lot the shorthand millicent looked a bit faint,
poor old veck. The top rozz said to him, in a kind type goloss:
"Right, son, you go off and get a nice cup of chai for yourself and then type all that filth and rottenness out with a
clothes-peg on your nose, three copies. Then they can be
brought to our handsome young friend here for signature.
And you," he said to me, "can now be shown to your bridal
suite with running water and all conveniences. All right," in
this weary goloss to two of the real tough rozzes, "take him
So I was kicked and punched and bullied off to the cells and
put in with about ten or twelve other plennies, a lot of them
drunk. There were real oozhassny animal type vecks among
them, one with his nose all ate away and his rot open like a
big black hole, one that was lying on the floor snoring away
and all like slime dribbling all the time out of his rot, and one
that had like done all cal in his pantalonies. Then there were
two like queer ones who both took a fancy to me, and one of
them made a jump onto my back, and I had a real nasty bit of
dratsing with him and the von on him, like of meth and cheap
scent, made me want to sick again, only my belly was empty
now, O my brothers. Then the other queer one started putting
his rookers on to me, and then there was a snarling bit of
dratsing between these two, both of them wanting to get at
my plott. The shoom became very loud, so that a couple of
millicents came along and cracked into these two with like
truncheons, so that both sat quiet then, looking like into
space, and there was the old krovvy going drip drip drip down
the litso of one of them. There were bunks in this cell, but all
filled. I climbed up to the top one of one tier of bunks, there
being four in a tier, and there was a starry drunken veck snoring away, most probably heaved up there to the top by the
millicents. Anyway, I heaved him down again, him not being
all that heavy, and he collapsed on top of a fat drunk chelloveck on the floor, and both woke and started creeching and
punching pathetic at each other. So I lay down on this vonny
bed, my brothers, and went to very tired and exhausted and
hurt sleep. But it was not really like sleep, it was like
out to another better world. And in this other better world, O
my brothers, I was in like a big field with all flowers and
and there was a like goat with a man's litso playing away on a
like flute. And there rose like the sun Ludwig van himself
with thundery litso and cravat and wild windy voloss, and
then I heard the Ninth, last movement, with the slovos all a
bit mixed-up like they knew themselves they had to be mixedup, this being a dream:
Boy, thou uproarious shark of heaven,
Slaughter of Elysium,
Hearts on fire, aroused, enraptured,
We will tolchock you on the rot and kick
your grahzny vonny bum.
But the tune was right, as I knew when I was being woke up
two or ten minutes or twenty hours or days or years later, my
watch having been taken away. There was a millicent like miles
and miles down below and he was prodding at me with a long
stick with a spike on the end, saying:
"Wake up, son. Wake up, my beauty. Wake to real trouble."
I said:
"Why? Who? Where? What is it?" And the tune of the Joy
ode in the Ninth was singing away real lovely and horrorshow
within, The millicent said:
"Come down and find out. There's some real lovely news
for you, my son." So I scrambled down, very stiff and sore and
not like real awake, and this rozz, who had a strong von of
cheese and onions on him, pushed me out of the filthy snoring cell, and then along corridors, and all the time the old
tune Joy Thou Glorious Spark Of Heaven was sparking away
within. Then we came to a very neat like cantora with typewriters and flowers on the desks, and at the like chief desk the
top millicent was sitting, looking very serious and fixing a like
very cold glazzy on my sleepy litso. I said:
"Well well well. What makes, bratty. What gives, this fine
bright middle of the nochy?" He said:
"I'll give you just ten seconds to wipe that stupid grin off of
your face. Then I want you to listen."
"Well, what?" I said, smecking. "Are you not satisfied with
beating me near to death and having me spat upon and making
me confess to crimes for hours on end and then shoving me
among bezoomnies and vonny perverts in that grahzny cell?
Have you some new torture for me, you bratchny?"
"It'll be your own torture," he said, serious. "I hope to God
it'll torture you to madness."
And then, before he told me, I knew what it was. The old
ptitsa who had all the kots and koshkas had passed on to a
better world in one of the city hospitals. I'd cracked her a bit
too hard, like. Well, well, that was everything. I thought of
those kots and koshkas mewling for moloko and getting
none, not any more from their starry forella of a mistress.
That was everything. I'd done the lot, now. and me still only

Part Two
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
I take it up now, and this is the real weepy and like tragic
part of the story beginning, my brothers and only friends, in
Staja (State Jail, that is) Number 84F. You will have little
desire to slooshy all the cally and horrible raskazz of the
shock that sent my dad beating his bruised and krovvy rockers
against unfair like Bog in his Heaven, and my mum squaring
her rot for owwwww owwwww owwwww in her mother's grief
at her only child and son of her bosom like letting everybody down real horrorshow. Then there was the starry very
grim magistrate in the lower court govoreeting some very
hard slovos against your Friend and Humble Narrator, after
all the cally and grahzny slander spat forth by P. R. Deltoid
and the rozzes, Bog blast them. Then there was being remanded in filthy custody among vonny perverts and prestoopnicks. Then there was the trial in the higher court with
judges and a jury, and some very very nasty slovos indeed
govoreeted in a very like solemn way, and then Guilty and my
mum boohoohooing when they said Fourteen Years, O my
brothers. So here I was now, two years just to the day of
being kicked and clanged into Staja 84F, dressed in the heighth
of prison fashion, which was a one-piece suit of a very filthy
like cal colour, and the number sewn on the groody part just
above the old tick-tocker and on the back as well, so that
going and coming I was 6655321 and not your little droog
Alex not no longer.
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
It had not been like edifying, indeed it had not, being in this
grahzny hellhole and like human zoo for two years, being
kicked and tolchocked by brutal bully warders and meeting
vonny leering like criminals, some of them real perverts and
ready to dribble all over a luscious young malchick like your
story-teller. And there was having to rabbit in the workshop
at making matchboxes and itty round and round and round
the yard for like exercise, and in the evenings sometimes some
starry prof type veck would give a talk on beetles or the Milky
Way or the Glorious Wonders of the Snowflake, and I had a
good smeck at this last one, because it reminded me of that
time of the tolchocking and Sheer Vandalism with that ded
coming from the public biblio on a winter's night when my
droogs were stil not traitors and I was like happy and free. Of
those droogs I had slooshied but one thing, and that was one
day when my pee and em came to visit and I was told that
Georgie was dead. Yes, dead, my brothers. Dead as a bit of
dog-cal on the road. Georgie had led the other two into a like
very rich chelloveck's house, and there they had kicked and
tolchocked the owner on the floor, and then Georgie had
started to razrez the cushions and curtains, and then old Dim
had cracked at some very precious ornaments, like statues
and so on, and this rich beat-up chelloveck had raged like real
bezoomny and gone for them all with a very heavy iron bar.
His being all razdraz had given him some gigantic strength,
and Dim and Pete had got out through the window, but Georgie
had tripped on the carpet and then brought this terrible
swinging iron bar crack and splodge on the gulliver, and that
was the end of traitorous Georgie. The starry murderer had
got off with Self Defence, as was really right and proper.
Georgie being killed, though it was more than one year after me
being caught by the millicents, it all seemed right and proper
and like Fate.
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
I was in the Wing Chapel, it being Sunday morning, and the
prison charlie was govoreeting the Word of the Lord. It was
my rabbit to play the starry stereo, putting on solemn music
before and after and in the middle too when hymns were sung.
I was at the back of the Wing Chapel (there were four along
here in Staja 84F) near where the warders or chassos were
standing with their rifles and their dirty bolshy blue brutal
jowls, and I could viddy all the plennies sitting down slooshying the Slovo of the Lord in their horrible cal-coloured
prison platties, and a sort of filthy von rose from them, not
like real unwashed, not grazzy, but like a special real stinking
von which you only got with the criminal types, my brothers,
a like dusty, greasy, hopeless sort of a von. And I was thinking
that perhaps I had this von too, having become a real plenny
myself, though still very young. So it was important to
me, O my brothers, to get out of this stinking grahzny zoo as
soon as I could. And, as you will viddy if you keep reading on,
it was not long before I did.
"What's it going to be then, eh?" said the prison charlie for
the third raz. "Is it going to be in and out and in and out of
institutions, like this, though more in than out for most of
you, or are you going to attend to the Divine Word and
realize the punishments that await the unrepentant sinner in
the next world, as well as in this? A lot of blasted idiots you
are, most of you, selling your birthright for a saucer of cold
porridge. The thrill of theft, or violence, the urge to live easy -
it worth it when we have undeniable proof, yes yes, incontrovertible evidence that hell exists? I know, I know, my
friends, I have been informed in visions that there is a place,
darker than any prison, hotter than any flame of human fire,
where souls of unrepentant criminal sinners like yourselves -
and don't leer at me, damn you, don't laugh - like yourselves,
I say, scream in endless and intolerable agony, their noses
choked with the smell of filth, their mouths crammed with
burning ordure, their skin peeling and rotting, a fireball spinning in their screaming guts. Yes, yes, yes, I know"
At this point, brothers, a plenny somewhere or other near
the back row let out a shoom of lip-music - 'Prrrrrp' - and
then the brutal chassos were on the job right away, rushing
real skorry to what they thought was the scene of the
schoom, then hitting out nasty and delivering tolchocks, left
and right. Then they picked out one poor trembling plenny,
very thin and malenky and starry too, and dragged him off,
but all the time he kept creeching: "It wasn't me, it was him,
see," but that made no difference. He was tolchocked real
nasty and then dragged out of the Wing Chapel creeching his
gulliver off.
"Now," said the prison charlie, "listen to the Word of the
Lord." Then he picked up the big book and flipped over the
pages, keeping on wetting his fingers to do this by licking
them splurge splurge. He was a bolshy great burly bastard
with a very red litso, but he was very fond of myself, me being
young and also now very interested in the big book. It had
been arranged as part of my like further education to read in
the book and even have music on the chapel stereo while I
was reading, O my brothers. And that was real horrorshow.
They would like lock me in and let me slooshy holy music by
J. S. Bach and G. F. Handel, and I would read of these starry
yahoodies tolchocking each other and then peeting their
Hebrew vino and getting on to the bed with their wives' like
hand-maidens, real horrorshow. That kept me going,
brothers. I didn't so much kopat the later part of the book,
which is more like all preachy govoreeting than fighting and
the old in-out. But one day the charles said to me, squeezing
me like tight with his bolshy beefy rooker: "Ah, 6655321,
think on the divine suffering. Meditate on that, my boy." And
all the time he had this rich manny von of Scotch on him, and
then he went off to his little cantora to peet some more. So I
read all about the scourging and the crowning with thorns
and then the cross veshch and all that cal, and I viddied better
that there was something in it. While the stereo played bits of
lovely Bach I closed my glazzies and viddied myself helping in
and even taking charge of the tolchocking and the nailing in,
being dressed in a like toga that was the heighth of Roman
fashion. So being in Staja 84F was not all that wasted, and the
Governor himself was very pleased to hear that I had taken to
like Religion, and that was where I had my hopes.
This Sunday morning the charlie read out from the book
about chellovecks who slooshied the slovo and didn't take a
blind bit being like a domy built upon sand, and then the rain
came splash and the old boomaboom cracked the sky and
that was the end of that domy. But I thought that only a very
dim veck would have built his domy upon sand, and a right lot of
real sneering droogs and nasty neighbours a veck like that
would have, them not telling him how dim he was doing that
sort of building. Then the charles creeched: "Right, you lot.
We'll end with Hymn Number 435 in the Prisoners' Hymnal."
Then there was a crash and plop and a whish whish while the
plennies picked up and dropped and lickturned the pages of
their grazzy malenky hymnbooks, and the bully fierce warders
creeched: "Stop talking there, bastards. I'm watching you,
920537." Of course I had the disc ready on the stereo, and
then I let the simple music for organ only come belting out
with a growwwwowwwwowwww. Then the plennies started
to sing real horrible:
Weak tea are we, new brewed
But stirring make all strong.
We eat no angel's food,
Our times of trial are long.
They sort of howled and wept these stupid slovos with the
charlie like whipping them on with "Louder, damn you, sing
up," and the warders creeching: "Just you wait, 7749222", and
"One on the turnip coming up for you, filth." Then it was all
over and the charlie said: "May the Holy Trinity keep you
always and make you good, amen," and the shamble out began
to a nice choice bit of Symphony No. 2 by Adrian Schweigselber, chosen by your Humble Narrator, O my brothers. What a
lot they were, I thought, as I stood there by the starry chapel
stereo, viddying them all shuffle out going marrrrre and
baaaaaa like animals and up-your-piping with their grahzny
fingers at me, because it looked like I was very special
favoured. When the last one had slouched out, his rookers
hanging like an ape and the one warder left giving him a fair
loud tolchock on the back of the gulliver, and when I had
turned off the stereo, the charlie came up to me, puffing away
at a cancer, still in his starry bogman's platties, all lacy and
white like a devotchka's. He said:
"Thank you as always, little 6655321. And what news have
you got for me today?" The idea was, I knew, that this charlie
was after becoming a very great holy chelloveck in the world
of Prison Religion, and he wanted a real horrorshow testimonial from the Governor, so he would go and govoreet
quietly to the Governor now and then about what dark plots
were brewing among the plennies, and he would get a lot of
this cal from me. A lot of it would be all like made up, but
some of it would be true, like for instance the time it had
come through to our cell on the waterpipes knock knock
knockiknockiknock knockiknock that big Harriman was
going to break. He was going to tolchock the warder at
slop-time and get out in the warder's platties. Then there was
going to be a big throwing about of the horrible pishcha we
got in the dining-hall, and I knew about that and told. Then
the charlie passed it on and was complimented like by the
Governor for his Public Spirit and Keen Ear. So this time I
said, and this was not true:
"Well, sir, it has come through on the pipes that a consignment of cocaine has arrived by irregular means and that a
cell somewhere along Tier 5 is to be the centre of distribution." I made all that up as I went along, like I made
up so many of these stories, but the prison charlie was very
grateful, saying: "Good, good, good. I shall pass that on
to Himself," this being what he called the Governor. Then I
"Sir, I have done my best, have I not?" I always used my very
polite gentleman's goloss govoreeting with those at the top.
"I've tried, sir, haven't I?"
"I think," said the charlie, "that on the whole you have,
6655321. You've been very helpful and, I consider, shown a
genuine desire to reform. You will, if you continue in this
manner, earn your remission with no trouble at all."
"But sir," I said, "how about this new thing they're talking
about? How about this new like treatment that gets you out
of prison in no time at all and makes sure that you never get
back in again?"
"Oh," he said, very like wary. "Where did you hear this?
Who's been telling you these things?"
"These things get around, sir," I said. "Two warders talk, as it
might be, and somebody can't help hearing what they say. And
then somebody picks up a scrap of newspaper in the workshops and the newspaper says all about it. How about you
putting me in for this thing, sir, if I may make so bold as to
make the suggestion?"
You could viddy him thinking about that while he puffed
away at his cancer, wondering how much to say to me about
what he knew about this veshch I'd mentioned. Then he said:
"I take it you're referring to Ludovico's Technique." He was
still very wary.
"I don't know what it's called, sir," I said. "All I know is
it gets you out quickly and makes sure that you don't get in
"That is so," he said, his eyebrows like all beetling while he
looked down at me. "That is quite so, 6655321. Of course, it's
only in the experimental stage at the moment. It's very simple
but very drastic."
"But it's being used here, isn't it, sir?" I said. "Those new
white buildings by the South wall, sir. We've watched those
being built, sir, when we've been doing our exercise."
"It's not been used yet," he said, "not in this prison,
6655321. Himself has grave doubts about it. I must confess I
share those doubts. The question is whether such a technique
can really make a man good. Goodness comes from within,
6655321. Goodness is something chosen. When a man cannot
choose he ceases to be a man." He would have gone on with a
lot more of this cal, but we could slooshy the next lot of
plennies marching clank clank down the iron stairs to come
for their bit of Religion. He said: "We'll have a little chat
about this some other time. Now you'd better start the voluntary." So I went over to the starry stereo and put on
J. S. Bach's 'Wachet Auf' Choral Prelude and in these grahzny
vonny bastard criminals and perverts came shambling like a
lot of broke-down apes, the warders or chassos like barking
at them and lashing them. And soon the prison charlie was
asking them: "What's it going to be then, eh?" And that's
where you came in.
We had four of these lomticks of like Prison Religion that
morning, but the charles said no more to me about this Ludovico's Technique, whatever it was, O my brothers. When I'd
finished my rabbit with the stereo he just govoreeted a few
slovos of thanks and then I was privodeeted back to the cell
on Tier 6 which was my very vonny and crammed home. The
chasso was not really too bad of a veck and he did not tolchock or kick me in when he'd opened up, he just said: "Here
we are, sonny, back to the old waterhole." And there I was
with my new type droogs, all very criminal but, Bog be
praised, not given to perversions of the body. There was
Zophar on his bunk, a very thin and brown veck who went on
and on and on in his like cancery goloss, so that nobody
bothered to slooshy. What he was saying now like to nobody
was "And at that time you couldn't get hold of a poggy" (whatever that was, brothers), "not if you was to hand over ten
million archibalds, so what do I do, eh, I goes down to
Turkey's and says I've got this sproog on that morrow, see,
and what can he do?" It was all this very old-time real criminal's slang he spoke. Also there was Wall, who had only one
glazzy, and he was tearing bits of his toe-nails off in honour of
Sunday. Also there was Big Jew, a very fat sweaty veck lying
flat on his bunk like dead. In addition there was Jojohn and
The Doctor. Jojohn was very mean and keen and wiry and had
specialized in like Sexual Assault, and The Doctor had pretended to be able to cure syph and gon and gleet but he had
only injected water, also he had killed off two devotchkas
instead, like he had promised, of getting rid of their unwanted
loads for them. They were a terrible grahzny lot really, and I
didn't enjoy being with them, O my brothers, any more than
you do now, but it won't be for much longer.
Now what I want you to know is that this cell was intended
for only three when it was built, but there were six of us there,
all jammed together sweaty and tight. And that was the state
of all the cells in all the prisons in those days, brothers, and
dirty cally disgrace it was, there not being decent room for a
chelloveck to stretch his limbs. And you will hardly believe
what I say now, which is that on this Sunday they brosatted in
another plenny. Yes, we had had our horrible pishcha of
dumplings and vonny stew and were smoking a quiet cancer
each on our bunks when this veck was thrown into our midst.
He was a chinny starry veck and it was him who started creeching complaints before we even had a chance to viddy the
position. He tried to like shake the bars, creeching: "I demand
my sodding rights, this one's full-up, it's a bleeding imposition, that's what it is." But one of the chassos came back
to say that he had to make the best of it and share a bunk
with whoever would let him, otherwise it would have to be
the floor. "And," said the warder, "it's going to get worse, not
better. A right dirty criminal world you lot are trying to
Well, it was the letting-in of this new chelloveck that was
really the start of my getting out of the old Staja, for he was
such a nasty quarrelsome type of plenny, with a very dirty
mind and filthy intentions, that trouble nachinatted that very
same day. He was also very boastful and started to make with
a very sneery litso at us all and a loud proud goloss. He made
out that he was the only real horrorshow prestoopnick in the
whole zoo, going on that he'd done this and done the other
and killed ten rozzes with one crack of his rooker and all that
cal. But nobody was very impressed, O my brothers. So then
he started on me, me being the youngest there, trying to say
that as the youngest I ought to be the one to zasnoot on the
floor and not him. But all the others were for me, creeching:
"Leave him alone, you grahzny bratchny," and then he began
the old whine about how nobody loved him. So that same
nochy I woke up to find this horrible plenny actually lying
with me on my bunk, which was on the bottom of the threetier and also very narrow, and he was govoreeting dirty like
love-slovos and stroke stroke stroking away. So then I got
real bezoomny and lashed out, though I could not viddy all
that horrorshow, there being only this malenky little red light
outside on the landing. But I knew it was this one, the vonny
bastard, and then when the trouble really got under way and
the lights were turned on I could viddy his horrible litso with
all krovvy dripping from his rot where I'd hit out with my
clawing rooker.
