Stanley Kubrick's A clockwork orange: based on the novel by Anthony Burgess (28 page)

tail and slooshy it creech blue murder.  For being so like

boastful."

"Good," they both said, "good good good."  And they went

on turning the pages.  There were like pictures of real hor-

rorshow devotchkas, and I said I would like to give them the

old in-out in-out with lots of ultra-violence.  There were like

pictures of chellovecks being given the boot straight in the

litso and all red red krovvy everywhere and I said I would like

to be in on that.  And there was a picture of the old nagoy

droog of the prison charlie's carrying his cross up a hill, and I

said I would like to have the old hammer and nails.  Good

good good, I said:

"What is all this?"

"Deep hypnopaedia," or some such slovo, said one of these

two vecks.  "You seem to be cured."

"Cured?" I said.  "Me tied down to this bed like this and you

say cured?  Kiss my sharries is what I say."

So I waited and, O my brothers, I got a lot better, munching

away at eggiwegs and lomticks of toast and peeting bolshy

great mugs of milky chai, and then one day they said I was

going to have a very very very special visitor.

"Who?" I said, while they straightened the bed and combed

my luscious glory for me, me having the bandage off now

from my gulliver and the hair growing again.

"You'll see, you'll see," they said.  And I viddied all right.  At

two-thirty of the afternoon there were like all photographers

and men from gazettas with noteboks and pencils and all

that cal.  And, brothers, they near trumpeted a bolshy fanfare

for this great and important veck who was coming to viddy

Your Humble Narrator.  And in he came, and of course it was

none other than the Minister of the Interior or Inferior,

dressed in the heighth of fashion and with this very upper-

class haw haw goloss.  Flash flash bang went the cameras

when he put out his rooker to me to shake it.  I said:

"Well well well well well.  What giveth then, old droogie?"

Nobody seemed to quite pony that, but somebody said in a

like harsh goloss:

"Be more respectful, boy, in addressing the Minister."

"Yarbles," I said, like snarling like a doggie.  "Bolshy great

yarblockos to thee and thine."

"All right, all right," said the Interior Inferior one very

skorry.  "He speaks to me as a friend, don't you, son?"

"I am everyone's friend," I said.  "Except to my enemies."

"Well," said the Int Inf Min, sitting down by my bed.  "I and

the Government of which I am a member want you to regard

us as friends.  Yes, friends.  We have put you right, yes?  You are

getting the best of treatment.  We never wished you harm, but

there are some who did and do.  And I think you know who

those are."

"Yes yes yes," he said.  "There are certain men who wanted to

use you, yes, use you for political ends.  They would have been

glad, yes, glad for you to be dead, for they thought they could

then blame it all on the Government.  I think you know who

those men are."

"There is a man," said the Intinfmin, "called F. Alexander, a

writer of subversive literature, who has been howling for your

blood.  He has been mad with desire to stick a knife in you.

But you're safe from him now.  We put him away."

"He was supposed to be like a droogie," I said.  "Like a

mother to me was what he was."

"He found out that you had done wrong to him.  At least,"

said the Min very very skorry, "he believed you had done

wrong.  He formed this idea in his mind that you had been

responsible for the death of someone near and dear to

him."

"What you mean," I said, "is that he was told."

"He had this idea," said the Min.  "He was a menace.  We put

him away for his own protection.  And also," he said, "for

yours."

"Kind," I said.  "Most kind of thou."

"When you leave here," said the Min, "you will have no

worries.  We shall see to everything.  A good job on a good

salary.  Because you are helping us."

"Am I?" I said.

"We always help our friends, don't we?"  And then he took

my rooker and some veck creeched: "Smile!" and I smiled

like bezoomny without thinking, and then flash flash crack flash

bang there were pictures being taken of me and the Intinfmin

all droogy together.  "Good boy," said this great chelloveck.

"Good good boy.  And now, see, a present."

What was brought in now, brothers, was a big shiny box,

and I viddied clear what sort of a veshch it was.  It was a

stereo.  It was put down next to the bed and opened up and

some veck plugged its lead into the wall-socket.  "What shall it

be?" asked a veck with otchkies on his nose, and he had in his

rookers lovely shiny sleeves full of music.  "Mozart?  Beet-

hoven?  Schoenberg?  Carl Orff?"

"The Ninth," I said.  "The glorious Ninth."

And the Ninth it was, O my brothers.  Everybody began to

leave nice and quiet while I laid there with my glazzies closed,

slooshying the lovely music.  The Min said: "Good good boy,"

patting me on the pletcho, then he ittied off.  Only one veck

was left, saying: "Sign here, please."  I opened my glazzies up to

sign, not knowing what I was signing and not, O my brothers,

caring either.  Then I was left alone with the glorious Ninth of

Ludwig van.

Oh it was gorgeosity and yumyumyum.  When it came to

the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running and run-

ning on like very light and mysterious nogas, carving the

whole litso of the creeching world with my cut-throat britva.

And there was the slow movement and the lovely last singing

movement still to come.  I was cured all right.

