A Clockwork Orange read online. See what "A Clockwork Orange" is in other dictionaries
The fate of the Clockwork Orange.
How often have you seen a triangle from which a young guy is grinning,
clutching a knife? Perhaps on the cover of a DVD, or on someone's body? Or maybe four silhouettes walking side by side? I see tattoos like this from time to time...
But let's go in order. I want to say a few words about the person who wrote this book. and his "A Clockwork Orange" made a splash at the time. His publication sparked a heated debate. First of all, it is not written in ordinary language. Oddly enough, this is English mixed with Russian and semi-Russian words.
It turns out that in the 60s in the United Kingdom there was a fashion for the Cyrillic alphabet and all kinds of Russian words. Secondly, the book has a real abundance of scenes of cruelty and sexual violence. Myself main character, fifteen-year-old Alex, gets drugged every evening with his friends, and after
this four of them go out into the streets at night to rob, beat passers-by, steal beautiful cars and rape girls. Although the author draws a terrifying
picture of the future of England, in some episodes we may see characteristic
features of modern Russia.
Why do you need money? - Says somehow Alex to his friend. - You need a car, you pick it like a fruit from a tree. You need a girl - just take ...
In other words, the hero of the book combines almost all the features of the present
scum and scum of society. However, his real passion is symphony
music. Coming home every evening, the guy listens to Beethoven, Mozart, Bach. And as the music rises, he imagines raping little girls, trampling the faces of helpless victims with his heels. Through the mouth of the protagonist, the author calls it all
the term "good old ultra-violence".
In 1973, a Utah bookseller was
arrested for selling three books: Last Tango in Paris by Robert Ailey,
Idolaters by William Hegner and A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. In a lawsuit on June 21, 1973, the city passed a very specific ruling, whereby the police charged bookstore owner Carol Grant. The charge was later dropped, but Grant was forced to close the store and move to another city.
School boards in many cities tried to ban the book, complaining about it.
"offensive passages". I suppose they would be very surprised to know that the author is now considered one of the greatest intellectuals of his time. English
prose writer, poet, literary critic, linguist and composer created a novel that is no less (or maybe more) relevant now than forty-eight years ago. Modern
critics write the following:
… “A Clockwork Orange” is a warning against reckless cruelty and mechanized reforging, in which our society often sees the solution to all problems. Society is weak-willed and indifferent - a socialist world in which no one reads anymore, and only the streets are named with beautiful words. His main rule is that everyone, “except for children sitting with children and the sick”, must work; however, the prisons are overcrowded and the authorities are rehabilitating the criminals to make room for the expected political prisoners. Despite regular elections and the presence of opposition, people continue to re-elect
current government... I don't know about you, but this reminds me of something...
The novel itself is divided into three parts. Initially, Alex leads a life of adventure that goes against the laws and norms of society. Youthful aggression
takes over even representing a real danger to ordinary passers-by. It is not surprising that in the second part of the book he ends up in prison. Sentenced to fourteen years for the murder of an elderly woman during a robbery, he ends up behind bars, where he kills a cellmate.
This murder draws attention to Alex and makes him a prime candidate "for
fix" suitable for a new government-led experiment. Under the influence of the drug, the guy watched for some time
Movies full of violent scenes. As a result, he is completely
reformed, as the doctor says: "A true Christian who would rather let himself be killed than harm anyone." At the slightest manifestation of aggression, his body reacted with terrible spasms and bouts of nausea. Now he can neither speak rude words, nor hurt anyone, nor have sex. "Updated" Alex returns to the streets familiar from childhood, where he is now subjected to all sorts of attacks and persecution. Both from his past victims, and from former friends. A little later, a group of oppositionists decides to use the guy in their political struggle against the existing regime. In the end, Alex decides to commit suicide by jumping out of a window.
The novel does not end there, as you might think. Doctors remove the drug from the guy's blood, he returns to his usual state. Old thoughts of violence fill the young head, and he declares to himself that he is now "recovered." The last part of the novel is filled with reflections of the protagonist, as if there is some kind of change in the value system. It would seem that he can return to his normal life - but he will not return. Now by choice.