What sloochatted then, of course, was that me cell-mates
woke up and started to join in, tolchocking a bit wild in the
near-dark, and the shoom seemed to wake up the whole tier,
so that you could slooshy a lot of creeching and banging
about with tin mugs on the wall, as though all the plennies in
all the cells thought a big break was about to commence, O
my brothers. So then the lights came on and the chassos came
along in their shirts and trousers and caps, waving big sticks.
We could viddy each other's flushed litsos and the shaking of
fisty rookers, and there was a lot of creeching and cursing.
Then I put in my complaint and every chasso said it was probably your Humble Narrator, brothers, that started it all
anyway, me having no mark of a scratch on me but this horrible plenny dipping red red krovvy from the rot where I'd
got him with my clawing rooker. That made me real bezoomny. I said I would not sleep another nochy in that cell if
the Prison Authorities were going to allow horrible vonny
stinking perverted prestoopnicks to leap on my plott when I
was in no position to defend myself, being asleep. "Wait till
the morning," they said. "Is it a private room with bath and
television that your honour requires? Well, all that will be
seen to in the morning. But for the present, little droog, get
your bleeding gulliver down on your straw-filled podooshka
and let's have no more trouble from anyone. Right right
right?" Then off they went with stern warnings for all, then
soon after the lights went out, and then I said I would sit up
all the rest of the nochy, saying first to this horrible prestoopnick: "Go on, get on my bunk if you wish it. I fancy it no
longer. You have made it filthy and cally with your horrible
vonny plott lying on it already." But then the others joined in.
Big Jew said, still sweating from the bit of a bitva we'd had in
the dark:
"Not having that we're not, brotherth. Don't give in to the
thquirt." So this new one said:
"Crash your dermott, yid," meaning to shut up, but it was
very insulting. So then Big Jew got ready to launch a tolchock. The Doctor said:
"Come on, gentlemen, we don't want any trouble, do we?"
in his very high-class goloss, but this new prestoopnick was
really asking for it. You could viddy that he thought he was a
very big bolshy veck and it was beneath his dignity to be
sharing a cell with six and having to sleep on the floor till I
made this gesture at him. In his sneery way he tried to take off
The Doctor, saying:
"Owwww, yew wahnt noo moor trouble, is that it, Archiballs?" So Jojohn, mean and keen and wiry, said:
"If we can't have sleep let's have some education. Our new
friend here had better be taught a lesson." Although he like
specialized in Sexual Assault he had a nice way of govoreeting,
quiet and like precise. So the new plenny sneered:
"Kish and kosh and koosh, you little terror." So then it all
really started, but in a queer like gentle way, with nobody
raising his goloss much. The new plenny creeched a malenky
bit at first, but the Wall fisted his rot while Big Jew held him
up against the bars so that he could be viddied in the malenky
red light from the landing, and he just went oh oh oh. He was
not a very strong type of veck, being very feeble in his trying
to tolchock back, and I suppose he made up for this by being
shoomny in the goloss and very boastful. Anyway, seeing the
old krovvy flow red in the red light, I felt the old joy like
up in my keeshkas and I said:
"Leave him to me, go on, let me have him now, brothers."
So Big Jew said:
"Yeth, yeth, boyth, that'th fair. Thlosh him then, Alekth." So
they all stood around while I cracked at this prestoopnick in
the near dark. I fisted him all over, dancing about with my
boots on though unlaced, and then I tripped him and he went
crash crash on to the floor. I gave him one real horrorshow
kick on the gulliver and he went ohhhh, then he sort of
snorted off to like sleep, and The Doctor said:
"Very well, I think that wil be enough of a lesson," squinting
to viddy this downed and beaten-up veck on the floor. "Let
him dream perhaps about being a better boy in the future." So
we all climbed back into our bunks, being very tired now.
What I dreamt of, O my brothers, was of being in some very
big orchestra, hundreds and hundreds strong, and the conductor was a like mixture of Ludwig van and G. F. Handel,
looking very deaf and blind and weary of the world. I was
with the wind instruments, but what I was playing was like a
white pinky bassoon made of flesh and growing out of my
plott, right in the middle of my belly, and when I blew into it I
had to smeck ha ha ha very loud because it like tickled, and
then Ludwig van G. F. got very razdraz and bezoomny. Then
he came right up to my litso and creeched loud in my ooko,
and then I woke up like sweating. Of course, what the loud
shoom really was was the prison buzzer going brrrrr brrrrr
brrrrr. It was winter morning and my glazzies were all cally
with sleepglue, and when I opened up they were very sore in
the electric light that had been switched on all over the zoo.
Then I looked down and viddied this new prestoopnick lying
on the floor, very bloody and bruisy and still out out out.
Then I remembered about last night and that made me smeck
a bit.
But when I got off the bunk and moved him with my bare
noga, there was a feel of like stiff coldness, so I went over to
The Doctor's bunk and shook him, him always being very
slow at waking up in the morning. But he was off his bunk
skorry enough this time, and so were the others, except for
Wall who slept like dead meat. "Very unfortunate," The
Doctor said. "A heart attack, that's what it must have been."
Then he said, looking round at us all: "You really shouldn't
have gone for him like that. It was most ill-advised really."
Jojohn said:
"Come come, doc, you weren't all that backward yourself
in giving him a sly bit of fist." Then Big Jew turned on me,
"Alekth, you were too impetuouth. That latht kick wath a
very very nathty one." I began to get razdraz about this and
"Who started it, eh? I only got in at the end, didn't I?" I
pointed at Jojohn and said: "It was your idea." Wall snored a
bit loud, so I said: "Wake that vonny bratchny up. It was him
that kept on at his rot while Big Jew here had him up against
the bars." The Doctor said:
"Nobody will deny having a little hit at the man, to teach
him a lesson so to speak, but it's apparent that you, my dear
boy, with the forcefulness and, shall I say, heedlessness of
youth, dealt him the coo de gras. It's a great pity."
"Traitors," I said. "Traitors and liars," because I could viddy
it was all like before, two years before, when my so-called
droogs had left me to the brutal rookers of the millicents.
There was no trust anywhere in the world, O my brothers, the
way I could see it. And Jojohn went and woke up Wall, and
Wall was only too ready to swear that it was Your Humble
Narrator that had done the real dirty tolchocking and brutality. When the chassos came along, and then the Chief
Chasso, and then the Governor himself, all these cell-droogs
of mine were very shoomny with tales of what I'd done to
oobivat this worthless pervert whose krovvy-covered plott
lay sacklike on the floor.
That was a very queer day, O my brothers. The dead plott
was carried off, and then everybody in the whole prison had
to stay locked up until further orders, and there was no pishcha
given out, not even a mug of hot chai. We just all sat there,
and the warders or chassos sort of strode up and down the
tier, now and then creeching "Shut it" or "Close that hole"
whenever they slooshied even a whisper from any of the cells.
Then about eleven o'clock in the morning there was a sort of
like stiffening and excitement and like the von of fear spreading from outside the cell, and then we could viddy the
Governor and the Chief Chasso and some very bolshy important-looking chellovecks walking by real skorry, govoreeting like bezoomny. They seemed to walk right to the end
of the tier, then they could be slooshied walking back again,
more slow this time, and you could slooshy the Governor, a
very sweaty fatty fair-haired veck, saying slovos like "But, sir
- "
and "Well, what can be done, sir?" and so on. Then the whole
lot stopped at our cell and the Chief Chasso opened up. You
could viddy who was the real important veck right away, very
tall and with blue glazzies and with real horrorshow platties
on him, the most lovely suit, brothers, I have ever viddied,
absolutely in the heighth of fashion. He just sort of looked
right through us poor plennies, saying, in a very beautiful real
educated goloss: "The Government cannot be concerned any
longer with outmoded penological theories. Cram criminals
together and see what happens. You get concentrated criminality, crime in the midst of punishment. Soon we may be
needing all our prison space for political offenders." I didn't
pony this at all, brothers, but after all he was not govoreeting
to me. Then he said: "Common criminals like this unsavoury
crowd" - (that meant me, brothers, as well as the others, who
were real prestoopnicks and treacherous with it) - "can best
be dealt with on a purely curative basis. Kill the criminal
reflex, that's all. Full implementation in a year's time. Punishment means nothing to them, you can see that. They enjoy
their so-called punishment. They start murdering each other."
And he turned his stern blue glazzies on me. So I said, bold:
"With respect, sir, I object very strongly to what you said
then. I am not a common criminal, sir, and I am not unsavoury. The others may be unsavoury but I am not." The
Chief Chasso went all purple and creeched:
"You shut your bleeding hole, you. Don't you know who
this is?"
"All right, all right," said this big veck. Then he turned to
Governor and said: "You can use him as a trail-blazer. He's
young, bold, vicious. Brodsky will deal with him tomorrow
and you can sit in and watch Brodsky. It works all right, don't
worry about that. This vicious young hoodlum will be transformed out of all recognition."
And those hard slovos, brothers, were like the beginning of
my freedom.
That very same evening I was dragged down nice and gentle by
brutal tolchocking chassos to viddy the Governor in his holy
of holies holy office. The Governor looked very weary at me
and said: "I don't suppose you know who that was this morning, do you, 6655321?" And without waiting for me to say no
he said: "That was no less a personage than the Minister of the
Interior, the new Minister of the Interior and what they call a
very new broom. Well, these new ridiculous ideas have come
at last and orders are orders, though I may say to you in
confidence that I do not approve. I most emphatically do not
approve. An eye for an eye, I say. If someone hits you you hit
back, do you not? Why then should not the State, very
severely hit by you brutal hooligans, not hit back also? But the
new view is to say no. The new view is that we turn the bad
into the good. All of which seems to me grossly unjust. Hm?"
So I said, trying to be like respectful and accomodating:
"Sir." And then the Chief Chasso, who was standing all red
and burly behind the Governor's chair, creeched:
"Shut your filthy hole, you scum."
"All right, all right," said the like tired and fagged-out
Governor. "You, 6655321, are to be reformed. Tomorrow
you go to this man Brodsky. It is believed that you will be
able to leave State Custody in a little over a fortnight. In a
little over a fortnight you will be out again in the big free
world, no longer a number. I suppose," and he snorted a bit
here, "that prospect pleases you?" I said nothing so the Chief
Chasso creeched:
"Answer, you filthy young swine, when the Governor asks
you a question." So I said:
"Oh, yes, sir. Thank you very much, sir. I've done my best
here, really I have. I'm very grateful to all concerned."
"Don't be," like sighed the Governor. "This is not a reward.
This is far from being a reward. Now, there is a form here to
be signed. It says that you are wiling to have the residue of
your sentence commuted to submission to what is called
here, ridiculous expression, Reclamation Treatment. Will you
"Most certainly I will sign," I said, "sir. And very many
thanks." So I was given an ink-pencil and I signed my name nice
and flowy. The Governor said:
"Right. That's the lot, I think." The Chief Chasso said:
"The Prison Chaplain would like a word with him, sir." So I
was marched out and off down the corridor towards the
Wing Chapel, tolchocked on the back and the gulliver all the
way by one of the chassos, but in a very like yawny and bored
manner. And I was marched across the Wing Chapel to the
little cantora of the charles and then made to go in. The
charles was sitting at his desk, smelling loud and clear of a
manny von of expensive cancers and Scotch. He said:
"Ah, little 6655321, be seated." And to the chassos: "Wait
outside, eh?" Which they did. Then he spoke in a very like
earnest way to me, saying: "One thing I want you to understand, boy, is that this is nothing to do with me. Were it
expedient, I would protest about it, but it is not expedient.
There is the question of my own career, there is the question
of the weakness of my own voice when set against the shout
of certain more powerful elements in the polity. Do I make
myself clear?" He didn't, brothers, but I nodded that he did.
"Very hard ethical questions are involved," he went on. "You
are to be made into a good boy, 6655321. Never again will
you have the desire to commit acts of violence or to offend
in any way whatsoever against the State's Peace. I hope you
take all that in. I hope you are absolutely clear in your own
mind about that." I said:
"Oh, it will be nice to be good, sir." But I had a real horrorshow smeck at that inside, brothers. He said:
"It may not be nice to be good, little 6655321. It may be
horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I realize how
self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall have many
sleepless nights about this. What does God want? Does God
want woodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who
chooses the bad perhaps in some ways better than a man who
has the good imposed upon him? Deep and hard questions,
little 6655321. But all I want to say to you now is this: if at
any time in the future you look back to these times and remember me, the lowest and humblest of all God's servitors,
do not, I pray, think evil of me in your heart, thinking me in
any way involved in what is now about to happen to you. And
now, talking of praying, I realize sadly that there will be
point in praying for you. You are passing now to a region
where you will be beyond the reach of the power of prayer. A
terrible terrible thing to consider. And yet, in a sense, in
choosing to be deprive of the ability to make an ethical
choice, you have in a sense really chosen the good. So I shall
like to think. So, God help us all, 6655321, I shall like to
think." And then he began to cry. But I didn't really take much
notice of that, brothers only having a bit of a quiet smeck
inside, because you could viddy that he had been peeting away
at the old whisky, and now he took a bottle from a cupboard
in his desk and started to pour himself a real horrorshow
bolshy slog into a very greasy and grahzny glass. He downed
it and the said: "All may be well, who knows? God works in a
mysterious way." Then he began to sing away at a hymn in a
real loud rich goloss. Then the door opened and the chassos
came in to tolchock me back to my vonny cell, but the old
charles still went on singing this hymn.
Well, the next morning I had to say good-bye to the old
Staja, and I felt a malenky bit sad as you always will when you
have to leave a place you've like got used to. But I didn't go
very far, O my brothers. I was punched and kicked along to
the new white building just beyond the yard where we used to
do our bit of exercise. This was a very new building and it had
a new cold like sizy smell which gave you a bit of the shivers.
stood there in the horrible bolshy bare hall and I got new
vons, sniffing away there with my like very sensitive morder or
sniffer. These were like hospital vons, and the chelloveck the
chassos handed me over to had a white coat on, as he might
be a hospital man. He signed for me, and one of the brutal
chassos who had brought nme said: "You watch this one, sir. A
right brutal bastard he has been and will be again, in spite of
all his sucking up to the Prison Chaplain and reading the
Bible." But this new chelloveck had real horrorshow blue glazzies which like smiled when he govoreeted. He said:
"Oh, we don't anticipate any trouble. We're going to be
friends, aren't we?" And he smiled with his glazzies and his
big rot which was full of shining white zoobies and I sort of
took to this veck right away. Anyway, he passed me on to a
like lesser veck in a white coat, and this one was very nice
too, and I was led off to a very nice white clean bedroom with
curtains and a bedside lamp, and just the one bed in it, all for
Your Humble Narrator. So I had a real horrorshow inner
smeck at that, thinking I was really a very lucky young malchickiwick. I was told to take off my horrible prison platties
and I was given a really beautiful set of pyjamas, O my
brothers, in plain green, the heighth of bedwear fashion. And I
was given a nice warm dressing-gown too and lovely toofles
to put my bare nogas in, and I thought: "Well, Alex boy, little
6655321 as was, you have copped it lucky and no mistake.
You are really going to enjoy it here."
After I had been given a nice chasha of real horrorshow
coffee and some old gazettas and mags to look at while peeting it, this first veck in white came in, the one who had like
signed for me, and he said: "Aha, there you are," a silly sort of
a veshch to say but it didn't sound silly, this veck being so
nice. "My name," he said, "is Dr. Branom. I'm Dr. Brodsky's
assistant. With your permission, I'll just give you the usual
brief overall examination." And he took the old stetho out of
his right carman. "We must make sure you're quite fit, mustn't
we? Yes indeed, we must." So while I lay there with my pyjama
top off and he did this, that and the other, I said:
"What exactly is it, sir, that you're going to do?"
"Oh," said Dr. Branom, his cold stetho going all down my
back, "it's quite simple, really. We just show you some films."
"Films?" I said. I could hardly believe my ookos, brothers,
as you may well understand. "You mean," I said, "it will be just
like going to the pictures?"
"They'll be special films," said Dr. Branom. "Very special
films. You'll be having the first session this afternoon. Yes,"
said, getting up from bending over me, "you seem to be quite a
fit young boy. A bit under-nourished perhaps. That will be the
fault of the prison food. Put your pyjama top back on. After
every meal," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "we shall
giving you a shot in the arm. That should help." I felt really
grateful to this very nice Dr. Branom. I said:
"Vitamins, sir, will it be?"
"Something like that," he said, smiling real horrorshow and
friendly, "just a jab in the arm after every meal." Then he went
out. I lay on the bed thinking this was like real heaven, and I
read some of the mags they'd given me - 'Worldsport', 'Sinny'
(this being a film mag) and 'Goal'. Then I lay back on the bed
and shut my glazzies and thought how nice it was going to be
out there again, Alex with perhaps a nice easy job during the
day, me being now too old for the old skolliwoll, and then
perhaps getting a new like gang together for the nochy, and
the first rabbit would be to get old Dim and Pete, if they had
not been got already by the millicents. This time I would be
very careful not to get loveted. They were giving another like
chance, me having done murder and all, and it would not be
like fair to get loveted again, after going to all this trouble
show me films that were going to make me a real good malchick. I had a real horrorshow smeck at everybody's like
innocence, and I was smecking my gulliver off when they
brought in my lunch on a tray. The veck who brought it was
the one who'd led me to this malenky bedroom when I came
into the mesto, and he said:
"It's nice to know somebody's happy." It was really a very
nice appetizing bit of pishcha they'd laid out on the tray - two
or three lomticks of like hot roastbeef with mashed kartoffel
and vedge, then there was also ice-cream and a nice hot
chasha of chai. And there was even a cancer to smoke and a
matchbox with one match in. So this looked like it was the
life, O my brothers. Then, about half an hour after while I was
lying a bit sleepy on the bed, a woman nurse came in, a real
nice young devotchka with real horrorshow groodies (I had
not seen such for two years) and she had a tray and a hypodermic. I said:
"Ah, the old vitamins, eh?" And I clickclicked at her but she
took no notice. All she did was to slam the needle into my
left arm, and then swishhhh in went the vitamin stuff. Then she
went out again, clack clack on her high-heeled nogas. Then
the white-coated veck who was like a male nurse came in with
a wheelchair. I was a malenky bit surprised to viddy that. I
"What giveth then, brother? I can walk, surely, to wherever
we have to itty to." But he said:
"Best I push you there." And indeed, O my brothers, when I
got off the bed I found myself a malenky biy weak. It was the
under-nourishment like Dr. Branom had said, all that horrible
prison pishcha. But the vitamins in the after-meal injection
would put me right. No doubt at all about that, I thought.
