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Origin: Библиотека "Артефакт"--http://artefact.cns.ru/library/
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Anthony Burgess was born in Manchester in 1917 and is 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 became a full-time writer in 1960, though his first novel had been
published four years earlier. A late starter in the art of fiction, he had
spent his creative energy previously on music, and he has composed many
full-scale works for orchestra and other media.
Anthony Burgess maintains his old interest in music and in linguistics,
and these have conditioned the style and content of the novels he writes.
Though he and his wife no longer live abroad, foreign travel remains a great
source of inspiration. He has, to date, published many novels, a book on
linguistics, and various critical works.
His other books in Penguin are `Inside Mr Enderby,' `Tremor of Intent'
and `Nothing Like the Sun,' a story of Shakespeare's love-life.
Fifteen-year-old Alex and his three friends start an evening's mayhem
by hitting an old man, tearing up his books and stripping him of money and
clothes.
Or rather Alex and his three droogs tolchock an old veck, razrez his
books, pull off his outer platties and take a malenky bit of cutter.
For Alex's confessions are written in `nadsat'--the teenage argot of a
not-too-distant future.
Because of his delinquent excesses, Alex is jailed and made subject to
`Ludovico's Technique,' a chilling experiment in Reclamation Treatment...
Horror farce? Social prophecy? Penetrating study of human choice
between good and evil? A Clockwork Orange is all three, dazzling proof of
Anthony Burgess's vast talents.
"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 Korova 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 licence 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 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 had 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 started 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 tolchoks, 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 a-coming 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
fat 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 nozh.
Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents were coming with
pooshkas pushing out of the police-auto-windows 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 head-lamps, 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
goloss:
"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 said:
"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, picking up the pile like of typing from off of the
table, and the horn-rimmed 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 horn-rimmed 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 he
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
milk-plus 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 way.
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 tearing-out 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
Origin: Библиотека "Артефакт"--http://artefact.cns.ru/library/
---------------------------------------------------------------
Anthony Burgess was born in Manchester in 1917 and is 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 became a full-time writer in 1960, though his first novel had been
published four years earlier. A late starter in the art of fiction, he had
spent his creative energy previously on music, and he has composed many
full-scale works for orchestra and other media.
Anthony Burgess maintains his old interest in music and in linguistics,
and these have conditioned the style and content of the novels he writes.
Though he and his wife no longer live abroad, foreign travel remains a great
source of inspiration. He has, to date, published many novels, a book on
linguistics, and various critical works.
His other books in Penguin are `Inside Mr Enderby,' `Tremor of Intent'
and `Nothing Like the Sun,' a story of Shakespeare's love-life.
Fifteen-year-old Alex and his three friends start an evening's mayhem
by hitting an old man, tearing up his books and stripping him of money and
clothes.
Or rather Alex and his three droogs tolchock an old veck, razrez his
books, pull off his outer platties and take a malenky bit of cutter.
For Alex's confessions are written in `nadsat'--the teenage argot of a
not-too-distant future.
Because of his delinquent excesses, Alex is jailed and made subject to
`Ludovico's Technique,' a chilling experiment in Reclamation Treatment...
Horror farce? Social prophecy? Penetrating study of human choice
between good and evil? A Clockwork Orange is all three, dazzling proof of
Anthony Burgess's vast talents.
"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 Korova 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 licence 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 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 had 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 started 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 tolchoks, 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 a-coming 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
fat 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 nozh.
Then we slooshied the sirens and knew the millicents were coming with
pooshkas pushing out of the police-auto-windows 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 head-lamps, 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
goloss:
"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 said:
"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, picking up the pile like of typing from off of the
table, and the horn-rimmed 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 horn-rimmed 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 he
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
milk-plus 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 way.
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 tearing-out 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