Undoubtedly, the novel turned out to be extremely emotional. Most likely, because while working on this book, the author himself was going through a difficult period in his life. In 1959, doctors mistakenly diagnosed Burgess with a terrible diagnosis - an inoperable brain tumor, promising one year of life. And the writer decided to devote this year exclusively to literature, hoping in this way to provide the family with a livelihood for many years. Giving out five pages a day, he expected to write about ten novels. However, some remained unfinished at the time of the diagnosis. The final version of "Orange" appeared in 1962, after a trip to the USSR, and a conversation with doctors,
admitted their mistake.
If I say that a certain “splitness” is manifested in the novel, I will not be mistaken. It began to be written by Anthony Burgess, doomed to death, and finished by another Burgess. The one that gained rich experience and a new attitude. Perhaps that is why the book turned out to be almost prophetic, forcing
to think about many moral and ethical problems on which the future depends
person.
"A Clockwork Orange" caused a furious controversy after the release of the screen. Stanley Kubrick himself, the director who made this film, called his creation "The Saga of human morality". It received the New York Film Critics Award and earned four Academy Award nominations, including " Best movie". Malcolm McDowell really got into the role of Alex, and quite accurately showed us his image. There is only one “but” - the idea is not fully disclosed in the film, it is not fully shown story line, which also matters and affects the perception of the film by the viewer. Since many people prefer movies to books, they are unlikely to be able to fully understand the meaning, to catch the main idea of the work. For them, Alex will remain the negative hero of the sensational action movie. Although the author on his
example shows us many
Anthony Burgess did not encourage his readers to "ultraviolence" or use
drugs. I think he would be very surprised to see the image of his character Alex,
in the form of a tattoo applied to the bodies of skinhead youths. And yet, I would rather think - what needs to be changed in the novel? So that he would catch the meaning
everyone who picks up a book.
“A person who does not have the right to choose ceases to be a person,” the author would tell us. “But, the right to choose, that's not all. We must always be aware of our
responsibility, and think about the consequences of that very choice. We only reap what we sow…”
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Anthony Burgess
Clockwork orange
* PART ONE*
We almost reached the city, damn it, Kanava, which was then called the “Industrial Canal”, was about to appear, and suddenly we look: the arrow of the fuel indicator seems to be zdohla, just like those arrows that indicated the desire of each of the us to continue to laugh and have fun; the engine of the car went haywire - kashl-kashl-kashl. No, well, it's okay, of course - not far away the blue lights of the railway station flared up and went out, flared up and went out, and very close by. It remained to decide whether to leave the car to be picked up by the cops later, or, as hatred and the desire to destroy and kill, commanded us to push it into muddy waters and enjoy how it bullknet was there, and thus complete the evening. We decided to let the bullknet go, got out, released the brake, the four of us rolled it to the edge of the ditch, where griazz and kal were swimming almost flush with the edges, then toltshok - and flew away, dear. We had to jump back to keep our clothes from getting splattered with mud, but it didn’t matter, it went normally:rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr& gurgling gurgling!
"Farewell, darling!" Georgik shouted, and Them added his clown's laughter to this. Then we moved to the station - just one stop to the center and remained. We, like pai-malltshiki, bought tickets, waited disciplinedly on the platform, where it was full of slot machines, with which Tem shustril (his pockets were always full of change and all sorts of chocolates, so that if necessary, umaslivatt the poor and have-nots, although there are those on the horizon something was not observed), and then the old Express Rapido rolled up with a roar, and we entered the train car, in which there were very few people. In order not to waste time in vain, all three minutes during which the train reached the center, we shustrili with the upholstery of the seats (it was in those days: chairs, and even with soft upholstery) - made her a complete razdryzg with the release of the insides, and old Tem pounded tseppju on the window for a long time, until the glass cracked, scattered in the winter wind, but something we got tired, calmed down and turned sour - nevertheless, damn it, we managed to shake some energy in the evening, and only from Tem, the indefatigable clown, joy it was like a pearl, even though it was all dirty, and only then it reeked of a mile away - also, by the way, a feature that I did not like in it.