Where I was wheeled to, brothers, was like no sinny I had ever
viddied before. True enough, one wall was all covered with
silver screen, and direct opposite was a wall with square holes
in for the projector to project through, and there were stereo
speakers stuck all over the mesto. But against the right-hand
one of the other walls was a bank of all like little meters, and
in the middle of the floor facing the screen was like a dentist's
chair with all lengths of wire running from it, and I had to like
crawl from the wheelchair to this, being given some help by
another like male nurse veck in a white coat. Then I noticed
that underneath the projection holes was like all frosted glass
and I thought I viddied shadows of like people moving behind
it and I thought I slooshied somebody cough kashl kashl
kashl. But then all I could like notice was how weak I seemed
to be, and I put that down to changing over from prison
pishcha to this new rich pishcha and the vitamins injected into
me. "Right," said the wheelchair-wheeling veck, "now I'll leave
you. The show will commence as soon as Dr. Brodsky arrives.
Hope you enjoy it." To be truthful, brothers, I did not really
feel that I wanted to viddy any film-show this afternoon. I was
just not in the mood. I would have liked much better to have
a nice quiet spatchka on the bed, nice and quiet and all on my
oddy knocky. I felt very limp.
What happened now was that one white-coated veck
strapped my gulliver to a like head-rest, singing to himself all
the time some vonny cally pop-song. "What's this for?" I said.
And this veck replied, interrupting his like song an instant,
that it was to keep my gulliver still and make me look at the
screen. "But," I said, "I want to look at the screen. I've been
brought here to viddy films and viddy films I shall." And then
the other white-coat veck (there were three altogether, one
of them a devotchka who was like sitting at the bank of
meters and twiddling with knobs) had a bit of a smeck at that.
He said:
"You never know. Oh, you never know. Trust us, friend. It's
better this way." And then I found they were strapping my
rookers to the chair-arms and my nogas were like stuck to a
foot-rest. It seemed a bit bezoomny to me but I let them get
on with what they wanted to get on with. If I was to be a free
young malchick again in a fortnight's time I would put up with
much in the meantime, O my brothers. One veshch I did not
like, though, was when they put like clips on the skin of my
forehead, so that my top glazz-lids were pulled up and up and
up and I could not shut my glazzies no matter how I tried. I
tried to smeck and said: "This must be a real horrorshow film
if you're so keen on my viddying it." And one of the whitecoat vecks said, smecking:
"Horrorshow is right, friend. A real show of horrors." And
then I had like a cap stuck on my gulliver and I could viddy
all wires running away from it, and they stuck a like suction
pad on my belly and one on the old tick-tocker, and I could
just about viddy wires running away from those. Then there
was the shoom of a door opening and you could tell some
very important chelloveck was coming in by the way the
white-coated under-vecks went all stiff. And then I viddied this
Dr. Brodsky. He was a malenky veck, very fat, with all curly
hair curling all over his gulliver, and on his spuddy nose he
had very thick ochkies. I could just viddy that he had a real
horrorshow suit on, absolutely the heighth of fashion, and he
had a like very delicate and subtle von of operating-theatres
coming from him. With him was Dr. Branom, all smiling like as
though to give me confidence. "Everything ready?" said Dr.
Brodsky in a very breathy goloss. Then I could slooshy voices
saying Right right right from like a distance, then nearer to,
then there was a quiet like humming shoom as though things
had been switched on. And then the lights went out and there
was Your Humble Narrator And Friend sitting alone in the
dark, all on his frightened oddy knocky, not able to move nor
shut his glazzies nor anything. And then, O my brothers, the
film-show started off with some very gromky atmosphere
music coming from the speakers, very fierce and full of discord. And then on the screen the picture came on, but there
was no title and no credits. What came on was a street, as it
might have been any street in any town, and it was a real dark
nochy and the lamps were lit. It was a very good like professional piece of sinny, and there were none of these flickers
and blobs you get, say, when you viddy one of these dirty
films in somebody's house in a back street. All the time the
music bumped out, very like sinister. And then you could
viddy an old man coming down the street, very starry, and
then there leaped out on this starry veck two malchicks
dressed in the heighth of fashion, as it was at this time (still
thin trousers but no like cravat any more, more of a real tie),
and then they started to filly with him. You could slooshy the
screams and moans, very realistic, and you could even get the
like heavy breathing and panting of the two tolchocking malchicks. They made a real pudding out of this starry veck, going
crack crack crack at him with the fisty rookers, tearing his
platties off and then finishing up by booting his nagoy plott
(this lay all krovvy-red in the grahzny mud of the gutter) and
then running off very skorry. Then there was the close-up
gulliver of this beaten-up starry veck, and the krovvy flowed
beautiful red. It's funny how the colours of the like real
world only seem really real when you viddy them on the
Now all the time I was watching this I was beginning to get
very aware of a like not feeling all that well, and this I put
down to the under-nourishment and my stomach not quite
ready for tthe rich pishcha and vitamins I was getting here. But
I tried to forget this, concentrating on the next film which
came on at once, brothers, without any break at all. This
time the film jumped right away on a young devotchka who
was being given the old in-out by first one malchick then
another then another then another, she creeching away very
gromky through the speakers and like very pathetic and tragic
music going on at the same time. This was real, very real,
though if you thought about it properly you couldn't imagine
lewdies actually agreeing to having all this done to them in a
film, and if these films were made by the Good or the State
you couldn't imagine them being allowed to take these films
without like interfering with what was going on. So it must
have been very clever what they call cutting or editing or
some such veshch. For it was very real. And when it came to
the sixth or seventh malchick leering and smecking and then
going into it and the devotchka creeching on the sound-track
like bezoomny, then I began to feel sick. I had like pains all
over and felt I could sick up and at the same time not sick up,
and I began to feel like in distress, O my brothers, being fixed
rigid too on this chair. When this bit of film was over I could
slooshy the goloss of this Dr. Brodsky from over by the
switchboard saying: "Reaction about twelve point five? Promising, promising."
Then we shot straight into another lomtick of film, and this
time it was of just a human litso, a very like pale human face
held still and having different nasty veshches done to it. I was
sweating a malenky bit with the pain in my guts and a horrible
thirst and my gulliver going throb throb throb, and it seemed
to me that if I could not viddy this bit of film I would perhaps
be not so sick. But I could not shut my glazzies, and even if I
tried to move my glaz-balls about I still could not get like out
of the line of fire of this picture. So I had to go on viddying
what was being done and hearing the most ghastly creechings
coming from this litso. I knew it could not really be real, but
that made no difference. I was heaving away but could not
sick, viddying first a britva cut out an eye, then slice down the
cheek, then go rip rip rip all over, while red krovvy shot on to
the camera lens. Then all the teeth were like wrenched out
with a pair of pliers, and the creeching and the blood were
terrific. Then I slooshied this very pleased goloss of Dr.
Brodsky going: "Excellent, excellent, excellent."
The next lomtick of film was of an old woman who kept a
shop being kicked about amid very gromky laughter by a lot
of malchicks, and these malchicks broke up the shop and then
set fire to it. You could viddy this poor starry ptitsa trying
crawl out of the flames, screaming and creeching, but having
had her leg broke by these malchicks kicking her she could
not move. So then all the flames went roaring round her, and
you could viddy her agonized litso like appealing through the
flames and the disappearing in the flames, and then you
could slooshy the most gromky and agonized and agonizing
screams that ever came from a human goloss. So this time I
knew I had to sick up, so I creeched:
"I want to be sick. Please let me be sick. Please bring something for me to be sick into." But this Dr. Brodsky called back:
"Imagination only. You've nothing to worry about. Next
film coming up." That was perhaps meant to be a joke, for I
heard a like smeck coming from the dark. And then I was
forced to viddy a most nasty film about Japanese torture. It
was the 1939-45 War, and there were soldiers being fixed to
trees with nails and having fires lit under them and having their
yarbles cut off, and you even viddied a gulliver being sliced off
a soldier with a sword, and then with his head rolling about
and the rot and glazzies looking alive still, the plott of this
soldier actually ran about, krovvying like a fountain out of
the neck, and then it dropped, and all the time there was very
very loud laughter from the Japanese. The pains I felt now in
my belly and the headache and the thirst were terrible, and
they all seemed to be coming out of the screen. So I
"Stop the film! Please, please stop it! I can't stand any
more." And then the goloss of this Dr. Brodsky said:
"Stop it? Stop it, did you say? Why, we've hardly started."
And he and the others smecked quite loud.
I do not wish to describe, brothers, what other horrible veshches I was like forced to viddy that afternoon. The like
minds of this Dr. Brodsky and Dr. Branom and the others in
white coats, and remember there was this devotchka twiddling with the knobs and watching the meters, they must have
been more cally and filthy than any prestoopnick in the Staja
itself. Because I did not think it was possible for any veck to
even think of making films of what I was forced to viddy, all
tied to this chair and my glazzies made to be wide open. All I
could do was to creech very gromky for them to turn it off,
turn it off, and that like part drowned the noise of dratsing
and fillying and also the music that went with it all. You can
imagine it was like a terrible relief when I'd viddied the last
of film, and this Dr. Brodsky said, in a very yawny and bored
like goloss: "I think that should be enough for Day One, don't
you, Branom?" And there I was with the lights switched on,
my gulliver throbbing like a bolshy big engine that makes
pain, and my rot all dry and cally inside, and feeling I could
like sick up every bit of pishcha I had ever eaten, O my
brothers, since the day I was like weaned. "All right," said
Dr. Brodsky, "he can be taken back to his bed." Then he like
patted me on the pletcho and said: "Good, good. A very
promising start," grinning all over his litso, then he like
waddled out, Dr. Branom after him, but Dr. Branom gave me a
like very droogy and sympathetic type smile as though he had
nothing to do with all this veshch but was like forced into it
as I was.
Anyhow, they freed my plott from the chair and they let go
the skin above my glazzies so that I could open and shut them
again, and I shut them, O my brothers, with the pain and throb
in my gulliver, and then I was like carried to the old wheelchair and taken back to my malenky bedroom, the under-veck
who wheeled me singing away at some hound-and-horny
popsong so that I like snarled: "Shut it, thou," but he only
smecked and said: "Never mind, friend," and then sang louder.
So I was put into the bed and still felt bolnoy but could not
sleep, but soon I started to feel that soon I might start to feel
that I might soon start feeling just a malenky bit better, and
then I was brought some nice hot chai with plenty of moloko
and sakar and, peeting that, I knew that that like horrible
nightmare was in the past and all over. And then Dr. Branom
came in, all nice and smiling. He said:
"Well, by my calculations you should be starting to feel all
right again. Yes?"
"Sir," I said, like wary. I did not quite kopat what he was
getting at govoreeting about calculations, seeing that getting
better from feeling bolnoy is like your own affair and nothing
to do with calculations. He sat down, all nice and droogy, on
the bed's edge and said:
"Dr. Brodsky is pleased with you. You had a very positive
response. Tomorrow, of course, there'll be two sessions,
morning and afternoon, and I should imagine that you'll be
feeling a bit limp at the end of the day. But we have to be hard
on you, you have to be cured." I said:
"You mean I have to sit through - ? You mean I have to
look at - ? Oh, no," I said. "It was horrible."
"Of course it was horrible," smiled Dr. Branom. "Violence is a
very horrible thing. That's what you're learning now. Your
body is learning it."
"But," I said, "I don't understand. I don't understand about
feeling sick like I did. I never used to feel sick before. I
used to
feel like very the opposite. I mean, doing it or watching it I
used to feel real horrorshow. I just don't understand why or
how or what - "
"Life is a very wonderful thing," said Dr. Branom in a like
very holy goloss. "The processes of life, the make-up of the
human organism, who can fully understand these miracles? Dr.
Brodsky is, of course, a remarkable man. What is happening
to you now is what should happen to any normal healthy
human organism contemplating the actions of the forces of
evil, the workings of the principle of destruction. You are
being made sane, you are being made healthy."
"That I will not have," I said, "nor can understand at all.
What you've been doing is to make me feel very ill."
"Do you feel ill now?" he said, still with the old droogy
smile on his litso. "Drinking tea, resting, having a quiet chat
with a friend - surely you're not feeling anything but well?"
I like listened and felt for pain and sickness in my gulliver
and plott, in a like cautious way, but it was true, brothers,
that I felt real horrorshow and even wanting my dinner. "I
don't get it," I said. "You must be doing something to me to
make me feel ill." And I sort of frowned about that, thinking.
"You felt ill this afternoon," he said, "because you're getting
better. When we're healthy we respond to the presence of the
hateful with fear and nausea. You're becoming healthy, that's
all. You'll be healthier still this time tomorrow." Then he
patted me on the noga and went out, and I tried to puzzle the
whole veshch out as best I could. What it seemed to me was
that the wire and other veshches that were fixed to my plott
perhaps were making me feel ill, and that it was all a trick
really. I was still puzzling out all this and wondering whether
should refuse to be strapped down to this chair tomorrow
and start a real bit of dratsing with them all, because I had my
rights, when another chelloveck came in to see me. He was a
like smiling starry veck who said he was what he called the
Discharge Officer, and he carried a lot of bits of paper with
him. He said:
"Where will you go when you leave here?" I hadn't really
thought about that sort of veshch at all, and it only now
really began to dawn on me that I'd be a fine free malchick
very soon, and then I viddied that would only be if I played it
everybody's way and did not start any dratsing and creeching
and refusing and so on. I said:
"Oh, I shall go home. Back to my pee and em."
"Your - ?" He didn't get nadsat-talk at all, so I said:
"To my parents in the dear old flatblock."
"I see," he said. "And when did you last have a visit from
your parents?"
"A month," I said, "very near. They like suspended visitingday for a bit because of one prestoopnick getting some blasting-powder smuggled in across the wires from his ptitsa. A
real cally trick to play on the innocent, like punishing them as
well. So it's near a month since I had a visit."
"I see," said this veck. "And have your parents been informed
of your transfer and impending release?" That had a real
lovely zvook that did, that slovo 'release'. I said:
"No." Then I said: "It will be a nice surprise for them, that,
won't it? Me just walking in through the door and saying:
'Here I am, back, a free veck again.' Yes, real horrorshow."
"Right," said the Discharge Officer veck, "we'll leave it at
So long as you have somewhere to live. Now, there's the
question of your having a job, isn't there?" And he showed me
this long list of jobs I could have, but I thought, well, there
would be time enough for that. A nice malenky holiday first. I
could do a crasting job soon as I got out and fill the old
carmans with pretty polly, but I would have to be very careful
and I would have to do the job all on my oddy knocky. I did
not trust so-called droogs any more. So I told this veck to
leave it a bit and we would govoreet about it again. He said
right right right, then got ready to leave. He showed himself
to be a very queer sort of a veck, because what he did now
was to like giggle and then say: "Would you like to punch me
in the face before I go?" I did not think I could possibly have
slooshied that right, so I said:
"Would you," he giggled, "like to punch me in the face
before I go?" I frowned like at that, very puzzled, and said:
"Oh," he said, "just to see how you're getting on." And he
brought his litso real near, a fat grin all over his rot. So I
fisted up and went smack at this litso, but he pulled himself
away real skorry, grinning still, and my rooker just punched
air. Very puzzling, this was, and I frowned as he left, smecking
his gulliver off. And then, my brothers, I felt real sick again,
just like in the afternoon, just for a couple of minootas. It
then passed off skorry, and when they brought my dinner in
I found I had a fair appetite and was ready to crunk away at
the roast chicken. But it was funny that starry chelloveck
asking for a tolchock in the litso. And it was funny feeling
like that.
What was even funnier was when I went to sleep that night,
O my brothers, I had a nightmare, and, as you might expect, it
was one of those bits of film I'd viddied in the afternoon. A
dream or nightmare is really only like a film inside your gulliver, except that it is as though you could walk into it and be
part of it. And this is what happened to me. It was a nightmare
of one of the bits of film they showed me near the end of the
afternoon like session, all of smecking malchicks doing the
ultra-violent on a young ptitsa who was creeching away in her
red red krovvy, her platties all razrezzed real horrorshow. I
was in this fillying about, smecking away and being like the
ring-leader, dressed in the heighth of nadsat fashion. And then
at the heighth of all this dratsing and tolchocking I felt like
paralysed and wanting to be very sick, and all the other malchicks had a real gromky smeck at me. Then I was dratsing my
way back to being awake all through my own krovvy, pints
and quarts and gallons of it, and then I found myself in my bed
in this room. I wanted to be sick, so I got out of the bed all
trembly so as to go off down the corridor to the old vaysay.
But, behold, brothers, the door was locked. And turning
round I viddied for like the first raz that there were bars on
the window. And so, as I reached for the like pot in the malenky cupboard beside the bed, I viddied that there would be
no escaping from any of all this. Worse, I did not dare to go
back into my own sleeping gulliver. I soon found I did not
want to be sick after all, but then I was poogly of getting back
into bed to sleep. But soon I fell smack into sleep and did not
dream any more.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it," I kept on creeching out. "Turn it
you grahzny bastards, for I can stand no more." It was the
next day, brothers, and I had truly done my best morning and
afternoon to play it their way and sit like a horrorshow smiling cooperative malchick in their chair of torture while they
flashed nasty bits of ultra-violence on the screen, my glazzies
clipped open to viddy all, my plott and rookers and nogas
fixed to the chair so I could not get away. What I was being
made to viddy now was not really a veshch I would have
thought to be too bad before, it being only three or four
malchicks crasting in a shop and filling their carmans with
cutter, at the same time fillying about with the creeching
starry ptitsa running the shop, tolchocking her and letting the
red red krovvy flow. But the throb and like crash crash crash
in my gulliver and the wanting to be sick and the terrible dry
rasping thirstiness in my rot, all were worse than yesterday.
"Oh. I've had enough" I cried. "It's not fair, you vonny sods,"
and I tried to struggle out of the chair but it was not possible
me being as good as stuck to it.
"First-class," creeched out this Dr. Brodsky. "You're doing
really well. Just one more and then we're finished."
What it was now was the starry 1939-45 War again, and it
was a very blobby and liny and crackly film you could viddy
had been made by the Germans. It opened with German eagles
and the Nazi flag with that like crooked cross that all mal-
chicks at school love to draw, and then there were very
haughty and nadmenny like German officers walking through
streets that were all dust and bomb-holes and broken buildings. Then you were allowed to viddy lewdies being shot
against walls, officers giving the orders, and also horrible
nagoy plotts left lying in gutters, all like cages of bare ribs
white thin nogas. Then there were lewdies being dragged off
creeching though not on the sound-track, my brothers, the
only sound being music, and being tolchocked while they
were dragged off. Then I noticed, in all my pain and sickness,
what music it was that like crackled and boomed on the
sound-track, and it was Ludwig van, the last movement of the
Fifth Symphony, and I creeched like bezoomny at that. "Stop!"
I creeched. "Stop, you grahzny disgusting sods. It's a sin,
what it is, a filthy unforgivable sin, you bratchnies!" They
didn't stop right away, because there was only a minute or
two more to go - lewdies being beaten up and all krovvy, then
more firing squads, then the old Nazi flag and THE END. But
when the lights came on this Dr. Brodsky and also Dr. Branom
were standing in front of me, and Dr. Brodsky said:
"What's all this about sin, eh?"
"That," I said, very sick. "Using Ludwig van like that. He did
no harm to anyone. Beethoven just wrote music." And then I
was really sick and they had to bring a bowl that was in the
shape of like a kidney.