7

‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’

There was me, Your Humble Narrator, and my three droogs, that is

Len, Rick, and Bully being called Bully because of his bolshly big neck and very gromky goloss which was just like some bolshy great bull bellowing auuuuuuuuh.  We were sitting in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry.  All round were chellovecks well away on milk plus vellocet and synthemesc and drencrom and other veshches which take you far far far away from this wicked and real world into the land to viddy Bog And All His Angels And Saints in your left sabog with lights bursting and spurting all over your mozg.  What we were peeting was the old moloko with knives in it, as we used to say, to sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, but I’ve told you all that before.

We were dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt with a like scarf tucked in.  At this time too it was the heighth of fashion to use the old britva on the gulliver, so that most of the gulliver was like bald and there was hair only on the sides.  But it was always the same on the old nogas-real horrorshow bolshy big boots for kicking litsos in.

‘What’s it going to be then, eh?’

I was like the oldest of we four, and they all looked up to me as their leader, but I got the idea sometimes that Bully had the thought in his gulliver that he would like to take over, this being because of his bigness and the gromky goloss that bellowed out of him when he was on the warpath.  But all the ideas came from Your Humble, O my brothers, and also there was this veshch that I had been famous and had had my pictures and articles and all that cal in the gazettas.  Also I had by far the best job of all we four, being in the National Gramodisc Archives on the music side with a real horrorshow carman full of pretty polly at the week’s end and a lot of nice free discs for my own malenky self on the side.

This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of vecks and ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking and peeting away, and cutting through their govoreeting and the burbling of the in-the-landers with their ‘Gorgor fallatuke and the worm sprays in filltip slaughterballs’ and all that cal you could slooshy a pop-disc on the stereo, this being Ned Achimota singing ‘That Day, Yeah, That Day’.  At the counter were three devotchkas dressed in the heighth of nadsat fashion, that is to say long uncombed hair dyed white and false groodies sticking out a metre or more and very very tight short skirts with all like frothy white underneath, and Bully kept saying: ‘Hey, get in there we could, three of us.  Old Len is not interested.  Leave old Len alone with his God.’  And Len kept saying: ‘Yarbles yarbles.  Where is the spirit of all for one and one for all, eh boy?’  Suddenly I felt both very very tired and also full of tingly energy, and I said:

‘Out out out out out.’

‘Where to?’ said Rick, who had a litso like a frog’s.

‘Oh, just to viddy what’s doing in the great outside, ’I said.  But somehow, my brothers, I felt very bored and a bit hopeless, and I had been feeling that a lot these days.  So I turned to the chelloveck nearest me on the big plush seat that ran right round the whole mesto, a chelloveck, that is, who was burbling away under the influence, and I fisted him real skorry ack ack ack in the belly.  But he felt it not, brothers, only burbling away with his ‘Cart cart virtue, where in toptails lieth the poppoppicorns?’  So we scatted out into the big winter nochy.

We walked down Marghanita Boulevard and there were no millicents patrolling that way, so when we met a starry veck coming away from a news-kiosk where he had been kupetting a gazetta I said to Bully: ‘All right, Bully boy, thou canst if thou like wishest.’  More and more these days I had been just giving the orders and standing back to viddy them being carried out.  So Bully cracked into him er er er, and the other two tripped him and kicked at him, smecking away, while he was down and then let him crawl off to where he lived, like whimpering to himself.  Bully said:

‘How about a nice yummy glass of something to keep out the cold, O Alex?’  For we were not too far from the Duke of New York.  The other two nodded yes yes yes but all looked at me to viddy whether that was all right.  I nodded too and so off we ittied.  Inside the snug there were these starry ptitsas or sharps or baboochkas you will remember from the beginning and they all started on their: ‘Evening, lads, God bless you, boys, best lads living, that’s what you are,’ waiting for us to say ‘What’s it going to be girls?’ Bully rang the collocoll and a waiter came in rubbing his rookers on his grazzy apron. ‘Cutter on the table, droogies,’ said Bully, pulling out his own rattling and chinking mound of deng.  ‘Scotchmen for us and the same for the old baboochkas, eh?’  And then I said:

‘Ah, to hell.  Let them buy their own.’ I didn’t know what it was, but these last days I had become like mean.  There had come into my gulliver a like desire to keep all my pretty polly to myself, to like hoard it all up for some reason.  Bully said:

‘What gives, bratty?  What’s coming over old Alex?’

‘Ah, to hell,’ I said.  ‘I don’t know.  I don’t know.  What it is is I don’t like just throwing away my hard-earned pretty polly, that’s what it is.’

‘Earned?’ said Rick.  ‘Earned?  It doesn’t have to be earned, as well thou knowest, old droogie.  Took, that’s all, just took, like.’  And he smecked real gromky and I viddied one or two of his zoobies weren’t all that horrorshow.

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I’ve got some thinking to do.’ But viddying these baboochkas looking all eager like for some free alc, I like shrugged my pletchoes and pulled out my own cutter from my trouser carman, notes and coin all mixed together, and plonked it tinkle crackle on the table.

‘Scotchmen all round, right,’ said the waiter.  But for some reason I said:

‘No, boy, for me make it one small beer, right.’ Len said:

‘This I do not much go for,’ and he began to put his rooker on my gulliver, like kidding I must have fever, but I like snarled doggy-wise for him to give over skorry.  ‘All right, all right, droog,’ he said.  ‘As thou like sayest.’ But Bully was having a smot with his rot open at something that had come out of my carman with the pretty polly I’d put on the table.  He said:

‘Well well well.  And we never knew.’