By Anthony Burgess
During this nightmare imaginative and prescient of a not-too-distant destiny, fifteen-year-old Alex and his 3 acquaintances rob, rape, torture and homicide - for enjoyable. Alex is jailed for his vicious crimes and the country undertakes to reform him - yet how and at what fee?
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And then in the afterlunch I might perhaps, if I still felt like it, itty off to the old skolliwoll and see what was vareeting in the great seat of gloopy useless learning, O my brothers. I heard my papapa grumbling and trampling and then ittying off to the dyeworks where he rabbited, and then my mum called in in a very respectful goloss as she did now I was growing up big and strong: “It’s gone eight, son. ” So I called back: “A bit of pain in my gulliver. ” I slooshied her give a sort of a sigh and she said: “I’ll put your breakfast in the oven then, son.
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.
Georgie said, in a sharp way that made me look: “All right. ” “That’s clean up to Dim,” I said. ” And I looked sharp at Georgie. Dim said, and the red krovvy was easing its flow now: “What natural right does he have to think he can give the orders and tolchock me whenever he likes? ” “Yarbles,” said Dim, sneering, “great bolshy yarblockos to you. What you done then you had no right. ” “A nozh scrap any time you say,” I snarled back. Pete said: “Oh now, don’t, both of you malchicks. Droogs, aren’t we?
A Clockwork Orange (Penguin Modern Classics) by Anthony Burgess