"Music," said Dr. Brodsky, like musing. "So you're keen on
music. I know nothing about it myself. It's a useful emotional
heightener, that's all I know. Well, well. What do you think
about that, eh, Branom?"
"It can't be helped," said Dr. Branom. "Each man kills the
thing he loves, as the poet-prisoner said. Here's the punishment element, perhaps. The Governor ought to be
"Give me a drink," I said, "for Bog's sake."
"Loosen him," ordered Dr. Brodsky. "Fetch him a carafe of
ice-cold water." So then these under-vecks got to work and
soon I was peeting gallons and gallons of water and it was
like heaven, O my brothers. Dr. Brodsky said:
"You seem a sufficiently intelligent young man. You seem,
too, to be not without taste. You've just got this violence
thing, haven't you? Violence and theft, theft being an aspect
of violence." I didn't govoreet a single slovo, brothers, I was
still feeling sick, though getting a malenky bit better now. But
it had been a terrible day. "Now then," said Dr. Brodsky, "how
do you think this is done? Tell me, what do you think we're
doing to you?"
"You're making me feel ill. I'm ill when I look at those filthy
pervert films of yours. But it's not really the films that's
it. But I feel that if you'll stop these films I'll stop feeling
"Right," said Dr. Brodsky. "It's association, the oldest educational method in the world. And what really causes you to
feel ill?"
"These grahzny sodding veshches that come out of my gulliver and my plott," I said, "that's what it is."
"Quaint," said Dr. Brodsky, like smiling, "the dialect of the
tribe. Do you know anything of its provenance, Branom?"
"Odd bits of old rhyming slang," said Dr. Branom, who did
not look quite so much like a friend any more. "A bit of gipsy
talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav. Propaganda. Subliminal penetration."
"All right, all right, all right," said Dr. Brodsky, like
and not interested any more. "Well," he said to me, "it isn't
wires. It's nothing to do with what's fastened to you. Those
are just for measuring your reactions. What is it, then?"
I viddied then, of course, what a bezoomny shoot I was not
to notice that it was the hypodermic shots in the rooker.
"Oh," I creeched, "oh, I viddy all now. A filthy cally vonny
trick. An act of treachery, sod you, and you won't do it
"I'm glad you've raised your objections now," said Dr.
Brodsky. "Now we can be perfectly clear about it. We can get
this stuff of Ludovico's into your system in many different
ways. Orally, for instance. But the subcutaneous method is the
best. Don't fight against it, please. There's no point in your
fighting. You can't get the better of us."
"Grahzny bratchnies," I said, like snivelling. Then I said: "I
don't mind about the ultra-violence and all that cal. I put up
with that. But it's not fair on the music. It's not fair I
feel ill when I'm slooshying lovely Ludwig van and G. F. Handel
and others. All that shows you're an evil lot of bastards and I
shall never forgive you, sods."
They both looked a bit like thoughtful. Then Dr. Brodsky
said: "Delimitation is always difficult. The world is one, life
one. The sweetest and most heavenly of activities partake in
some measure of violence - the act of love, for instance;
music, for instance. You must take your chance, boy. The
choice has been all yours." I didn't understand all these
but now I said:
"You needn't take it any further, sir." I'd changed my tune a
malenky bit in my cunning way. "You've proved to me that all
this dratsing and ultra-violence and killing is wrong wrong
and terribly wrong. I've learned my lesson, sirs. I see now
what I've never seen before. I'm cured, praise God." And I
raised my glazzies in a like holy way to the ceiling. But both
these doctors shook their gullivers like sadly and Dr. Brodsky
"You're not cured yet. There's still a lot to be done. Only
when your body reacts promptly and violently to violence, as
to a snake, without further help from us, without medication,
only then - " I said:
"But, sir, sirs, I see that it's wrong. It's wrong because it's
against like society, it's wrong because every veck on earth
has the right to live and be happy without being beaten and
tolchocked and knifed. I've learned a lot, oh really I have."
But Dr. Brodsky had a loud long smeck at that, showing all his
white zoobies, and said:
"The heresy of an age of reason," or some such slovos. "I
see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong. No, no,
my boy, you must leave it all to us. But be cheerful about it.
will soon be all over. In less than a fortnight now you'll be a
free man." Then he patted me on the pletcho.
Less than a fortnight, O my brothers and friends, it was like
an age. It was like from the beginning of the world to the end
of it. To finish the fourteen years without remission in the
Staja would have been nothing to it. Every day it was the
same. When the devotchka with the hypodermic came round,
though, four days after this govoreeting with Dr. Brodsky and
Dr. Branom, I said: "Oh, no you won't," and tolchocked her on
the rooker, and the syringe went tinkle clatter on to the
floor. That was like to viddy what they would do. What they
did was to get four or five real bolshy white-coated bastards
of under-vecks to hold me down on the bed, tolchocking me
with grinny litsos close to mine, and then this nurse ptitsa
said: "You wicked naughty little devil, you," while she jabbed
my rooker with another syringe and squirted this stuff in real
brutal and nasty. And then I was wheeled off exhausted to this
like hell sinny as before.
Every day, my brothers, these films were like the same, all
kicking and tolchocking and red red krovvy dripping off of
litsos and plotts and spattering all over the camera lenses. It
was usually grinning and smecking malchicks in the heighth of
nadsat fashion, or else teeheeheeing Jap torturers or brutal
Nazi kickers and shooters. And each day the feeling of wanting to die with the sickness and gulliver pains and aches in the
zoobies and horrible horrible thirst grew really worse. Until
one morning I tried to defeat the bastards by crash crash
crashing my gulliver against the wall so that I should tolchock
myself unconscious, but all that happened was I felt sick with
viddying that this kind of violence was like the violence in the
films, so I was just exhausted and was given the injection and
was wheeled off like before.
And then there came a morning when I woke up and had my
breakfast of eggs and toast and jam and very hot milky chai,
and then I thought: "It can't be much longer now. Now must
be very near the end of the time. I have suffered to the
heighths and cannot suffer any more." And I waited and
waited, brothers, for this nurse ptitsa to bring in the syringe,
but she did not come. And then the white-coated under-veck
came and said:
"Today, old friend, we are letting you walk."
"Walk?" I said. "Where?"
"To the usual place," he said. "Yes, yes, look not so astonished. You are to walk to the films, me with you of course.
You are no longer to be carried in a wheelchair."
"But," I said, "how about my horrible morning injection?"
For I was really surprised at this, brothers, they being so keen
on pushing this Ludovico veshch into me, as they said. "Don't
I get that horrible sicky stuff rammed into my poor suffering
rooker any more?"
"All over," like smecked this veck. "For ever and ever amen.
You're on your own now, boy. Walking and all to the
chamber of horrors. But you're still to be strapped down and
made to see. Come on then, my little tiger." And I had to put
my over-gown and toofles on and walk down the corridor to
the like sinny mesto.
Now this time, O my brothers, I was not only very sick but
very puzzled. There it was again, all the old ultra-violence and
vecks with their gullivers smashed and torn krovvy-dripping
ptitsas creeching for mercy, the like private and individual
fillying and nastiness. Then there were the prison-camps and
the Jews and the grey like foreign streets full of tanks and
uniforms and vecks going down in withering rifle-fire, this
being the public side of it. And this time I could blame nothing
for me feeling sick and thirsty and full of aches except what I
was forced to viddy, my glazzies still being clipped open and
my nogas and plott fixed to the chair but this set of wires and
other veshches no longer coming out of my plott and gulliver. So what could it be but the films I was viddying that were
doing this to me? Except, of course, brothers, that this Ludovico stuff was like a vaccination and there it was cruising
about in my krovvy, so that I would be sick always for ever
and ever amen whenever I viddied any of this ultra-violence.
So now I squared my rot and went boo hoo hoo, and the
tears like blotted out what I was forced to viddy in like all
blessed runny silvery dewdrops. But these white-coat
bratchnies were skorry with their tashtooks to wipe the tears
away, saying: "There there, wazzums all weepy-weepy den."
And there it was again all clear before my glazzies, these
Germans prodding like beseeching and weeping Jews - vecks
and cheenas and malchicks and devotchkas - into mestos
where they would all snuff it of poison gas. Boo hoo hoo I
had to go again, and along they came to wipe the tears off,
very skorry, so I should not miss one solitary veshch of what
they were showing. It was a terrible and horrible day, O my
brothers and only friends.
I was lying on the bed all alone that nochy after my dinner
of fat thick mutton stew and fruit-pie and ice-cream, and I
thought to myself: "Hell hell hell, there might be a chance for
me if I get out now." I had no weapon, though. I was allowed
no britva here, and I had been shaved every other day by a fat
bald-headed veck who came to my bed before breakfast, two
white-coated bratchnies standing by to viddy I was a good
non-violent malchick. The nails on my rookers had been scissored and filed real short so I could not scratch. But I was
skorry on the attack, though they had weakened me down,
brothers, to a like shadow of what I had been in the old free
days. So now I got off the bed and went to the locked door
and began to fist it real horrorshow and hard, creeching at the
same time: "Oh, help help. I'm sick, I'm dying. Doctor doctor
doctor, quick. Please. Oh, I'll die, I shall. Help." My gorlo
real dry and sore before anyone came. Then I heard nogas
coming down the corridor and a like grumbling goloss, and
then I recognized the goloss of the white-coated veck who
brought me pishcha and like escorted me to my daily doom.
He like grumbled:
"What is it? What goes on? What's your little nasty game in
"Oh, I'm dying," I like moaned. "Oh, I have a ghastly pain in
my side. Appendicitis, it is. Ooooooh."
"Appendy shitehouse," grumbled this veck, and then to my
joy, brothers, I could slooshy the like clank of keys. "If
trying it little friend, my friends and me will beat and kick you
all through the night." Then he opened up and brought in like
the sweet air of the promise of my freedom. Now I was like
behind the door when he pushed it open, and I could viddy
him in the corridor light looking round for me puzzled. Then
I raised my two fisties to tolchock him on the neck nasty, and
then, I swear, as I viddied him in advance lying moaning or out out out and felt the like joy rise in my guts, it was
then that this sickness rose in me as it might be a wave and I
felt a horrible fear as if I was really going to die. I like
over to the bed going urgh urgh urgh, and the veck, who was
not in his white coat but an over-gown, viddied clear enough
what I had in mind for he said:
"Well, everything's a lesson, isn't it? Learning all the time,
as you could say. Come on, little friend, get up from that bed
and hit me. I want you to, yes, really. A real good crack
the jaw. Oh, I'm dying for it, really I am." But all I could
brothers, was to just lay there sobbing boo hoo hoo. "Scum,"
like sneered this veck now. "Filth." And he pulled me up by
the scruff of my pyjama-top, me being very weak and limp,
and he raised and swung his right rooker so that I got a fair
old tolchock clean on the litso. "That," he said, "is for
me out of my bed, you young dirt." And he wiped his rookers
against each other swish swish and went out. Crunch crunch
went the key in the lock.
And what, brothers, I had to escape into sleep from then
was the horrible and wrong feeling that it was better to get
the hit than give it. If that veck had stayed I might even have
like presented the other cheek.
I could not believe, brothers, what I was told. It seemed that I
had been in that vonny mesto for near ever and would be
there for near ever more. But it had always been a fortnight
and now they said the fortnight was near up. They said:
"Tomorrow, little friend, out out out." And they made with
the old thumb, like pointing to freedom. And then the whitecoated veck who had tolchocked me and who had still
brought me my trays of pishcha and like escorted me to my
everyday torture said: "But you still have one real big day in
front of you. It's to be your passing-out day," and he had a
leery smeck at that.
I expected this morning that I would be ittying as usual to
the sinny mesto in my pyjamas and toofles and over-gown.
But no. This morning I was given my shirt and underveshches
and my platties of the night and my horrorshow kick-boots,
all lovely and washed or ironed and polished. And I was even
given my cut-throat britva that I had used in those old happy
days for fillying and dratsing. So I gave with the puzzled frown
at this as I got dressed, but the white-coated under-veck just
like grinned and would govoreet nothing, O my brothers.
I was led quite kindly to the same old mesto, but there were
changes there. Curtains had been drawn in front of the sinny
screen and the frosted glass under the projection holes was
no longer there, it having perhaps been pushed up or folded
to the sides like blinds or shutters. And where there had been
just the noise of coughing kashl kashl kashl and like shadows
of the lewdies was now a real audience, and in this audience
there were litsos I knew. There was the Staja Governor and
the holy man, the charlie or charles as he was called, and the
Chief Chasso and this very important and well-dressed chelloveck who was the Minister of the Interior or Inferior. All the
rest I did not know. Dr. Brodsky and Dr. Branom were there,
though not now white-coated, instead they were dressed as
doctors would dress who were big enough to want to dress in
the heighth of fashion. Dr. Branom just stood, but Dr. Brodsky
stood and govoreeted in a like learned manner to all the
lewdies assembled. When he viddied me coming in he said:
"Aha. At this stage, gentlemen, we introduce the subject himself. He is, as you will percieve, fit and well nourished. He
comes straight from a night's sleep and a good breakfast,
undrugged, unhypnotized. Tomorrow we send him with
confidence out into the world again, as decent a lad as you
would meet on a May morning, inclined to the kindly word
and the helpful act. What a change is here, gentlemen, from
the wretched hoodlum the State committed to unprofitable
punishment some two years ago, unchanged after two years.
Unchanged, do I say? Not quite. Prison taught him the false
smile, the rubbed hands of hypocrisy, the fawning greased
obsequious leer. Other vices it taught him, as well as
confirming him in those he had long practised before. But
gentlemen, enough of words. Actions speak louder than.
Action now. Observe, all."
I was a bit dazed by all this govoreeting and I was trying to
grasp in my mind that like all this was about me. Then all the
lights went out and then there came on two like spotlights
shining from the projection-squares, and one of them was full
on Your Humble and Suffering Narrator. And into the other
spotlight there walked a bolshy big chelloveck I had never
viddied before. He had a lardy like litso and a moustache and
like strips of hair pasted over his near-bald gulliver. He was
about thirty or forty or fifty, some old age like that, starry.
He ittied up to me and the spotlight ittied with him, and soon
the two spotlights had made like one big pool. He said to me,
very sneery: "Hello, heap of dirt. Pooh, you don't wash much,
judging from the horrible smell." Then, as if he was like dancing, he stamped on my nogas, left, right, then he gave me a
finger-nail flick on the nose that hurt like bezoomny and
brought the old tears to my glazzies then he twisted at my left
ooko like it was a radio dial. I could slooshy titters and a
couple of real horrorshow hawhawhaws coming from like
the audience. My nose and nogas and ear-hole stung and
pained like bezoomny, so I said:
"What do you do that to me for? I've never done wrong to
you, brother."
"Oh," this veck said, "I do this" - flickedflicked nose again -
"and that" - twisted smarting ear-hole - "and the other" -
stamped nasty on right noga - "because I don't care for your
horrible type. And if you want to do anything about it, start,
start, please do." Now I knew that I'd have to be real skorry
and get my cut-throat britva out before this horrible killing
sickness whooshed up and turned the like joy of battle into
feeling I was going to snuff it. But, O brothers, as my rooker
reached for the britva in my inside carman I got this like
picture in my mind's glazzy of this insulting chelloveck howling for mercy with the red red krovvy all streaming out of his
rot, and hot after this picture the sickness and dryness and
pains were rushing to overtake, and I viddied that I'd have to
change the way I felt about this rotten veck very very skorry
indeed, so I felt in my carmans for cigarettes or for pretty
polly, and, O my brothers, there was not either of these
veshches, I said, like all howly and blubbery:
"I'd like to give you a cigarette, brother, but I don't seem to
have any." This veck went:
"Wah wah. Boohoohoo. Cry, baby." Then he flickflickflicked with his bolshy horny nail at my nose again, and I
could slooshy very loud smecks of like mirth coming from the
dark audience. I said, real desperate, trying to be nice to this
insulting and hurtful veck to stop the pains and sickness
coming up:
"Please let me do something for you, please." And I felt in
my carmans but could find only my cut-throat britva, so I
took this out and handed it to him and said: "Please take this,
please. A little present. Please have it." But he said:
"Keep your stinking bribes to yourself. You can't get round
me that way." And he banged at my rooker and my cut-throat
britva fell on the floor. So I said:
"Please, I must do something. Shall I clean your boots? Look,
I'll get down and lick them." And, my brothers, believe it or
kiss my sharries, I got down on my knees and pushed my red
yahzick out a mile and half to lick his grahzny vonny boots.
But all this veck did was to kick me not too hard on the rot.
So then it seemed to me that it would not bring on the sickness and pain if I just gripped his ankles with my rookers tight
round them and brought this grashzny bratchny down to the
floor. So I did this and he got a real bolshy surprise, coming
down crack amid loud laughter from the vonny audience. But
viddying him on the floor I could feel the whole horrible feeling coming over me, so I gave him my rooker to lift him up
skorry and up he came. Then just as he was going to give me
a real nasty and earnest tolchock on the litso Dr. Brodsky said:
"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 subject has to switch to a diametrically opposed attitude. Any
"Choice," rumbled a rich deep goloss. I viddied it belonged
to the prison charlie. "He has no real choice, has he? Selfinterest, 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 concerned 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
clockwork orange?" I didn't know what made me use those slovos,
brothers, which just came like without asking into my gulliver. 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
"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
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 audience 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
"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 embarrassing 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 Narrator 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 Government 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 hooligans and perverts and burglars and all that cal. Which interessovatted 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 Reclamation 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
yes, and a quiet think on the bed to the sound of lovely
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
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 gazetta 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
"So that's it, then. Well, I give you five large minootas to
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 viddied 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
my dad that answered, saying:
"That was all took away, son, by the police. This new regulation, 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
before you sit, you mannerless young swine," so I cracked
back skorry with a "Shut your dirty big fat hole, you," feeling
sick. Then I tried to be all reasonable and smiling for my
health's sake like, so I said: "Well, that's my room, there's no
denying that. This is my home also. What suggestions have
you, my pee and em, to make?" But they just looked very
glum, my mum shaking a bit, her litso all lines and wet with
like tears, and then my dad said:
"All this needs thinking about, son. We can't very well just
kick Joe out, not just like that, can we? I mean, Joe's here
doing a job, a contract it is, two years, and we made like an
arrangement, didn't we, Joe? I mean son, thinking you were
going to stay in prison a long time and that room going begging." He was a bit ashamed, you could viddy that from his
litso. So I just smiled and like nodded, saying:
"I viddy all. You got used to a bit of peace and you got
used to a bit of extra pretty polly. That's the way it goes.
And your son has just been nothing but a terrible nuisance."
And then, my brothers, believe me or kiss my sharries, I
started to like cry, feeling very like sorry for myself. So my
dad said:
"Well, you see, son, Joe's paid next month's rent already. I
mean, whatever we do in the future we can't say to Joe to get
out, can we, Joe?" This Joe said:
"It's you two I've got to think of, who've been like a father
and mother to me. Would it be right or fair to go off and
leave you to the tender mercies of this young monster who
has been like no real son at all? He's weeping now, but that's
his craft and artfulness. Let him go off and find a room somewhere. Let him learn the error of his ways and that a bad boy
like he's been doesn't deserve such a good mum and dad as
what he's had."
"All right," I said, standing up in all like tears still. "I
how things are now. Nobody wants or loves me. I've suffered
and suffered and suffered and everybody wants me to go on
suffering. I know."
