A word in a dictionary is very much like a car in a mammoth motor show – full of potential but temporarily inactive.
That’s the law, son. But you were never much of a one for following the law.
The sweetest and most heavenly of activities partake in some measure of violence – the act of love, for instance; music, for instance. You must take your chance, boy. The choice has been all yours.
I kept pushing the old noga through the floorboards near, and the Durango 95 ate up the road like spaghetti.
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.
Have you by chance brought some real British tea? Twining’s? Or from Jackson’s in Piccadilly?
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.
There was no trust anywhere in the world, O my brothers, the way I could see it.
Then there was like quiet and we were full of like hate, so smashed what was left to be smashed.
It may not be nice to be good, 6655321. It may be horrible to be good. And when I say that to you I realize how self-contradictory that sounds. I know I shall have many sleepless nights about this. What does God want? Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?
Well, everything’s a lesson, isn’t it? Learning all the time, as you could say.
Then I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name – A CLOCKWORK ORANGE – 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 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 swordpen –.
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?
In a dead white field an untethered goat gave them sardonic greeting.
Of course it was horrible,′ smiled Dr. Branom. ‘Violence is a very horrible thing. That’s what you’re learning now. Your body is learning it.
Me, me, me. How about me? Where do I come into all this? Am I like just some animal or dog? Am I just to be like a clockwork orange?
Never,′ I said. ‘One can die but once. Dim died before he was born. That red red krovvy will soon stop.
You’ve sinned, I suppose, but your punishment has been out of all proportion. They have turned you into something other than a human being. You have no power of choice any longer. You are committed to socially acceptable acts, a little machine capable only of good.
I wanted music very bad this evening, that singing devotchka in the Korova having perhaps started me off. I wanted like a big feast of it before getting my passport stamped, my brothers, at sleep’s frontier and the stripy shest lifted to let me through.
You have no cause to grumble boy. You made your choice and all this is a consequence of your choice. Whatever now ensues is what you yourself have chosen.