In the center we left and slowly moved towards the Korova bar, already slegontsa pose-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o, showing the moon, stars and street lamps molars with fillings: after all, we were still teenagers, malltshi-palltshiki, and in the morning we had to go to school - and when we went to Korovu, there were even more people there than when we left there in the early evening. But that hanurik, who was muttering something in full otrube, having pumped up with sintemesk or whatever he pumped up, was still in place and continued to mutter: “Durmop-owls have an ink-stink sense of smell brym dyrydum ...
This, apparently, was his third or fourth otpad of the evening, because he had already acquired some kind of inhuman pallor, sort of became vestshju, and his face was as if sculpted from chalk. Actually, if he really wanted to hang out on orbit, it was necessary to immediately occupy one of the small rooms behind the partition, and not sit in the common room, because here it might occur to some of the malltshikov slegontsa poshustritt with him, although not seriously, since hefty people always sit in the interior of the bar bouncers who can easily stop any serious zavaruhu.In general, Tem sat down next to this hanurikom, barely squeezing his clown sandbox hiding his household under the table, and cracked him in the leg with all his might with his dirty govnodavorn. He didn't feel the devil, because he was too high in the clouds.
Around the majority were nadtsatyje-shustrili and dabbled in milk with all sorts of durrju (nadtsatyje are those who used to be called teenagers), but there were some older ones, both veki and kisy (but not bourgeois, none of them), they sat at the counter , talking and laughing. From their haircuts, and also from their clothes (mostly thick knitted sweaters), it was clear that these were all people from television - they were rehearsing something around the corner in the studio. The faces of kis in their company were very lively, large-mouthed, brightly made up, kisy laughed merrily, sparkling with a lot of zubbjev and clearly showing that for the whole the world they don't care.
Then there was a moment when the disc on the automatic player ended and went to replace (it was Johnny Zhivago, the Russian koshka with his song “Only in a Day”), and in this interval, in a short lull, before the next record plays, one of those women, a kisa of about thirty years old with a big gakom (white hair, rot to ushei) suddenly began to sing; she sang a little, just a bar and a half, as if for an example in connection with what they were talking about, but for a moment it seemed to me, damn it, as if a huge bird had flown into the bar, and all the smallest hairs on my tele stood on end, goosebumps ran down and up again, like little lizards. Because I learned music. It was from Friedrich Gitterfenster's "Das Betfzeug" - the part where the heroine, with her throat cut, dies and says something like "maybe it would be better." In general, I already winced.
However, the brat Tem, having swallowed a fragment of the aria like a slice of hot sausage, again betrayed one of his dirty tricks, which this time was expressed in the fact that, having made a hole-hole-hole-hole with his lips, he howled like a dog and poked twice with two splayed fingers in the air and burst into silly laughter. His vulgarity made me shiver right away, blood rushed to my head, and I said: "Svolotsh! Dirty club, vyrodok ill-mannered!" Lot I, leaning over Jor-jik, who was sitting between me and Tem, sharply punched Tem with his fist in zubbja. This topic was extremely surprising, he even opened his mouth, wiped the blood from his lips with his hand and began to look in amazement first at the bloody hand, then at me.
What are you, huh? he asked with a completely foolish air. Almost no one saw what happened, and those who saw it did not pay attention.
The player played again with might and main, and some kind of zhutki electronic pop kal.
I speak:
And the fact that you are a lousy guboshliop, unable to behave and not able to behave decently in society, damn it.
Them put on a mischievous look and said: - Well, you know, I don’t always like that. what are you doing. And I am no longer your friend and never will be.
He took out a huge obsoplivienni handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe the bloody streaks, looking at him puzzledly, as if he thought that blood happens to others, but not to him. He poured out blood, as if to atone for the pakosti he did when that kisa suddenly poured music on us. But that kisa was already laughing with might and main with her koreshami at the counter, sparkling with zubbj "ami and all her invitingly painted litsom, obviously not noticing the dirty vulgarity allowed by Theme.
It turns out that it was only me that Tem did a dirty trick. I said:
Well, if you don't like me and don't want to obey, then you know what to do, druzhistshe. - But Georgik quite sharply, so that I even turned to him, said: - All right for you. Kontshiaite.