"You've made others suffer," said this Joe. "It's only right
you should suffer proper. I've been told everything that
you've done, sitting here at night round the family table, and
pretty shocking it was to listen to. Made me real sick a lot of
it did."
"I wish," I said, "I was back in the prison. Dear old Staja as
was. I'm ittying off now," I said. "You won't ever viddy me no
more. I'll make my own way, thank you very much. Let it lie
heavy on your consciences." My dad said:
"Don't take it like that, son," and my mum just went boo
hoo hoo, her litso all screwed up real ugly, and this Joe put
his rooker round her again, patting her and going there there
there like bezoomny. And so I just sort of staggered to the
door and went out, leaving them to their horrible guilt, O my
Ittying down the street in a like aimless sort of a way
brothers, in these night platties which lewdies like stared at as
I went by, cold too, it being a bastard cold winter day, all I
I wanted was to be away from all this and not have to
think any more about any sort of veshch at all. So I got the
autobus to Center, then walked back to Taylor Place, and
there was the disc-bootick 'MELODIA' - I had used to favour
with my inestimable custom, O my brothers, and it looked
much the same sort of mesto as it always had, and walking in I
expected to viddy old Andy there, that bald and very very thin
helpful little veck from whom I had kupetted discs in the old
days. But there was no Andy there now, brothers, only a
scream and a creech of nadsat (teenage, that is) malchicks and
ptitsas slooshying some new horrible popsong and dancing
to it as well, and the veck behind the counter not much more
than a nadsat himself, clicking his rooker-bones and smecking
like bezoomny. So I went up and waited till he like deigned to
notice me, then I said:
"I'd like to hear a disc of the Mozart Number Forty." I don't
know why that should have come into my gulliver, but it did.
The counter-veck said:
"Forty what, friend?"
I said: "Symphony. Symphony Number Forty in G Minor."
"Ooooh," went one of the dancing nadsats, a malchick with
his hair all over his glazzies, "seemfunnah. Don't it seem
funny? He wants a seemfunnah."
I could feel myself growing all razdraz within, but I had to
watch that, so I like smiled at the veck who had taken over
Andy's place and at all the dancing and creeching nadsats. This
counter-veck said: "You go into that listen-booth over there,
friend, and I'll pipe something through."
So I went over to the malenky box where you could slooshy the discs you wanted to buy, and then this veck put a disc
on for me, but it wasn't the Mozart Forty, it was the Mozart
'Prague' - he seemingly having just picked up any Mozart he
could find on the shelf - and that should have started making
me real razdraz and I had to watch that for fear of the pain
and sickness, but what I'd forgotten was something I
shouldn't have forgotten and now made me want to snuff it.
It was that these doctor bratchnies had so fixed things that
any music that was like for the emotions would make me sick
just like viddying or wanting to do violence. It was because all
those violence films had music with them. And I remembered
especially that horrible Nazi film with the Beethoven Fifth,
last movement. And now here was lovely Mozart made horrible. I dashed out of the shop with these nadsats smecking
after me and the counter-veck creeching: "Eh eh eh!" But I
took no notice and went staggering almost like blind across
the road and round the corner to the Korova Milkbar. I knew
what I wanted.
The mesto was near empty, it being still morning. It looked
strange too, having been painted with all red mooing cows,
and behind the counter was no veck I knew. But when I said:
"Milk plus, large," the veck with a like lean litso very newly
shaved knew what I wanted. I took the large moloko plus to
one of the little cubies that were all around this mesto, there
being like curtains to shut them off from the main mesto, and
there I sat down in the plushy chair and sipped and sipped.
When I'd finished the whole lot I began to feel that things
were happening. I had my glazzies like fixed on a malenky bit
of silver paper from a cancer packet that was on the floor, the
sweeping-up of this mesto not being all that horrorshow,
brothers. This scrap of silver began to grow and grow and
grow and it was so like bright and fiery that I had to squint my
glazzies at it. It got so big that it became not only this whole
cubie I was lolling in but like the whole Korova, the whole
street, the whole city. Then it was the whole world, then it
was the whole everything, brothers, and it was like a sea
washing over every veshch that had ever been made or
thought of even. I could sort of slooshy myself making
special sort of shooms and govoreeting slovos like 'Dear
dead idlewilds, rot not in variform guises' and all that cal.
Then I could like feel the vision beating up in all this silver,
and then there were colours like nobody had ever viddied
before, and then I could viddy like a group of statues a long
long long way off that was like being pushed nearer and
nearer and nearer, all lit up by very bright light from below
and above alike, O my brothers. This group of statues was of
God or Bog and all His Holy Angels and Saints, all very bright
like bronze, with beards and bolshy great wings that waved
about in a kind of wind, so that they could not really be of
stone or bronze, really, and the eyes or glazzies like moved
and were alive. These bolshy big figures came nearer and
nearer and nearer till they were like going to crush me down,
and I could slooshy my goloss going 'Eeeeee'. And I felt I had
got rid of everything - platties, body, brain, name, the lot -
and felt real horrorshow, like in heaven. Then there was the
shoom of like crumbling and crumpling, and Bog and the
Angels and Saints sort of shook their gullivers at me, as
though to govoreet that there wasn't quite time now but I
must try again, and then everything like leered and smecked
and collapsed and the big warm light grew like cold, and then
there I was as I was before, the empty glass on the table and
wanting to cry and feeling like death was the only answer to
And that was it, that was what I viddied quite clear was the
thing to do, but how to do it I did not properly know, never
having thought of that before, O my brothers. In my little bag
of personal veshches I had my cut-throat britva, but I at once
felt very sick as I thought of myself going swishhhh at myself
and all my own red red krovvy flowing. What I wanted was
not something violent but something that would make me
like just go off gentle to sleep and that be the end of Your
Humble Narrator, no more trouble to anybody any more.
Perhaps, i thought, if I ittied off to the Public Biblio around
the corner I might find some book on the best way of snuffing
it with no pain. I thought of myself dead and how sorry everybody was going to be, pee and em and that cally vonny Joe
who was a like usurper, and also Dr. Brodsky and Dr. Branom
and that Inferior Interior Minister and every veck else. And the
boastful vonny Government too. So out I scatted into the
winter, and it was afternoon now, near two o'clock, as I
could viddy from the bolshy Center timepiece, so that me
being in the land with the old moloko plus must have took
like longer than I thought. I walked down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby Avenue, then round the
corner again, and there was the Public Biblio.
It was a starry cally sort of a mesto that I could not remember going into since I was a very very malenky malchick,
no more than about six years old, and there were two parts of
it - one part to borrow books and one part to read in, full of
gazettas and mags and like the von of very starry old men
with their plotts stinking of like old age and poverty. These
were standing at the gazetta stands all round the room,
sniffling and belching and govoreeting to themselves and
turning over the pages to read the news very sadly, or else
they were sitting at the tables looking at the mags or pretending to, some of them asleep and one or two of them
snoring real gromky. I couldn't remember what it was I
wanted at first, then I remembered with a bit of a shock that
I had ittied here to find out how to snuff it without pain, so I
goolied over to the shelf full of reference veshches. There were
a lot of books, but there was none with a title, brothers, that
would really do. There was a medical book that I took down,
but when I opened it it was full of drawings and photographs
of horrible wounds and diseases, and that made me want to
sick just a bit. So I put that back and took down the big
book or Bible, as it was called, thinking that might give me
like comfort as it had done in the old Staja days (not so old
really, but it seemed a very very long time ago), and I staggered
over to a chair to read in it. But all I found was about smiting
seventy times seven and a lot of Jews cursing and tolchocking
each other, and that made me want to sick, too. So then I
near cried, so that a very starry ragged moodge opposite me
"What is it, son? What's the trouble?"
"I want to snuff it," I said. "I've had it, that's what it is.
become too much for me."
A starry reading veck next to me said: "Shhhh," without
looking up from some bezoomny mag he had full of drawings
of like bolshy geometrical veshches. That rang a bell somehow. This other moodge said:
"You're too young for that, son. Why, you've got everything in front of you."
"Yes," I said, bitter. "Like a pair of false groodies." This
magreading veck said: "Shhhh" again, looking up this time, and
something clocked for both of us. I viddied who it was. He
said, real gromky:
"I never forget a shape, by God. I never forget the shape of
anything. By God, you young swine, I've got you now." Crystallography, that was it. That was what he'd been taking away
from the Biblio that time. False teeth crunched up real horrorshow. Platties torn off. His books razrezzed, all about
Crystallography. I thought I had best get out of here real
skorry, brothers. But this starry old moodge was on his feet,
creeching like bezoomny to all the starry old coughers at the
gazettas round the walls and to them dozing over mags at the
tables. "We have him," he creeched. "The poisonous young
swine who ruined the books on Crystallography, rare books,
books not to be obtained ever again, anywhere." This had a
terrible mad shoom about it, as though this old veck was
really off his gulliver. "A prize specimen of the cowardly
young," he creeched. "Here in our midst and at our mercy. He
and his friends beat me and kicked me and thumped me. They
stripped me and tore out my teeth. They laughed at my blood
and my moans. They kicked me off home, dazed and naked."
All this wasn't quite true, as you know, brothers. He had
some platties on, he hadn't been completely nagoy.
I creeched back: "That was over two years ago. I've been
punished since then. I've learned my lesson. See over there -
my picture's in the papers."
"Punishment, eh?" said one starry like ex-soldier type. "You
lot should be exterminated. Like so many noisome pests. Punishment indeed."
"All right, all right," I said. "Everybody's entitled to his
opinion. Forgive me, all. I must go now." And I started to
out of this mesto of bezoomny old men. Aspirin, that was it.
You could snuff it on a hundred aspirin. Aspirin from the old
drugstore. But the crystallography veck creeched:
"Don't let him go. We'll teach him all about punishment,
the murderous young pig. Get him." And, believe it, brothers,
or do the other veshch, two or three starry dodderers, about
ninety years old apiece, grabbed me with their trembly old
rookers, and I was like made sick by the von of old age and
disease which came from these near-dead moodges. The crystal veck was on to me now, starting to deal me malenky weak
tolchocks on my litso, and I tried to get away and itty out,
but these starry rookers that held me were stronger than I had
thought. Then other starry vecks came hobbling from the
gazettas to have a go at Your Humble Narrator. They were
creeching veshches like: "Kill him, stamp on him, murder him,
kick his teeth in," and all that cal, and I could viddy what it
clear enough. It was old age having a go at youth, that's what
it was. But some of them were saying: "Poor old Jack, near
killed poor old Jack he did, this is the young swine" and so on,
as though it had all happened yesterday. Which to them I
suppose it had. There was now like a sea of vonny runny dirty
old men trying to get at me with their like feeble rookers and
horny old claws, creeching and panting on to me, but our
crystal droog was there in front, dealing out tolchock after
tolchock. And I daren't do a solitary single veshch, O my
brothers, it being better to be hit at like that than to want to
sick and feel that horrible pain, but of course the fact that
there was violence going on made me feel that the sickness
was peeping round the corner to viddy whether to come out
into the open and roar away.
Then an attendant veck came along, a youngish veck,and he
creeched: "What goes on here? Stop it at once. This is a reading room." But nobody took any notice. So the attendant
veck said: "Right, I shall phone the police." So I creeched, and
never thought I would ever do that in all my jeezny:
"Yes yes yes, do that, protect me from these old madmen." I
noticed that the attendant veck was not too anxious to join
in the dratsing and rescue me from the rage and madness of
these starry vecks' claws; he just scatted off to his like office
or wherever the telephone was. Now these old men were panting a lot now, and I felt I could just flick at them and they
would all fall over, but I just let myself be held, very patient,
by these starry rookers, my glazzies closed, and feel the feeble
tolchocks on my litso, also slooshy the panting breathy old
golosses creeching: "Young swine, young murderer, hooligan,
thug, kill him." Then I got such a real painful tolchock on the
nose that I said to myself to hell to hell, and I opened my
glazzies up and started to struggle to get free, which was not
hard, brothers, and I tore off creeching to the sort of hallway
outside the reading-room. But these starry avengers still came
after me, panting like dying, with their animal claws all trembling to get at your friend and Humble Narrator. Then I was
tripped up and was on the floor and was being kicked at, then
I slooshied golosses of young vecks creeching: "All right, all
right, stop it now," and I knew the police had arrived.
I was like dazed, O my brothers, and could not viddy very
clear, but I was sure I had met these millicents some mesto
before. The one who had hold of me, going: "There there
there," just by the front door of the Public Biblio, him I did
not know at all, but it seemed to me he was like very young to
be a rozz. But the other two had backs that I was sure I had
viddied before. They were lashing into these starry old vecks
with great bolshy glee and joy, swishing away with malenky
whips, creeching: "There, you naughty boys. That should
teach you to stop rioting and breaking the State's Peace, you
wicked villains, you." So they drove these panting and wheezing and near dying starry avengers back into the readingroom, then they turned round, smecking with the fun they'd
had, to viddy me. The older one of the two said:
"Well well well well well well well. If it isn't little Alex.
long time no viddy, droog. How goes?" I was like dazed, the
uniform and the shlem or helmet making it hard to viddy who
this was, though litso and goloss were very familiar. Then I
looked at the other one, and about him, with his grinning
bezoomny litso, there was no doubt. Then, all numb and
growing number, I looked back at the well well welling one.
This one was then fatty old Billyboy, my old enemy. The
other was, of course, Dim, who had used to be my droog and
also the enemy of stinking fatty goaty Billyboy, but was now
a millicent with uniform and shlem and whip to keep order. I
"Oh no."
"Surprise, eh?" And old Dim came out with the old guff I
remembered so horrorshow: "Huh huh huh."
"It's impossible," I said. "It can't be so. I don't believe
"Evidence of the old glazzies," grinned Billyboy. "Nothing up
our sleeves. No magic, droog. A job for two who are now of
job-age. The police."
"You're too young," I said. "Much too young. They don't
make rozzes of malchicks of your age."
"Was young," went old millicent Dim. I could not get over
it, brothers, I really could not. "That's what we was, young
droogie. And you it was that was always the youngest. And
here now we are."
"I still can't believe it," I said. Then Billyboy, rozz Billyboy
that I couldn't get over, said to this young millicent that was
like holding on to me and that I did not know:
"More good would be done, I think, Rex, if we doled out a
bit of the old summary. Boys will be boys, as always was. No
need to go through the old station routine. This one here has
been up to his old tricks, as we can well remember though
you, of course, can't. He has been attacking the aged and
defenceless, and they have properly been retaliating. But we
must have our say in the State's name."
"What is all this?" I said, not able hardly to believe my
ookos. "It was them that went for me, brothers. You're not on
their side and can't be. You can't be, Dim. It was a veck we
fillied with once in the old days trying to get his own malenky
bit of revenge after all this long time."
"Long time is right," said Dim. "I don't remember them days
too horrorshow. Don't call me Dim no more, either. Officer
call me."
"Enough is remembered, though," Billyboy kept nodding.
He was not so fatty as he had been. "Naughty little malchicks
handy with cut-throat britvas - these must be kept under."
And they took me in a real strong grip and like walked me out
of the Biblio. There was a millicent patrol-car waiting outside,
and this veck they called Rex was the driver. They like tol-
chocked me into the back of this auto, and I couldn't help
feeling it was all really like a joke, and that Dim anyway would
pull his shlem off his gulliver and go haw haw haw. But he
didn't. I said, trying to fight the strack inside me:
"And old Pete, what happened to old Pete? It was sad about
Georgie," I said. "I slooshied all about that."
"Pete, oh yes, Pete," said Dim. "I seem to remember like the
name." I could viddy we were driving out of town. I said:
"Where are we supposed to be going?"
Billyboy turned round from the front to say: "It's light still.
A little drive into the country, all winter-bare but lonely and
lovely. It is not right, not always, for lewdies in the town to
viddy too much of our summary punishments. Streets must be
kept clean in more than one way." And he turned to the front
"Come," I said. "I just don't get this at all. The old days are
dead and gone days. For what I did in the past I have been
punished. I have been cured."
"That was read out to us," said Dim. "The Super read all that
out to us. He said it was a very good way."
"Read to you," I said, a malenky bit nasty. "You still too dim
to read for yourself, O brother?"
"Ah, no," said Dim, very like gentle and like regretful. "Not
to speak like that. Not no more, droogie." And he launched a
bolshy tolchock right on my cluve, so that all red red nosekrovvy started to drip drip drip.
"There was never any trust," I said, bitter, wiping off the
krovvy with my rooker. "I was always on my oddy knocky."
"This will do," said Billyboy. We were now in the country
and it was all bare trees and a few odd distant like twitters,
and in the distance there was some like farm machine making
a whirring shoom. It was getting all dusk now, this being the
height of winter. There were no lewdies about, nor no
animals. There was just the four. "Get out, Alex boy," said
Dim. "Just a malenky bit of summary."
All through what they did this driver veck just sat at the
wheel of the auto, smoking a cancer, reading a malenky bit of
a book. He had the light on in the auto to viddy by. He took
no notice of what Billyboy and Dim did to your Humble
Narrator. I will not go into what they did, but it was all like
panting and thudding against this like background of whirring
farm engines and the twittwittwittering in the bare or nagoy
branches. You could viddy a bit of smoky breath in the auto
light, this driver turning the pages over quite calm. And they
were on to me all the time, O my brothers. Then Billyboy or
Dim, I couldn't say which one, said: "About enough, droogie. I
should think, shouldn't you?" Then they gave me one final
tolchock on the litso each and I fell over and just laid there
on the grass. It was cold but I was not feeling the cold. Then
they dusted their rookers and put back on their shlems and
tunics which they had taken off, and then they got back into
the auto. "Be viddying you some more sometime, Alex," said
Billyboy, and Dim just gave one of his old clowny guffs. The
driver finished the page he was reading and put his book away,
then he started the auto and they were off townwards, my exdroog and ex-enemy waving. But I just laid there, fagged and
After a bit I was hurting bad, and then the rain started, all
icy. I could viddy no lewdies in sight, nor no lights of houses.
Where was I to go, who had no home and not much cutter in
my carmans? I cried for myself boo hoo hoo. Then I got up
and started walking.
Home, home, home, it was home I was wanting, and it was
HOME I came to, brothers. I walked through the dark and
followed not the town way but the way where the shoom of a
like farm machine had been coming from. This brought me to
a sort of village I felt I had viddied before, but was perhaps
because all villages look the same, in the dark especially. Here
were houses and there was a like drinking mesto, and right at
the end of the village there was a malenky cottage on its oddy
knocky, and I could viddy its name shining on the gate.
HOME, it said. I was all dripping wet with this icy rain, so
that my platties were no longer in the heighth of fashion but
real miserable and like pathetic, and my luscious glory was a
wet tangle cally mess all spread over my gulliver, and I was
sure there were cuts and bruises all over my litso, and a couple
of my zoobies sort of joggled loose when I touched them
with my tongue or yahzick. And I was sore all over my plott
and very thirsty, so that I kept opening my rot to the cold
rain, and my stomach growled grrrrr all the time with not
having had any pishcha since morning and then not very
much, O my brothers.
HOME, it said, and perhaps here would be some veck to
help. I opened the gate and sort of slithered down the path,
the rain like turning to ice, and then I knocked gentle and
pathetic on the door. No veck came, so I knocked a malenky
bit longer and louder, and then I heard the shoom of nogas
coming to the door. Then the door opened and a male goloss
said: "Yes, what is it?"
