A Clockwork Orange - 01

A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (UK Version)




by ANTHONY BURGESS




Contents
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.
Introduction
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
is.
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
truncation-well,
so be it. So there is a profound difference between A Clockwork
Orange
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
of
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
novel.
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
sweetness.
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
free.
Anthony Burgess
November, 1986
A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (UK Version)
Part 1
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,
as
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
sharps
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,
brother."
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
really."
"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
starry
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