And this is a private matter for the Subject, - I objected. - Doesn't want to, you see, go to my shesterkoi all my life. And I looked hard at George. To those whose bleeding had already stopped, he continued to grumble:
I wonder who gave him the right to order and toltshock me when he pleases? I'll tear off his beitsy, knock him out glazzja tseppju, then he'll know.
Be careful, - I said as quietly as possible, just to be heard through the hoot of the stereo player, which hit the ushi, reverberating from all the walls and ceiling; and the one in otpade started making some noise: "The spark is coming, bootlitkyboom...
"And I also said: - When they want to live, they don't throw such words, keep in mind!
Ngen to you, - said Tem, grinning. - Big such tolsti to you hren.
You shouldn't have done what you did. Next time go out better with tseppju or britvoi, I can't stand that from you anymore.
Well, popishemsia, when you say sharpen your knife, I barked back. And then Pete spoke up.
Okay, stop it, both of you. Are we friends or not? It's not good when friends start tsapattsia. Look, there are some patsany grinning at us, right up to ushei. You can't beat yourself up like that.
You can't, I agreed. - But Tem must know his place. Right?
Wait a minute, - George was surprised. - Well, from here in more detail! This is the first time I've heard something about someone needing to know their place.
To tell the truth, Alex, - Pete supported him, - you should not have given Theme this completely undeserved toltshock. I said it and I won't repeat it. I say this with full respect, but if it was me who got it from you, you would have to answer. I won't say anything more. - And he lowered the litso to the glass of milk.
I felt everything boil up inside, however, trying to hide it, I spoke calmly:
Someone has to be in charge. Discipline is essential. So or not? No one said a word to that, no one even nodded. Inwardly, I boiled even more and became even calmer outwardly. “I must admit,” I said, “I have been leading you for a long time. Right? So or not? They all nodded slightly, rather reluctantly. He wiped away the last traces of blood. Now he spoke:
Okay, okay, zamniom. Tarabumbia, I'm sitting on the pedestal. From the beginning, we all seem to be a little oborzeli. We don't talk about it anymore. “I was surprised, perhaps even a little frightened, that Tem spoke so wisely. And he continued: - Right now, it's best to go to a warm bed, so let's go home. Right? “It all surprised me to the extreme. The other two nodded in agreement, saying, right, right. I speak:
About that toltshok. That, you understand me correctly. It's all music, you know? I become like bezumni when some kisa sings and gets interrupted. Because of this, it happened.
Okay, everyone, let's go home, little spiatshka, - said Tem. - Big boys need a lot of sleep. Right? “Right, right,” the other two nodded. I said;
Well, I think it's the best we can come up with. That gave us the right idea podkinul. If we don't meet in the afternoon, damn it, then tomorrow at the same hour and in the same place?
Of course, George said. - Zamiotano. "I might be a little late," Tem warned. - But in the same place, that's for sure. Maybe just a little later. He still touched his lip from time to time, although there was no more blood on it.
And let's hope that there are no more kisy will practice singing. - And he let out his crown, so familiar to all of us clown gasping laughter: "Uh-ha-ha-ha."
I decided that he was so dark that he was not capable of being offended properly.
In general, we each parted in our own direction, I walked and belched all the time from the cold duri that I had swallowed. I kept the razor at the ready in case some of Billyboy's friends suddenly turned up near my entrance, and, by the way, other bandy, shaiki and gruppy also ran into war with each other from time to time.