"Oh," I said, "please help. I've been beaten up by the police
and just left to die on the road. Oh, please give me a drink of
something and a sit by the fire, please, sir."
The door opened full then, and I could viddy like warm
light and a fire going crackle crackle within. "Come in," said
this veck, "whoever you are. God help you, you poor victim,
come in and let's have a look at you." So I like staggered in,
and it was no big act I was putting on, brothers, I really felt
done and finished. This kind veck put his rookers round my
pletchoes and pulled me into this room where the fire was,
and of course I knew right away now where it was and why
HOME on the gate looked so familiar. I looked at this veck
and he looked at me in a kind sort of way, and I remembered
him well now. Of course he would not remember me, for in
those carefree days I and my so-called droogs did all our
bolshy dratsing and fillying and crasting in maskies which were
real horrorshow disguises. He was a shortish veck in middle
age, thirty, forty, fifty, and he had otchkies on. "Sit down by
the fire," he said, "and I'll get you some whisky and warm
water. Dear dear dear, somebody has been beating you up."
And he gave a like tender look at my gulliver and litso.
"The police," I said. "The horrible ghastly police."
"Another victim," he said, like sighing. "A victim of the
modern age. I'll go and get you that whisky and then I must
clean up your wounds a little." And off he went. I had a look
round this malenky comfortable room. It was nearly all
books now and a fire and a couple of chairs, and you could
viddy somehow that there wasn't a woman living there. On
the table was a typewriter and a lot of like tumbled papers,
and I remembered that this veck was a writer veck. 'A Clockwork Orange', that had been it. It was funny that that stuck in
my mind. I must not let on, though, for I needed help and
kindness now. Those horrible grahzny bratchnies in that terrible white mesto had done that to me, making me need help
and kindness now and forcing me to want to give help and
kindness myself, if anybody would take it.
"Here we are, then," said this veck returning. He gave me this
hot stimulating glassful to peet, and it made me feel better,
and then he cleaned up these cuts on my litso. Then he said:
"You have a nice hot bath, I'll draw it for you, and then you
can tell me all about it over a nice hot supper which I'll get
ready while you're having the bath." O my brothers, I could
have wept at his kindness, and I think he must have viddied the
old tears in my glazzies, for he said: "There there there," patting me on the pletcho.
Anyway, I went up and had this hot bath, and he brought in
pyjamas and an over-gown for me to put on, all warmed by
the fire, also a very worn pair of toofles. And now, brothers,
though I was aching and full of pains all over, I felt I would
soon feel a lot better. I ittied downstairs and viddied that in
the kitchen he had set the table with knives and forks and a
fine big loaf of kleb, also a bottle of PRIMA SAUCE, and
soon he served out a nice fry of eggiwegs and lomticks of
ham and bursting sausages and big bolshy mugs of hot sweet
milky chai. It was nice sitting there in the warm, eating, and I
found I was very hungry, so that after the fry I had to eat
lomtick after lomtick of kleb and butter spread with strawberry jam out of a bolshy great pot. "A lot better," I said.
can I ever repay?"
"I think I know who you are," he said. "If you are who I
think you are, then you've come, my friend, to the right place.
Wasn't that your picture in the papers this morning? Are you
the poor victim of this horrible new technique? If so, then
you have been sent here by Providence. Tortured in prison,
then thrown out to be tortured by the police. My heart goes
out to you, poor poor boy." Brothers, I could not get a slovo
in, though I had my rot wide open to answer his questions.
"You are not the first to come here in distress," he said. "The
police are fond of bringing their victims to the outskirts of
this village. But it is providential that you, who are also
another kind of victim, should come here. Perhaps, then, you
have heard of me?"
I had to be very careful, brothers. I said: "I have heard of 'A
Clockwork Orange'. I have not read it, but I have heard of
"Ah," he said, and his litso shone like the sun in its flaming
morning glory. "Now tell me about yourself."
"Little enough to tell, sir," I said, all humble. "There was a
foolish and boyish prank, my so-called friends persuading or
rather forcing me to break into the house of an old ptitsa -
lady, I mean. There was no real harm meant. Unfortunately
the lady strained her good old heart in trying to throw me
out, though I was quite ready to go of my own accord, and
then she died. I was accused of being the cause of her death.
So I was sent to prison,sir."
"Yes yes yes, go on."
"Then I was picked out by the Minister of the Inferior or
Interior to have this Ludovico's veshch tried out on me."
"Tell me all about it," he said, leaning forward eager, his
pullover elbows with all strawberry jam on them from the
plate I'd pushed to one side. So I told him all about it. I
him the lot, all, my brothers. He was very eager to hear all,
glazzies like shining and his goobers apart, while the grease
on the plates grew harder harder harder. When I had finished
he got up from the table, nodding a lot and going hm hm hm,
picking up the plates and other veshches from the table and
taking them to the sink for washing up. I said:
"I will do that, sir, and gladly."
"Rest, rest, poor lad," he said, turning the tap on so that all
steam came burping out. "You've sinned, I suppose, but your
punishment has been out of all proportion. They have turned
you into something other than a human being. You have no
power of choice any longer. You are committed to socially
acceptable acts, a little machine capable only of good. And I
see that clearly - that business about the marginal conditionings. Music and the sexual act, literature and art, all must be
source now not of pleasure but of pain."
"That's right, sir," I said, smoking one of this kind man's
cork-tipped cancers.
"They always bite off too much," he said, drying a plate like
absent-mindedly. "But the essential intention is the real sin.
man who cannot choose ceases to be a man."
"That's what the charles said, sir," I said. "The prison chaplain, I mean."
"Did he, did he? Of course he did. He'd have to, wouldn't
he, being a Christian? Well, now then," he said, still wiping
same plate he'd been wiping ten minutes ago, "we shall have a
few people in to see you tomorrow. I think you can be used,
poor boy. I think that you can help dislodge this overbearing
Government. To turn a decent young man into a piece of
clockwork should not, surely, be seen as any triumph for any
government, save one that boasts of its repressiveness." He
was still wiping this same plate. I said:
"Sir, you're still wiping that same plate, I agree with you, sir,
about boasting. This Government seems to be very boast-
"Oh," he said, like viddying this plate for the first time and
then putting it down. "I'm still not too handy," he said, "with
domestic chores. My wife used to do them all and leave me to
my writing."
"Your wife, sir?" I said. "Has she gone and left you?" I really
wanted to know about his wife, remembering very well.
"Yes, left me," he said, in a like loud and bitter goloss. "She
died, you see. She was brutally raped and beaten. The shock
was very great. It was in this house," his rookers were trembling, holding a wiping-up cloth, "in that room next door. I
have had to steel myself to continue to live here, but she
would have wished me to stay where her fragrant memory
still lingers. Yes yes yes. Poor little girl." I viddied all
my brothers, what had happened that far-off nochy, and viddying myself on that job, I began to feel I wanted to sick and
the pain started up in my gulliver. This veck viddied this, because my litso felt it was all drained of red red krovvy, very
pale, and he would be able to viddy this. "You go to bed now,"
he said kindly. "I've got the spare room ready. Poor poor boy,
you must have had a terrible time. A victim of the modern
age, just as she was. Poor poor poor girl."
I had a real horrorshow night's sleep, brothers, with no
dreams at all, and the morning was very clear and like frosty,
and there was the very pleasant like von of breakfast frying
away down below. It took me some little time to remember
where I was, as it always does, but it soon came back to me
and then I felt like warmed and protected. But, as I laid there
in the bed, waiting to be called down to breakfast, it struck
me that I ought to get to know the name of this kind protecting and like motherly veck, so I had a pad round in my
nagoy nogas looking for 'A Clockwork Orange', which would
be bound to have his eemya in, he being the author. There was
nothing in my bedroom except a bed and a chair and a light,
so I ittied next door to this veck's own room, and there I
viddied his wife on the wall, a bolshy blown-up photo, so I
felt a malenky bit sick remembering. But there were two or
three shelves of books there too, and there was, as I thought
there must be, a copy of 'A Clockwork Orange', and on the
back of the book, like on the spine, was the author's eemya -
F. Alexander. Good Bog, I thought, he is another Alex. Then I
leafed through, standing in his pyjamas and bare nogas but
not feeling one malenky bit cold, the cottage being warm all
through, and I could not viddy what the book was about. It
seemed written in a very bezoomny like style, full of Ah and
Oh and all that cal, but what seemed to come out of it was that
all lewdies nowadays were being turned into machines and
that they were really - you and me and him and kiss-mysharries - more like a natural growth like a fruit. F. Alexander
seemed to think that we all like grow on what he called the
world-tree in the world-orchard that like Bog or God
planted, and we were there because Bog or God had need of
us to quench his thirsty love, or some such cal. I didn't like
the shoom of this at all, O my brothers, and wondered how
bezoomny this F. Alexander really was, perhaps driven bezoomny by his wife's snuffing it. But then he called me down
in a like sane veck's goloss, full of joy and love and all that
cal, so down Your Humble Narrator went.
'You've slept long," he said, ladling out boiled eggs and
pulling black toast from under the grill. "It's nearly ten
already. I've been up hours, working."
"Writing another book, sir?" I said.
"No no, not that now," he said, and we sat down nice and
droogy to the old crack crack crack of eggs and crackle
crunch crunch of this black toast, very milky chai standing by
in bolshy great morning mugs. "No, I've been on the phone to
various people."
"I thought you didn't have a phone," I said, spooning egg in
and not watching out what I was saying.
"Why?" he said, very alert like some skorry animal with an
egg-spoon in its rooker. "Why shouldn't you think I have a
"Nothing," I said, "nothing, nothing." And I wondered,
brothers, how much he remembered of the earlier part of that
distant nochy, me coming to the door with the old tale and
saying to phone the doctor and she saying no phone. He
took a very close smot at me but then went back to being like
kind and cheerful and spooning up the old eggiweg. Munching
away, he said:
"Yes, I've rung up various people who will be interested in
your case. You can be a very potent weapon, you see, in ensuring that this present evil and wicked Government is not
returned in the forthcoming election. The Government's big
boast, you see, is the way it has dealt with crime these last
months." He looked at me very close again over his steaming
egg, and I wondered again if he was viddying what part I had so
far played in his jeezny. But he said: "Recruiting brutal young
roughs for the police. Proposing debilitating and will-sapping
techniques of conditioning." All these long slovos, brothers,
and a like mad or bezoomny look in his glazzies. "We've seen
it all before," he said, "in other countries. The thin end of
wedge. Before we know where we are we shall have the full
apparatus of totalitarianism." "Dear dear dear," I thought,
egging away and toast-crunching. I said:
"Where do I come into all this, sir?"
"You," he said, still with this bezoomny look, "are a living
witness to these diabolical proposals. The people, the
common people must know, must see." He got up from his
breakfast and started to walk up and down the kitchen, from
the sink to the like larder, saying very gromky: "Would they
like their sons to become what you, poor victim, have
become? Will not the Government itself now decide what is
and what is not crime and pump out the life and guts and will
of whoever sees fit to displeasure the Government? He became
quieter but did not go back to his egg. "I've written an
he said, "this morning, while you were sleeping. That will be
out in a day or so, together with your unhappy picture. You
shall sign it, poor boy, a record of what they have done to
you." I said:
"And what do you get out of all this, sir? I mean, besides
the pretty polly you'll get for the article, as you call it? I
mean, why are you so hot and strong against this Government, if I may make like so bold as to ask?"
He gripped the edge of the table and said, gritting his
zoobies, which were very cally and all stained with cancersmoke: "Some of us have to fight. There are great traditions
of liberty to defend. I am no partisan man. Where I see the
infamy I seek to erase it. Party names mean nothing. The tradition of liberty means all. The common people will let it go,
oh yes. They will sell liberty for a quieter life. That is why
must be prodded, prodded - " And here, brothers, he picked
up a fork and stuck it two or three razzes into the wall, so
that it got all bent. Then he threw it on the floor. Very
he said: "Eat well, poor boy, poor victim of the modern
world," and I could viddy quite clear he was going off his
gulliver. "Eat, eat. Eat my egg as well." But I said:
"And what do I get out of this? Do I get cured of the way I
am? Do I find myself able to slooshy the old Choral Symphony without being sick once more? Can I live like a normal
jeezny again? What, sir, happens to me?"
He looked at me, brothers, as if he hadn't thought of that
before and, anyway, it didn't matter compared with Liberty
and all that cal, and he had a look of surprise at me saying
what I said, as though I was being like selfish in wanting something for myself. Then he said: "Oh, as I say, you're a living
witness, poor boy. Eat up all your breakfast and then come
and see what I've written, for it's going into 'The Weekly
Trumpet' under your name, you unfortunate victim."
Well, brothers, what he had written was a very long and
very weepy piece of writing, and as I read it I felt very sorry
for the poor malchick who was govoreeting about his
sufferings and how the Government had sapped his will and
how it was up to all lewdies to not let such a rotten and evil
Government rule them again, and then of course I realized
that the poor suffering malchick was none other than Y. H. N.
"Very good," I said. "Real horrorshow. Written well thou
hast, O sir." And then he looked at me very narrow and
"What?" It was like he had not slooshied me before.
"Oh, that," I said, "is what we call nadsat talk. All the teens
use that, sir." So then he ittied off to the kitchen to wash up
the dishes, and I was left in these borrowed night platties and
toofles, waiting to have done to me what was going to be
done to me, because I had no plans for myself, O my
While the great F. Alexander was in the kitchen a dingalingaling came at the door. "Ah," he creeched, coming out
wiping his rookers, "it will be these people. I'll go." So he
and let them in, a kind of rumbling hahaha of talk and hallo
and filthy weather and how are things in the hallway, then
they ittied into the room with the fire and the book and the
article about how I had suffered, viddying me and going
Aaaaah as they did it. There were three lewdies, and F. Alex
gave me their eemyas. Z.Dolin was a very wheezy smoky kind
of a veck, coughing kashl kashl kashl with the end of a cancer
in his rot, spilling ash all down his platties and then brushing
it away with like very impatient rookers. He was a malenky
round veck, fat, with big thick-framed otchkies on. Then there
was Something Something Rubinstein, a very tall and polite
chelloveck with a real gentleman's goloss, very starry with a
like eggy beard. And lastly there was D. B. da Silva who was
like skorry in his movements and had this strong von of scent
coming from him. They all had a real horrorshow look at me
and seemed like overjoyed with what they viddied. Z. Dolin
"All right, all right, eh? What a superb device he can be, this
boy. If anything, of course, he could for preference look even
iller and more zombyish than he does. Anything for the cause.
No doubt we can think of something."
I did not like that crack about zombyish, brothers, and so I
said: "What goes on, bratties? What dost thou in mind for thy
little droog have?" And the F. Alexander swooshed in
"Strange, strange, that manner of voice pricks me. We've
come into contact before, I'm sure we have." And he brooded,
like frowning. I would have to watch this, O my brothers.
D. B. da Silva said:
"Public meetings, mainly. To exhibit you at public meetings
will be a tremendous help. And, of course, the newspaper
angle is all tied up. A ruined life is the approach. We must
inflame all hearts." He showed his thirty-odd zoobies, very
white against his dark-coloured litso, he looking a malenky
bit like some foreigner. I said:
"Nobody will tell me what I get out of all this. Tortured in
jail, thrown out of my home by my own parents and their
filthy overbearing lodger, beaten by old men and near-killed
by the millicents - what is to become of me?" The Rubinstein
veck came in with:
"You will see, boy, that the Party will not be ungrateful. Oh,
no. At the end of it all there will be some very acceptable
surprise for you. Just you wait and see."
"There's only one veshch I require," I creeched out, "and
that's to be normal and healthy as I was in the starry days,
having my malenky bit of fun with real droogs and not those
who just call themselves that and are really more like traitors.
Can you do that, eh? Can any veck restore me to what I was?
That's what I want and that's what I want to know."
Kashl kashl kashl, coughed this Z. Dolin. "A martyr to the
cause of Liberty." he said. "You have your part to play and
don't forget it. Meanwhile, we shall look after you." And he
began to stroke my left rooker as if I was like an idiot, grinning in a bezoomny way. I creeched:
"Stop treating me like a thing that's like got to be just used.
I'm not an idiot you can impose on, you stupid bratchnies.
Ordinary prestoopnicks are stupid, but I'm not ordinary and
nor am I dim. Do you slooshy?"
"Dim," said F. Alexander, like musing. "Dim. That was a name
somewhere. Dim."
"Eh?" I said. "What's Dim got to do with it? What do you
know about Dim?" And then I said: "Oh, Bog help us." I didn't
like the look in F. Alexander's glazzies. I made for the
door, wanting to go upstairs and get my platties and then itty
"I could almost believe," said F. Alexander, showing his
stained zoobies, his glazzies mad. "But such things are impossible. For, by Christ, if he were I'd tear him. I'd split him,
God, yes yes, so I would."
"There," said D. B. da Silva, stroking his chest like he was a
doggie to calm him down. "It's all in the past. It was other
people altogether. We must help this poor victim. That's what
we must do now, remembering the Future and our Cause."
"I'll just get my platties," I said, at the stair-foot, "that is
say clothes, and then I'll be ittying off all on my oddy knocky.
I mean, my gratitude for all, but I have my own jeezny to live."
Because, brothers, I wanted to get out of here real skorry. But
Z. Dolin said:
"Ah, no. We have you, friend, and we keep you. You come
with us. Everything will be all right, you'll see." And he came
up to me like to grab hold of my rooker again. Then,
brothers, I thought of fight, but thinking of fight made me like
want to collapse and sick, so I just stood. And then I saw this
like madness in F. Alexander's glazzies and said:
"Whatever you say. I am in your rookers. But let's get it
started and all over, brothers." Because what I wanted now
was to get out of this mesto called HOME. I was beginning
not to like the look of the glazzies of F. Alexander one
malenky bit.
"Good," said this Rubinstein. "Get dressed and let's get
"Dim dim dim," F. Alexander kept saying in a like low
mutter. "What or who was this Dim?" I ittied upstairs real
skorry and dressed in near two seconds flat. Then I was out
with these three and into an auto, Rubinstein one side of me
and Z. Dolin coughing kashl kashl kashl the other side. D. B.
da Silva doing the driving, into the town and to a flatblock
not really all that distant from what had used to be my own
flatblock or home. "Come, boy, out," said Z. Dolin, coughing
to make the cancer-end in his rot glow red like some malenky
furnace. "This is where you shall be installed." So we ittied
and there was like another of these Dignity of Labour veshches on the wall of the vestibule, and we upped in the lift,
brothers, and then went into a flat like all the flats of all the
flatblocks of the town. Very very malenky, with two bedrooms and one live-eat-work-room, the table of this all
covered with books and papers and ink and bottles and all
that cal. "Here is your new home," said D. B. da Silva. "Settle
here, boy. Food is in the food-cupboard. Pyjamas are in a
drawer. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit."
"Eh?" I said, not quite ponying that.
"All right," said Rubinstein, with his starry goloss. "We are
now leaving you. Work has to be done. We'll be with you
later. Occupy yourself as best you can."
"One thing," coughed Z. Dolin kashl kashl kashl. "You saw
what stirred in the tortured memory of our friend F. Alexander. Was it, by chance - ? That is to say, did you - ? I think
you know what I mean. We won't let it go any further."
