Yesterday I was lamenting how experimental fiction rattles me a little and how I really don't enjoy it. Today I am going to tell you I've just read Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange and quite liked it. Should I be worried about this? Worried, that is, that I like a story of ultraviolence that must surely have been seen as experimental at the time it was published in 1962. A story set in a scary, violent dystopian Britain that left me rattled for other reasons than just the language used? I need to qualify a few things here. I did like the story. But I really didn't like the story, too.
I liked that Burgess had me feeling uncomfortable and off kilter. I liked the very clever use of language. I did feel disoriented and would read entire pages and not know what was going on. That's not quite true. There were lots of words I hadn't any idea the meaning of, but I could still tell from context more or less what was going on. It was almost strangely lyrical. I haven't a clue how Burgess came up with it, how he constructed it, but I am guessing it must be some weird sort of Cockney construction or inspired by London Cockney slang? I liked and thought it was interesting that the only characters who spoke this way were Alec and his mates--it was only the youth that spoke in this rhyming slang, the adults were actually all quite comprehensible.
But our narrator Alec is truly one of the most reprehensible characters I have ever come across in literature. He makes even Patricia Highsmith's Mr. Ripley (if ever there was a psychopath you could root for, it has to be Mr. Ripley) appear a Boy Scout of the highest moral character. Alec likes a bit of the ultraviolence--what better way to pass the weekend than with his droogs making life miserable for the masses--true horrorshow. He hasn't an ounce of humanity in him. Reading about his exploits verged on the nauseating.
In the introduction Burgess mentions that this is a book that has taken on a life of its own and has followed him over the course of his career--sadly--when he would like it to just be left forgotten on some bookshelf collecting dust. If you don't know the story of the novel, you are likely to be familiar with Stanley Kubrick's film version. It's been too long since I have seen the movie to know how closely the film follows the book, but the book is based on the American edition of the novel, which famously lacked the author's last chapter.
My copy has that all-important last chapter, just as Burgess intended it to be read. Apparently his American editors insisted on cutting out that last chapter. The story is divided into three sections of seven chapters each. But we cynical Americans decided the story had far more impact with that last chapter left off. Kubrick must have thought so, too? In his introduction Burgess leaves it up to the reader to decide--"eat this sweetish segment or spit it out. You are free."
I never like to give away spoilers, but are you curious what I think? Jump to the end of this post if you don't what to know details (I won't give too many away, I promise).
The first section of the book is filled with the antics of Alec and his droogs. They rape, pillage, plunder, steal, kick the . . . stuffing out of anyone and everyone in their path. Keep in mind that this is a youthful Alec. This is London in the 1960s. He should be in school, but he isn't just skipping and going to the mall. He and his friends are wreaking havoc. Fairly explicit havoc, mind you. He's not just not nice to the world in general, but to his parents and even his friends. He is, strangely, not without culture. He likes the old Ludwig Van.
Just when you think you can't possibly take any more. Any more knocks on the doors with requests for the use of a telephone, gang violence, gang banging. Alec gets caught. He isn't just caught by the millicents, the coppers, his friends scramble and throw him to the dogs. Such a tender age, at only fifteen he is incarcerated. And he is just as mean and nasty in jail as he is on the streets. But he is offered an opportunity. A cure. You probably know the cure from the film, right? He is subjected to incessant acts of violence--visuals on a large screen over and over and over again. And the doctors give him drugs that equate the violence he sees with physical illness. So, anytime he witnesses violent or antisocial behavior he feels physically ill and must refrain from either thinking about it or doing it. Divine justice--it's all to the soothing sounds of Ludwig Van B.
And so, my brothers, he is cured of his sins. Well, not cured so much as zapped of the desire to commit the crimes. If he is cured, and the hope is that more can be released on this program, the streets can be cleaned up and made safe for society, and he can leave. And so he does. He's the first--experimental. When he returns home, he finds he no longer has a home. He has been replaced by a man twice his age--a lodger who is more of a son to his parents than he ever was. So he has nothing. Even his friends have abandoned him. Not just abandoned, but they have changed sides. They are millicents now, too. More divine justice. Once he was the villain and now he is the victim. Pure nastiness. We should feel bad for him, right? And here is the catch. Actually someone does feel bad for him. They cure him of his cure.
You see--he no longer has free will to make his own good (or bad) choices. And here is the crux of the story (or one of them anyway--Burgess has an even better ending in mind). Alec may not partake of his violent desires but not because he doesn't want to, but because he physically can't. So no real cure.
"A man who cannot choose ceases to be a man."
Of course a man who is as violent as Alec and his droogs were, ceased to be men, too. And here is where that 'saccharine' last chapter comes into play. Alec was a juvenile offender. Practically just a boy. In jail and after his release he has a chance to grow up. He now has a choice to be bad and commit whatever crime his heart desires, but he finds the desire pretty lacklaster all of a sudden. He chooses not to, because he has grown up and changed. And that, my brothers, is the moral of the story. Burgess felt that why write if your character has no opportunity to grow as a human being, and so Alec did grow.
But, it would seem I am indeed a cynical reader after all. Can someone who did what Alec does really turn over a new life? Can he imagine having a son himself and wanting his son to be a wise young man who would never choose the path Alec chose? I have a hard time with that one.
So, in a way, I liked this story a lot. I liked the use of language especially. I liked that it pushed boundaries. I hated the characters, even if Burgess thought they could change and atone for their sins. (I'm sorry to say I wasn't convinced). It's not a book I can feel warm and fuzzy about, but I am glad I read it.
I've been thinking of returning to the Modern Library 100 Best Novels list. (I began by working my way backwards from #100 but only got to #95!). A Clockwork Orange is #65.
I read this along with Stefanie (not sure had we not been reading together that I would have persisted and made it to the end!). You can read her thoughts on the book here.