I lived with mamoi and papoi in a residential area between Kingsley Avenue and Wilsonway Highway, at 18a. I got to the entrance door without incident, although I had to pass some kind of malltshika, who was lying in a ditch, writhing and moaning, all cut up, and under the lantern there were traces of blood, as if it was night itself, roshustriv, finally signed her tricks . And also, very close to the house 18a, I saw a pair of girlish nizhnih, obviously rudely pulled off in the heat of the fight. In short, I'm in. Even during construction, the walls in the corridor were painted with pictures: tsheloveki and kisy, with all their pritshindalah, written out in great detail, work with dignity - some at the machine, some else how, and - I repeat - completely without any clothes on their places, very vypukiuh bodies . And, of course, some of the mallishikov living in the house did a great job on them, embellishing them with a pencil, somewhere with a ballpoint pen and adding to the mentioned pictures painted on them with all sorts of protruding shtutshkami, volosnioi and vulgar words, in the manner of comics supposedly escaping from the mouths of these quite respectably working naked vekov and zhenstshin. I went to the elevator, but I didn’t need to press the button to understand if it was working, because someone had just given the elevator an izriadni toltshok, even the doors were turned out in a fit of some truly remarkable force, so I had to stomp all ten floors on foot. Puffing and swearing, I climbed upstairs, very tired physically, although my head worked clearly. That evening I missed real music terribly - maybe because of that kisy in the Korova bar. Before my passport was stamped at the entrance to the sleeping area and the striped pole was lifted, I still wanted to have time to enjoy it properly.
I unlocked the door of apartment 108 with my key, silence greeted me in the small hallway, pa and mum had already had their tenth dream, but before going to bed my mother left dinner on the table for me - a couple of slices of crappy canned ham and bread and butter, as well as a glass of good old cold milk. Oh-ho-ho, milk-milk, without knives, without sintemesk and drencrom! How insidious will ordinary harmless milk always seem to me now! However, I drank it and was furiously sozhral - it turns out that I was much hungrier than I myself thought; he took out a fruit pie from the bread box and, tearing off pieces from it, began to stuff them into his insatiable rot. Then I brushed my teeth and, clicking my tongue in order to get the remnants of zhratshki from the holes in the zubbjah, trudged to my room, undressing as I went. Here was my bed and my stereo, the pride and joy of my zhizni, here my CDs were stored in the closet, there were posters and flags on the walls, reminiscent of life in a reform school, where I was eleven years old - yes, damn it - and on each - some inscription, some memorable number: "YUG-4"; "BLUE DIVISION OF THE MAIN CORRECTION SCHOOL"; "TO THE EXCELLENT STUDENT". The portable speakers of my setup were located throughout the room: on the walls, on the ceiling, on the floor, so that listening to music in bed, I seemed to be in the midst of an orchestra. The first thing I thought of that night was to listen to Jeffrey Plautus' new violin concerto by Odysseus Churilos with the Georgia Philharmonic Orchestra; I took the record from the shelf where I kept them neatly, turned it on and waited.
That's it, damn it, that's where the real prihod is! Bliss, true heavenly bliss. Naked, I lay on top of the blanket with my hands behind my head, eyes closed, blissfully open mouth, and listened to the divine sounds float. The very splendor in them took on plott, became corporeal and tangible. Golden streams poured from the trombones under the bed; somewhere behind the head, three-jet, fiery trumpets sparkled; drums rumbled at the door, rolling right through me, all over my gut, and then moved away again, crackling like a toy thunder. Oh wonder of wonders!
And so, like a bird woven from unearthly, the thinnest silvery threads, or like silvery wine pouring from a space rocket, the violin solo entered, denying all gravity, immediately rising above all the other strings, which, like a silk net, were intertwined over my bed. Then the oboe flute burst in, screwed like platinum worms into the sweetest abundant plott of gold and silver. Incredible pleasure, dammit. Pa and Ma in their bedroom next door had already gotten used to and unlearned banging on my wall, complaining about what they called "noise". I trained them well. Now they will take sleeping pills. Or maybe, knowing about my addiction to music at night, they have already accepted it. Listening, I kept my glazzja tightly closed, so as not to spugnuit the pleasure, which was much sweeter than any God there, paradise, sintemesk and everything else - such visions visited me at the same time. I saw how veki and kisy, young and old, lay on the ground, begging for mercy, and in response I only laugh at all rotom and kurotshu with their litsa boot. Along the walls - devotshki, torn to pieces and crying, and I zasazhivaju in one, in another, and, of course, when the music in the first part of the concert soared to the top of the highest tower, I, as I was, lay on my back with my arms thrown behind my head and tightly covered with glazzjami, could not stand it and with a cry of "a-a-a-ah" splashed pleasure out of himself. Then the beautiful music, coming closer and closer, began to gradually decline. After that there was a wonderful Mozart, "Jupiter", and again various paintings, litsa, which I tormented and kurotshil, and only then I decided to put in the end, on the very border of sleep, the final disk, something powerful, old and zaboinoje, and I took out J. S. Bach, "Brandenburg Concerto" for viola and cello. Listening to it with pleasure now of a completely different kind, I again saw that name on the sheet, to which I had made razdryzg this evening, already, it seemed, a long time ago, in a cottage called "HOUSE". Something about a clockwork orange. To the sounds of I.S.