"I've paid," I said. "Bog knows I've paid for what I did. I've
paid not only for like myself but for those bratchnies too
that called themselves my droogs." I felt violent so then I felt
bit sick. "I'll lay down a bit," I said. "I've been through
terrible times."
"You have," said D. B. da Silva, showing all his thirty
zoobies. "You do that."
So they left me, brothers. They ittied off about their
business, which I took to be about politics and all that cal,
and I was on the bed, all on my oddy knocky with everything
very very quiet. I just laid there with my sabogs kicked off my
nogas and my tie loose, like all bewildered and not knowing
what sort of a jeezny I was going to live now. And all sorts of
like pictures kept like passing through my gulliver, of the
different chellovecks I'd met at school and in the Staja, and
the different veshches that had happened to me, and how
there was not one veck you could trust in the whole bolshy
world. And then I like dozed off, brothers.
When I woke up I could hear slooshy music coming out of
the wall, real gromky, and it was that that had dragged me out
of my bit of like sleep. It was a symphony that I knew real
horrorshow but had not slooshied for many a year, namely
the Symphony Number Three of the Danish veck Otto Skadelig, a very gromky and violent piece, especially in the first
movement, which was what was playing now. I slooshied for
two seconds in like interest and joy, but then it all came over
me, the start of the pain and the sickness, and I began to
groan deep down in my keeshkas. And then there I was, me
who had loved music so much, crawling off the bed and going
oh oh oh to myself and then bang bang banging on the wall
creching: "Stop, stop it, turn it off!" But it went on and it
seemed to be like louder. So I crashed at the wall till my
knuckles were all red red krovvy and torn skin, creeching and
creeching, but the music did not stop. Then I thought I had to
get away from it, so I lurched out of the malenky bedroom
and ittied skorry to the front door of the flat, but this had
been locked from the outside and I could not get out. And all
the time the music got more and more gromky, like it was all
a deliberate torture, O my brothers. So I stuck my little
real deep in my ookos, but the trombones and kettledrums
blasted through gromky enough. So I creeched again for them
to stop and went hammer hammer hammer on the wall, but it
made not one malenky bit of difference. "Oh, what am I to
do?" I boohooed to myself. "Oh, Bog in Heaven help me." I
was like wandering all over the flat in pain and sickness, trying
to shut out the music and like groaning deep out of my guts,
and then on top of the pile of books and papers and all that
cal that was on the tablein the living room I viddied what I
had to do and what I had wanted to do until those old men in
the Public Biblio and then Dim and Billyboy disguised as
rozzes stopped me, and that was to do myself in, to snuff it,
to blast off for ever out of this wicked and cruel world. What
I viddied was the slovo DEATH on the cover of a like pamphlet, even though it was only DEATH to THE GOVERNMENT. And like it was Fate there was another malenky
booklet which had an open window on the cover, and it said:
"Open the window to fresh air, fresh ideas, a new way of
living." And so I knew that was like telling me to finish it all
by jumping out. One moment of pain, perhaps, and then sleep
for ever and ever and ever.
The music was still pouring in all brass and drums and the
violins miles up through the wall. The window in the room
where I had laid down was open. I ittied to it and viddied a
fair drop to the autos and buses and waiting chellovecks
below. I creeched out to the world: "Good-bye, good-bye,
may Bog forgive you for a ruined life." Then I got on to the
sill, the music blasting away to my left, and I shut my glazzies
and felt the cold wind on my litso, then I jumped.
I jumped, O my brothers, and I fell on the sidewalk hard, but I
did not snuff it, oh no. If I had snuffed it I would not be here
to write what I written have. It seems that the jump was not
from a big enough heighth to kill. But I cracked my back and
my wrists and nogas and felt very bolshy pain before I passed
out, brothers, with astonished and surprised litsos of chellovecks in the streets looking at me from above. And just before
I passed out I viddied clear that not one chelloveck in the
whole horrid world was for me and that that music through
the wall had all been like arranged by those who were supposed to be my like new droogs and that it was some veshch
like this that they wanted for their horrible selfish and boastful politics. All that was in like a million millionth part of
minoota before I threw over the world and the sky and the
litsos of the staring chellovecks that were above me.
Where I was when I came back to jeezny after a long black
black gap of it might have been a million years was a hospital,
all white and with this von of hospitals you get, all like sour
and smug and clean. These antiseptic veshches you get in hospitals should have a real horrorshow von of like frying
onions or of flowers. I came very slow back to knowing who
I was and I was all bound up in white and I could not feel
anything in my plott, pain nor sensation nor any veshch at all.
All round my gulliver was a bandage and there were bits of
stuff like stuck to my litso, and my rookers were all in
bandages and like bits of stick were like fixed to my fingers
on it might be flowers to make them grow straight, and my
poor old nogas were all straightened out too, and it was all
bandages and wire cages and into my right rooker, near the
pletcho, was red red krovvy dripping from a jar upside down.
But I could not feel anything, O my brothers. There was a
nurse sitting by my bed and she was reading some book that
was all very dim print and you could viddy it was a story
because of a lot of inverted commas, and she was like breathing hard uh uh uh over it, so it must have been a story about
the old in-out in-out. She was a real horrorshow devotchka,
this nurse, with a very red rot and like long lashes over her
glazzies, and under her like very stiff uniform you could viddy
she had very horrorshow groodies. So I said to her: "What
gives, O my little sister? Come thou and have a nice lay-down
with your malenky droog in this bed." But the slovos didn't
come out horrorshow at all, it being as though my rot was all
stiffened up, and I could feel with my yahzick that some of my
zoobies were no longer there. But this nurse like jumped and
dropped her book on the floor and said:
"Oh, you've recovered consciousness."
That was like a big rotful for a malenky ptitsa like her, and
I tried to say so, but the slovos came out only like er er er.
She ittied off and left me on my oddy knocky, and I could
viddy now that I was in a malenky room of my own, not in
one of these long wards like I had been in as a very little
malchick, full of coughing dying starry vecks all around to
make you want to get well and fit again. It had been like
diphtheria I had had then, O my brothers.
It was like now as though I could not hold to being conscious all that long, because I was like asleep again almost
right away, very skorry, but in a minoota or two I was sure
that this nurse ptitsa had come back and had brought chellovecks in white coats with her and they were viddying me very
frowning and going hm hm hm at Your Humble Narrator. And
with them I was sure there was the old charles from the Staja
govoreeting: "Oh my son, my son," breathing a like very stale
von of whisky on to me and then saying: "But I would not
stay, oh no. I could not in no wise subscribe to what those
bratchnies are going to do to other poor prestoopnicks. O I
got out and am preaching sermons now about it all, my little
beloved son in J. C."
I woke up again later on and who should I viddy there
round the bed but the three from whose flat I had jumped out,
namely D. B. da Silva and Something Something Rubinstein
and Z. Dolin. "Friend," one of these vecks was saying, but I
could not viddy, or slooshy horrorshow which one, "friend,
little friend," this goloss was saying, "the people are on fire
with indignation. You have killed those horrible boastful
villains' chances of re-election. They will go and will go
for ever and ever. You have served Liberty well." I tried to
"If I had died it would have been even better for you political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treacherous
droogs as you are." But all that came out was er er er. Then
one of these three seemed to hold out a lot of bits cut from
gazettas and what I could viddy was a horrible picture of me
all krovvy on a stretcher being carried off and I seemed to like
remember a kind of a popping of lights which must have been
photographer vecks. Out of one glazz I could read like headlines which were sort of trembling in the rooker of the
chelloveck that held them, like BOY VICTIM OF CRIMINAL
REFORM SCHEME and GOVERNMENT AS MURDERER and there was like a picture of a veck that
looked familiar to me and it said OUT OUT OUT, and that
would be the Minister of the Inferior or Interior. Then the
nurse ptitsa said:
"You shouldn't be exciting him like that. You shouldn't be
doing anything that will make him upset. Now come on, let's
have you out." I tried to say:
"Out out out," but it was er er er again. Anyway, these three
political vecks went. And I went, too, only back to the land,
back to all blackness lit up by like odd dreams which I didn't
know whether they were dreams or not, O my brothers. Like
for instance I had this idea of my whole plott or body being
like emptied of as it might be dirty water and then filled up
again with clean. And then there were really lovely and horrorshow dreams of being in some veck's auto that had been crasted
by me and driving up and down the world all on my oddy
knocky running lewdies down and hearing them creech they
were dying, and in me no pain and no sickness. And also there
were dreams of doing the old in-out in-out with devotchkas,
forcing like them down on the ground and making them have
it and everybody standing around claping their rookers and
cheering like bezoomny. And then I woke up again and it was
my pee and em come to viddy their ill son, my em boohooing
real horrorshow. I could govoreet a lot better now and could
"Well well well well well, what gives? What makes you think
you are like welcome?" My papapa said, in a like ashamed
"You were in the papers, son. It said they had done great
wrong to you. It said how the Government drove you to try
and do yourself in. And it was our fault too, in a way, son.
Your home's your home, when all's said and done, son." And
my mum kept on going boohoohoo and looking ugly as kissmy-sharries. So I said:
"And how beeth the new son Joe? Well and healthy and
prosperous, I trust and pray?" My mum said:
"Oh, Alex Alex. Owwwwwwww." My papapa said:
"A very awkward thing, son. He got into a bit of trouble
with the police and was done by the police."
"Really?" I said. "Really? Such a good sort of chelloveck and
all. Amazed proper I am, honest."
"Minding his own business he was," said my pee. "And the
police told him to move on. Waiting at a corner he was, son,
to see a girl he was going to meet. And they told him to move
on and he said he had rights like everybody else, and then they
sort of fell on top of him and hit him about cruel."
"Terrible," I said. "Really terrible. And where is the poor boy
"Owwwww," boohooed my mum. "Gone back owwwwwwme."
"Yes," said dad. "He's gone back to his own home town to
get better. They've had to give his job here to somebody
"So now," I said, "You're willing for me to move back in
again and things be like they were before."
"Yes, son," said my papapa. "Please, son."
"I'll consider it," I said. "I'll think about it real careful."
"Owwwww," went my mum.
"Ah, shut it," I said, "or I'll give you something proper to
yowl and creech about. Kick your zoobies in I will." And, O
my brothers, saying that made me feel a malenky bit better, as
if all like fresh red red krovvy was flowing all through my
plott. That was something I had to think about. It was like as
though to get better I had had to get worse.
"That's no way to speak to your mother, son," said my
papapa. "After all, she brought you into the world."
"Yes," I said. "And a right grahzny vonny world too." I shut
my glazzies tight in like pain and said: "Go away now. I'll
about coming back. But things will have to be very
"Yes, son," said my pee. "Anything you say."
"You'll have to make up your mind," I said, "who's to be
"Owwwwww," my mum went on.
"Very good, son," said my papapa. "Things will be as you
like. Only get well."
When they had gone I laid and thought a bit about different
veshches, like all different pictures passing through my
and when the nurse ptitsa came back in and like straightened
the sheets on the bed I said to her:
"How long is it I've been in here?"
"A week or so," she said.
"And what have they been doing to me?"
"Well," she said, "you were all broken up and bruised and
had sustained severe concussion and had lost a lot of blood.
They've had to put all that right, haven't they?"
"But," I said, "has anyone been doing anything with my gulliver? What I mean is, have they been playing around with
inside like my brain?"
"Whatever they've done," she said, "it'll all be for the
But a couple of days later a couple of like doctor vecks
came in, both youngish vecks with these very sladky smiles,
and they had like a picture book with them. One of them said:
"We want you to have a look at these and to tell us what you
think about them. All right?"
"What giveth, O little droogies?" I said. "What new bezoomny idea dost thou in mind have?" So they both had a
like embarrassed smeck at that and then they sat down either
side of the bed and opened up this book. On the first page
there was like a photograph of a bird-nest full of eggs.
"Yes?" one of these doctor vecks said.
"A bird-nest," I said, "full of like eggs. Very very nice."
"And what would you like to do about it?" the other one
"Oh," I said, "smash them. Pick up the lot and like throw
them against a wall or a cliff or something and then viddy
them all smash up real horrorshow."
"Good good," they both said, and then the page was turned.
It was like a picture of one of these bolshy great birds called
peacocks with all its tail spread out in all colours in a very
boastful way. "Yes?" said one of these vecks.
"I would like," I said, "to pull out like all those feathers in
tail and slooshy it creech blue murder. For being so like
"Good," they both said, "good good good." And they went
on turning the pages. There were like pictures of real horrorshow devotchkas, and I said I would like to give them the
old in-out in-out with lots of ultra-violence. There were like
pictures of chellovecks being given the boot straight in the
litso and all red red krovvy everywhere and I said I would like
to be in on that. And there was a picture of the old nagoy
droog of the prison charlie's carrying his cross up a hill, and I
said I would like to have the old hammer and nails. Good
good good, I said:
"What is all this?"
"Deep hypnopaedia," or some such slovo, said one of these
two vecks. "You seem to be cured."
"Cured?" I said. "Me tied down to this bed like this and you
say cured? Kiss my sharries is what I say."
So I waited and, O my brothers, I got a lot better, munching
away at eggiwegs and lomticks of toast and peeting bolshy
great mugs of milky chai, and then one day they said I was
going to have a very very very special visitor.
"Who?" I said, while they straightened the bed and combed
my luscious glory for me, me having the bandage off now
from my gulliver and the hair growing again.
"You'll see, you'll see," they said. And I viddied all right.
two-thirty of the afternoon there were like all photographers
and men from gazettas with noteboks and pencils and all
that cal. And, brothers, they near trumpeted a bolshy fanfare
for this great and important veck who was coming to viddy
Your Humble Narrator. And in he came, and of course it was
none other than the Minister of the Interior or Inferior,
dressed in the heighth of fashion and with this very upperclass haw haw goloss. Flash flash bang went the cameras
when he put out his rooker to me to shake it. I said:
"Well well well well well. What giveth then, old droogie?"
Nobody seemed to quite pony that, but somebody said in a
like harsh goloss:
"Be more respectful, boy, in addressing the Minister."
"Yarbles," I said, like snarling like a doggie. "Bolshy great
yarblockos to thee and thine."
"All right, all right," said the Interior Inferior one very
skorry. "He speaks to me as a friend, don't you, son?"
"I am everyone's friend," I said. "Except to my enemies."
"Well," said the Int Inf Min, sitting down by my bed. "I and
the Government of which I am a member want you to regard
us as friends. Yes, friends. We have put you right, yes? You
getting the best of treatment. We never wished you harm, but
there are some who did and do. And I think you know who
those are."
"Yes yes yes," he said. "There are certain men who wanted to
use you, yes, use you for political ends. They would have been
glad, yes, glad for you to be dead, for they thought they could
then blame it all on the Government. I think you know who
those men are."
"There is a man," said the Intinfmin, "called F. Alexander, a
writer of subversive literature, who has been howling for your
blood. He has been mad with desire to stick a knife in you.
But you're safe from him now. We put him away."
"He was supposed to be like a droogie," I said. "Like a
mother to me was what he was."
"He found out that you had done wrong to him. At least,"
said the Min very very skorry, "he believed you had done
wrong. He formed this idea in his mind that you had been
responsible for the death of someone near and dear to
"What you mean," I said, "is that he was told."
"He had this idea," said the Min. "He was a menace. We put
him away for his own protection. And also," he said, "for
"Kind," I said. "Most kind of thou."
"When you leave here," said the Min, "you will have no
worries. We shall see to everything. A good job on a good
salary. Because you are helping us."
"Am I?" I said.
"We always help our friends, don't we?" And then he took
my rooker and some veck creeched: "Smile!" and I smiled
like bezoomny without thinking, and then flash flash crack flash
bang there were pictures being taken of me and the Intinfmin
all droogy together. "Good boy," said this great chelloveck.
"Good good boy. And now, see, a present."
What was brought in now, brothers, was a big shiny box,
and I viddied clear what sort of a veshch it was. It was a
stereo. It was put down next to the bed and opened up and
some veck plugged its lead into the wall-socket. "What shall it
be?" asked a veck with otchkies on his nose, and he had in his
rookers lovely shiny sleeves full of music. "Mozart? Beethoven? Schoenberg? Carl Orff?"
"The Ninth," I said. "The glorious Ninth."
And the Ninth it was, O my brothers. Everybody began to
leave nice and quiet while I laid there with my glazzies closed,
slooshying the lovely music. The Min said: "Good good boy,"
patting me on the pletcho, then he ittied off. Only one veck
was left, saying: "Sign here, please." I opened my glazzies up
sign, not knowing what I was signing and not, O my brothers,
caring either. Then I was left alone with the glorious Ninth of
Ludwig van.
Oh it was gorgeosity and yumyumyum. When it came to
the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running and running on like very light and mysterious nogas, carving the
whole litso of the creeching world with my cut-throat britva.
And there was the slow movement and the lovely last singing
movement still to come. I was cured all right.
‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’
There was me, Your Humble Narrator, and my three droogs, that is
Len, Rick, and Bully being called Bully because of his bolshly
big neck and very gromky goloss which was just like some bolshy
great bull bellowing auuuuuuuuh. We were sitting in the Korova
Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a
flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. All round were
chellovecks well away on milk plus vellocet and synthemesc and
drencrom and other veshches which take you far far far away from
this wicked and real world into the land to viddy Bog And All His
Angels And Saints in your left sabog with lights bursting and
spurting all over your mozg. What we were peeting was the old
moloko with knives in it, as we used to say, to sharpen you up
and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, but I’ve
told you all that before.
We were dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in those days
was these very wide trousers and a very loose black shiny leather
like jerkin over an open-necked shirt with a like scarf tucked
in. At this time too it was the heighth of fashion to use the
old britva on the gulliver, so that most of the gulliver was like
bald and there was hair only on the sides. But it was always the
same on the old nogas-real horrorshow bolshy big boots for
kicking litsos in.
‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’
I was like the oldest of we four, and they all looked up to me as
their leader, but I got the idea sometimes that Bully had the
thought in his gulliver that he would like to take over, this
being because of his bigness and the gromky goloss that bellowed
out of him when he was on the warpath. But all the ideas came
from Your Humble, O my brothers, and also there was this veshch
that I had been famous and had had my pictures and articles and
all that cal in the gazettas. Also I had by far the best job of
all we four, being in the National Gramodisc Archives on the
music side with a real horrorshow carman full of pretty polly at
the week’s end and a lot of nice free discs for my own malenky
self on the side.
This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of vecks and
ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking and peeting away,
and cutting through their govoreeting and the burbling of the inthe-landers with their ‘Gorgor fallatuke and the worm sprays in
filltip slaughterballs’ and all that cal you could slooshy a popdisc on the stereo, this being Ned Achimota singing ‘That Day,
Yeah, That Day’. At the counter were three devotchkas dressed in
the heighth of nadsat fashion, that is to say long uncombed hair
dyed white and false groodies sticking out a metre or more and
very very tight short skirts with all like frothy white
underneath, and Bully kept saying: ‘Hey, get in there we could,
three of us. Old Len is not interested. Leave old Len alone
with his God.’ And Len kept saying: ‘Yarbles yarbles. Where is
the spirit of all for one and one for all, eh boy?’ Suddenly I
felt both very very tired and also full of tingly energy, and I
‘Out out out out out.’
‘Where to?’ said Rick, who had a litso like a frog’s.
‘Oh, just to viddy what’s doing in the great outside, ’I said.
But somehow, my brothers, I felt very bored and a bit hopeless,
and I had been feeling that a lot these days. So I turned to the
chelloveck nearest me on the big plush seat that ran right round
the whole mesto, a chelloveck, that is, who was burbling away
under the influence, and I fisted him real skorry ack ack ack in
the belly. But he felt it not, brothers, only burbling away with
his ‘Cart cart virtue, where in toptails lieth the
poppoppicorns?’ So we scatted out into the big winter nochy.
We walked down Marghanita Boulevard and there were no millicents
patrolling that way, so when we met a starry veck coming away
from a news-kiosk where he had been kupetting a gazetta I said to
Bully: ‘All right, Bully boy, thou canst if thou like wishest.’
More and more these days I had been just giving the orders and
standing back to viddy them being carried out. So Bully cracked
into him er er er, and the other two tripped him and kicked at
him, smecking away, while he was down and then let him crawl off
to where he lived, like whimpering to himself. Bully said:
‘How about a nice yummy glass of something to keep out the cold,
O Alex?’ For we were not too far from the Duke of New York. The
other two nodded yes yes yes but all looked at me to viddy
whether that was all right. I nodded too and so off we ittied.
Inside the snug there were these starry ptitsas or sharps or
baboochkas you will remember from the beginning and they all
started on their: ‘Evening, lads, God bless you, boys, best lads
living, that’s what you are,’ waiting for us to say ‘What’s it
going to be girls?’ Bully rang the collocoll and a waiter came in
rubbing his rookers on his grazzy apron. ‘Cutter on the table,
droogies,’ said Bully, pulling out his own rattling and chinking
mound of deng. ‘Scotchmen for us and the same for the old
baboochkas, eh?’ And then I said:
‘Ah, to hell. Let them buy their own.’ I didn’t know what it
was, but these last days I had become like mean. There had come
into my gulliver a like desire to keep all my pretty polly to
myself, to like hoard it all up for some reason. Bully said:
‘What gives, bratty? What’s coming over old Alex?’
‘Ah, to hell,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know. What it is
is I don’t like just throwing away my hard-earned pretty polly,
that’s what it is.’
‘Earned?’ said Rick. ‘Earned? It doesn’t have to be earned, as
well thou knowest, old droogie. Took, that’s all, just took,
like.’ And he smecked real gromky and I viddied one or two of
his zoobies weren’t all that horrorshow.
‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I’ve got some thinking to do.’ But viddying these
baboochkas looking all eager like for some free alc, I like
shrugged my pletchoes and pulled out my own cutter from my
trouser carman, notes and coin all mixed together, and plonked it
tinkle crackle on the table.
‘Scotchmen all round, right,’ said the waiter. But for some
reason I said:
‘No, boy, for me make it one small beer, right.’ Len said:
‘This I do not much go for,’ and he began to put his rooker on my
gulliver, like kidding I must have fever, but I like snarled
doggy-wise for him to give over skorry. ‘All right, all right,
droog,’ he said. ‘As thou like sayest.’ But Bully was having a
smot with his rot open at something that had come out of my
carman with the pretty polly I’d put on the table. He said:
‘Well well well. And we never knew.’
‘Give me that,’ I snarled and grabbed it skorry. I couldn’t
explain how it had got there, brothers, but it was a photograph I
had scissored out of the old gazetta and it was of a baby. It
was of a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like moloko dribbling
from its rot and looking up and like smecking at everybody, and
its was all nagoy and its flesh was like in all folds with being
a very fat baby. There was then like a bit of haw haw haw
struggling to get hold of this bit of paper from me, so I had to
snarl again at them and I grabbed the photo and tore it up into
tiny teeny pieces and let it fall like a bit of snow on to the
floor. The whisky came in then and the starry baboochkas said:
‘Good health, lads, God bless you, boys, the best lads living,
that’s what you are,’ and all that cal. And one of them who was
all lines and wrinkles and no zoobies in her shrunken old rot
said: ‘Don’t tear up money, son. If you don’t need it give it
them as does,’ which was very bold and forward of her. But Rick
‘Money that was not, O baboochka. It was a picture of a dear
little itsy witsy bitsy bit of a baby.’ I said:
‘I’m getting just that bit tired, that I am. It’s you who’s the
babies, you lot. Scoffing and grinning and all you can do is
smeck and give people bolshy cowardly tolchocks when they can’t
give them back.’ Bully said:
‘Well now, we always thought it was you who was the king of that
and also the teacher. Not well, that’s the trouble with thou,
old droogie.’
I viddied this sloppy glass of beer I had on the table in front
of me and felt like all vomity within, so I went ‘Aaaaah’ and
poured all the frothy vonny cal all over the floor. One of the
starry ptitsas said:
‘Waste not want not.’ I said:
‘Look, droogies. Listen. Tonight I am somehow just not in the
mood. I know not why or how it is, but there it is. You three
go your own ways this nightwise, leaving me out. Tomorrow we
shall meet same place same time, me hoping to be like a lot
‘Oh,’ said Bully, ‘right sorry I am.’ But you could viddy a like
gleam in his glazzies, because now he would be taking over for
this nochy. Power power, everybody like wants power. ‘We can
postpone till tomorrow,’ said Bully. ‘what we in mind had.
Namely, that bit of shopcrasting in Gagarin Street. Flip
horrorshow takings there, droog, for the having.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You postpone nothing. You just carry on in your
own like style. Now,’ I said, ‘I itty off.’ And I got up from
my chair.
‘Where to, then?’ asked Rick.
‘That know I not,’ I said. ‘Just to be on like my own and sort
things out.’ You could viddy the old baboochkas were real
puzzled at me going out like that and like all morose and not the
bright and smecking malchickiwick you will remember. But I said:
‘Ah, to hell, to hell,’ and scatted out all on my oddy knocky
into the street.
It was dark and there was a wind sharp as a nozh getting up, and
there were very very few lewdies about. There were these patrol
cars with brutal rozzes inside them like cruising about, and now
and then on the corner you would viddy a couple of very young
millicents stamping against the bitchy cold and letting out steam
breath on the winter air, O my brothers. I suppose really a lot
of the old ultra-violence and crasting was dying out now, the
rozzes being so brutal with who they caught, though it had become
like a fight between naughty nadsats and the rozzes who could be
more skorry with the nozh and the britva and the stick and even
the gun. But what was the matter with me these days was that I
didn’t like care much. It was like something soft getting into
me and I could not pony why. What I wanted these days I did not
know. Even the music I liked to slooshy in my own malenky den
what what I would have smecked at before, brothers. I was
slooshying more like malenky romantic songs, what they call
Lieder, just a goloss and a piano, very quiet and like yearny,
different from when it had been all bolshy orchestras and me
lying on the bed between the violins and the trombones and
kettledrums. There was something happening inside me, and I
wondered if it was like some disease or if it was what they had
done to me that time upsetting my gulliver and perhaps going to
make me real bezoomny.
So thinking like this with my gulliver bent and my rookers stuck
in my trouser carmans I walked the town, brothers, and at last I
began to feel very tired and also in great need of a nice bolshy
chasha of milky chai. Thinking about this chai, I got a sudden
like picture of me sitting before a bolshy fire in an armchair
peeting away at this chai, and what was funny and very very
strange was that I seemed to have turned into a very starry
chelloveck, about seventy years old, because I could viddy my own
voloss, which was very grey, and I also had whiskers, and these
were very grey too. I could viddy myself as an old man, sitting
by a fire, and then the like picture vanished. But it was very
like strange.
I came to one of these tea-and-coffee mestos, brothers, and I
could viddy through the long long window that it was full of very
dull lewdies, like ordinary, who had these very patient and
expressionless litsos and would do no harm to no one, all sitting
there and govoreeting like quietly and peeting away at their nice
harmless chai and coffee. I ittied inside and went up to the
counter and bought me a nice hot chai with plenty of moloko, then
I ittied to one of these tables and sat down to peet it. There
was a like young couple at this table, peeting and smoking
filter-tip cancers, and govoreeting and smecking very quietly
between themselves, but I took no notice of them and just went on
peeting away and like dreaming and wondering what it was in me
that was like changing and what was going to happen to me. But I
viddied that the devotchka at this table who was with this
chelloveck was real horrorshow, not the sort you would want to
like throw down and give the old in-out in-out to, but with a
horrorshow plott and litso and a smiling rot and very very fair
voloss and all that cal. And then the veck with her, who had a
hat on his gulliver and had his litso like turned away from me,
swivelled round to viddy the bolshy big clock they had on the
wall in this mesto, and then I viddied who he was and then he
viddied who I was. It was Pete, one of my three droogs from
those days when it was Georgie and Dim and him and me. It was
Pete like looking a lot older though he could not now be more
than nineteen and a bit, and he had a bit of a moustache and an
ordinary day-suit and this hat on. I said:
‘Well well well, droogie, what gives? Very very long time no
viddy.’ He said:
‘It’s little Alex, isn’t it?’
‘None other,’ I said. ‘A long long long time since those dead
and gone good days. And now poor Georgie, they told me, is
underground and old Dim is a brutal millicent, and here is thou
and here is I, and what news hast thou, old droogie?’
‘He talks funny, doesn’t he?’ said this devotchka, like giggling.
‘This, said Pete to the devotchka, ‘is an old friend. His name
is Alex. May I,’ he said to me, ‘introduce my wife?’
My rot fell wide open then. ‘Wife?’ I like gaped. ‘Wife wife
wife? Ah no, that cannot be. Too young art thou to be married,
old droog. Impossible impossible.’
This devotchka who was like Pete’s wife (impossible impossible)
giggled again and said to Pete: ‘Did you used to talk like that
‘Well,’ said Pete, and he like smiled. ‘I’m nearly twenty. Old
enough to be hitched, and it’s been two months already. You were
very young and very forward, remember.’
‘Well,’ I liked gaped still. ‘Over this get can I not, old
droogie. Pete married. Well well well.’
‘We have a small flat,’ said Pete. ‘I am earning very small
money at State Marine Insurance, but things will get better, that
I know. And Georgina here-‘
‘What again is that name?’ I said, rot still open like bezoomny.
Pete’s wife. (wife, brothers) like giggled again.
‘Georgina,’ said Pete. ‘Georgina works too. Typing, you know.
We manage, we manage.’ I could not, brothers, take my glazzies
off him, really. He was like grown up now, with a grown-up
goloss and all. ‘You must,’ said Pete, ‘come and see us
sometime. You still,’ he said, ‘look very young, despite all
your terrible experiences. Yes, yes, yes, we’ve read all about
them. But, of course, you are very young still.’
‘Eighteen,’ I said, ‘Just gone.’
‘Eighteen, eh?’ said Pete. ‘As old as that. Well well well.
Now,’ he said, ‘we have to be going.’ And he like gave this
Georgina of his a like loving look and pressed one of her rookers
between his and she gave him one of these looks back, O my
brothers. ‘Yes,’ said Pete, turning back to me, ‘we’re off to a
little party at Greg’s.’
‘Greg?’ I said.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Pete, ‘you wouldn’t know Greg, would you?
Greg is after your time. While you were away Greg came into the
picture. He runs little parties, you know. Mostly wine-cup and
word-games. But very nice, very pleasant, you know. Harmless,
if you see what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Harmless. Yes, yes, I viddy that real
horrorshow.’ And this Georgina devotchka giggled again at my
slovos. And then these two ittied off to their vonny word-games
at this Greg’s, whoever he was. I was left all on my oddy knocky
with my milky chai, which was getting cold now, like thinking and
Perhaps that was it, I kept thinking. Perhaps I was getting too
old for the sort of jeezny I had been leading, brothers. I was
eighteen now, just gone. Eighteen was not a young age. At
eighteen old Wolfgang Amadeus had written concertos and
symphonies and operas and oratorios and all that cal, no, not
cal, heavenly music. And then there was old Felix M. with his
Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture. And there were others. And
there was this like French poet set by old Benjy Britt, who had
done all his best poetry by the age of fifteen, O my brothers.
Arthur, his first name. Eighteen was not all that young an age,
then. But what was I going to do?
Walking the dark chill bastards of winter streets after ittying
off from this chai-and-coffee mesto, I kept viddying like
visions, like these cartoons in the gazettas. There was Your
Humble Narrator Alex coming home from work to a good hot plate of
dinner, and there was this ptitsa all welcoming and greeting like
loving. But I could not viddy her all that horrorshow, brothers,
I could not think who it might be. But I had this sudden very
strong idea that if I walked into the room next to this room
where the fire was burning away and my hot dinner laid on the
table, there I should find what I really wanted, and now it all
tied up, that picture scissored out of the gazetta and meeting
old Pete like that. For in that other room in a cot was laying
gurgling goo goo goo my son. Yes yes yes, brothers, my son. And
now I felt this bolshy big hollow inside my plott, feeling very
surprised too at myself. I knew what was happening, O my
brothers. I was like growing up.
Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But youth is
only being in a way like it might be an animal. No, it is not
just like being an animal so much as being one of these malenky
toys you viddy being sold in the streets, like little chellovecks
made out of tin and with a spring inside and then a winding
handle on the outside and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off
it itties, like walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a
straight line and bangs straight into things bang bang and it
cannot help what it is doing. Being young is like being like one
of these malenky machines.
My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain all that to
him when he was starry enough to like understand. But then I
knew he would not understand or would not want to understand at
all and would do all the veshches I had done, yes perhaps even
killing some poor starry forella surrounded with mewing kots and
koshkas, and I would not be able to really stop him. And nor
would he be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would
itty on until like the end of the world, round and round and
round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old Bog
Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and turning and
turning a vonny grahzny orange in his gigantic rookers.
But first of all, brothers, there was this veshch of finding some
devotchka or other who would be a mother to this son. I would
have to start on that tomorrow, I kept thinking. That was
something like new to do. That was something I would have to get
started on, a new like chapter beginning.
That’s what it’s going to be then, brothers, as I come to the
like end of this tale. You have been everywhere with your little
droog Alex, suffering with him, and you have viddied some of the
most grahzny bratchnies old Bog ever made, all on to your old
droog Alex. And all it was was that I was young. But now as I
end this story, brothers, I am not young, not no longer, oh no.
Alex like groweth up, oh yes.
But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy knocky,
where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet flowers and the
turning vonny earth and the stars and the old Luna up there and
your old droog Alex all on his oddy knocky seeking like a mate.
And all that cal. A terrible grahzny vonny world, really, O my
brothers. And so farewell from your little droog. And to all
others in this story profound shooms of lipmusic brrrrrr. And
they can kiss my sharries. But you, O my brothers, remember
sometimes thy little Alex that was. Amen. And all that cal.
Glossary of Nadsat Language
Words that do not appear to be of Russian origin are
by asterisks. (For help with the Russian, I am indebted to the
kindness of my colleague Nora Montesinos and a number of correspondents.)
*appy polly loggy - apology choodesny - wonderful
baboochka - old woman *chumble - to mumble
*baddiwad - bad clop - to knock
banda - band cluve - beak
bezoomny - mad collocoll - bell
biblio - library *crack - to break up or
bitva - battle *crark - to yowl?
Bog - God crast - to steal or rob;
bolnoy - sick robbery
bolshy - big, great creech - to shout or
brat, bratty - brother *cutter - money
bratchny - bastard dama - lady
britva - razor ded - old man
brooko - belly deng - money
brosay - to throw devotchka - girl
bugatty - rich dobby - good
cal - feces *dook - trace, ghost
*cancer - cigarette domy - house
cantora - office dorogoy - dear, valuable
carman - pocket dratsing - fighting
chai - tea *drencrom - drug
*charles, charlie - chaplain droog - friend
chasha - cup *dung - to defecate
chasso - guard dva - two
cheena - woman eegra - game
cheest - to wash eemya - name
chelloveck - person, man, *eggiweg - egg
fellow *filly - to play or fool
chepooka - nonsense *firegold - drink
*fist - to punch loveted - caught
*flip - wild? lubbilubbing - making
forella - 'trout' *luscious glory - hair
gazetta - newspaper malchick - boy
glazz - eye malenky - little, tiny
gloopy - stupid maslo - butter
*golly - unit of money merzky - filthy
goloss - voice messel - thought, fancy
goober - lip mesto - place
gooly - to walk millicent - policeman
gorlo - throat minoota - minute
govoreet - to speak or talk molodoy - young
grahzny - dirty moloko - milk
grazzy - soiled moodge - man
gromky - loud morder - snout
groody - breast *mounch - snack
gruppa - group mozg - brain
*guff - guffaw nachinat - to begin
gulliver - head nadmenny - arrogant
*guttiwuts - guts nadsat - teenage
*hen-korm - chickenfeed nagoy - naked
*horn - to cry out *nazz - fool
horrorshow - good, well neezhnies - underpants
*in-out in-out - copulation nochy - night
interessovat - to interest hoga - foot, leg
itty - to go nozh - knife
*jammiwam - jam nuking - smelling
jeezny - life oddy knocky - lonesome
kartoffel - potato odin - one
keeshkas - guts okno - window
kleb - bread oobivat - to kill
klootch - key ookadeet - to leave
knopka - button ooko - ear
kopat - to 'dig' oomny - brainy
koshka - cat oozhassny - terrible
kot - tomcat oozy - chain
krovvy - blood osoosh - to wipe
kupet - to buy otchkies - eyeglasses
lapa - paw *pan-handle - erection
lewdies - people *pee and em - parents
*lighter - crone? peet - to drink
litso - face pishcha - food
lomtick, piece, bit platch - to cry
platties - clothes *shlaga - club
pletcho - shoulder shlapa - hat
plenny - prisoner shoom - noise
plesk - splash shoot - fool
*plosh - to splash *sinny - cinema
plott - body skazat - to say
podooshka - pillow *skolliwoll - school
pol - sex skorry - quick, quickly
polezny - useful *skriking - scratching
*polyclef - skeleton key skvat - to grab
pony - to understand sladky - sweet
poogly - frightened sloochat - to happen
pooshka - 'cannon' sloosh, slooshy - to
hear, to
prestoopnick - criminal listen
privodeet - to lead slovo - word
somewhere smeck - laugh
*pretty polly - money smot - to look
prod - to produce sneety - dream
ptitsa - 'chick' *snoutie - tobacco?
pyahnitsa - drunk *snuff it - to die
rabbit - work, job sobirat - to pick up
radosty - joy *sod - to fornicate,
raskazz - story soomka - 'bag'
rassoodock - mind soviet - advice, order
raz - time spat - to sleep
razdraz - upset *splodge, splosh - splash
razrez - to rip, ripping *spoogy - terrified
rook, rooker - hand, arm *Staja - State Jail
rot - mouth starry - ancient
rozz - policeman strack - horror
sabog - shoe *synthemesc - drug
sakar - sugar tally - waist
sammy - generous *tashtook - handkerchief
*sarky - sarcastic *tass - cup
scoteena - 'cow' tolchock - to hit or
push; blow,
shaika - gang beating
*sharp - female toofles - slippers
sharries - buttocks tree - three
shest - barrier vareet - to 'cook up'
*shilarny - concern *vaysay - washroom
*shive - slice veck - (see chelloveck)
shiyah - neck *vellocet - drug
shlem - helmet veshch - thing
viddy - to see or look yeckate - to drive
voloss - hair *warble - song
von - smell zammechat - remarkable
vred - to harm or damage zasnoot - sleep
yahma - hole zheena - wife
*yahoodies - Jews zoobies - teeth
yahzick - tongue zvonock - bellpull
*yarbles - testicles zvook - sound