Bach, I have become much better at ponimatt what the name means; the brown, ocher luxury of the old master's chords opened my eyes to the fact that I should have toltshoknutt them both much more seriously, tear them apart and trample them to dust on the floor of their own house.
End of free trial.
- And bring these God's dandelions not pig swill, but something really nutritious. Otherwise, they will die from your charity right here in your viper. With these words, I scooped out several crumpled pieces of paper from one pocket and flopped them onto the table. The rest followed my lead. Soon the old women were brought stew with mashed potatoes and, again, tender stewed vegetables and a can of beer. The old birds sent us the most charming smilies and nodded gratefully, shaking their hair. And then something came over us. We started scooping everything from the counter: General Yankee cognac, cookies, chocolate, cheese, ham, moth and cockroach repellant and covering our lovely grannies with it. Having thus got rid of the mani, we winked merrily at our enchantresses and said that we would soon return. "Thank you boys. God bless you!" they answered in unison. We trooped out onto Attlee Street, which is full of conderies and malignant shops that we haven't visited in three months. It was very quiet here now. Coppola...Anthony Burges
Clockwork orange
(magazine version)
From the translator
One of the most talented and original English writers - Anthony Burges - is rightfully considered the successor of the futuristic traditions of George Orwell. "A Clockwork Orange" - based on which the famous American director Stanley Kubrick staged one of the most famous films of world cinema with the magnificent Malcolm McDowell as the cynical and cruel anti-hero Alex - is a multifaceted work that combines a philosophical and ethical treatise, and a parable-allegory, and phantasmagoria permeated with black humor, and a caustic satire on the modern totalitarian society, which seeks to turn the younger generation into a basket of obedient "mechanical oranges" with the help of anti-human methods, which can be manipulated at will (which we observed in the actions of the Red Guards, the Red Brigades, the Khmer Rouge, neo-fascists, etc.). Yes, and in our country the backbone of any extremist movement ...
Dear reader. A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess is probably worth having in your home library. It is interesting to observe how heroes who do not have high morals, having gone through difficult trials, were spiritually transformed and radically changed their outlook on life. Moderate attention to detail created a fairly clear picture, but did not deprive the reader of a place for his personal imagination. The well-chosen timing of the events helped the author delve into the issues and raise a number of vital questions that are worth thinking about. With the help of hints, insignificant details, the main whole gradually grows, convincing the reader of the reality of what he read. The harmonious complementarity of conflict episodes with the external surrounding reality once again confirms the talent and skill of the literary genius. An excellent example that combines an unusual proportion of sensuality, realism and fabulousness. In the text we find many comics that happen to the characters, but these mockeries are cheerful and harmless, close to tenderness, not gloating. It is precisely the thread of the plot that you want to unravel that intrigues, and it is she who at the end becomes reality with an unexpected turn of events. In the process of reading, separate conjectures and conjectures appear, but it is impossible to tie everything together, and only at the end everything falls into place. From the first lines, visual images attract attention, they are in many respects distinct, colorful and graphic. "A Clockwork Orange" by Burgess Anthony to read for free online is pleasant and exciting, everything is so harmonious that you want to return to it again.
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The description of A Clockwork Orange
A dystopian classic that still amazes with its original plot and unusual turn of events. The main storyline is the re-education of the main character. In order to make the young criminal safe for society, he is forcibly accustomed to "non-violence". The once formidable leader of a gang of teenagers embarks on a path of redemption and suffering.
Of particular note is the created environment of teenage culture, where communication takes place on “slang” using foreign words and expressions. Burgess used words from Russian speech in his novel. The tough, capacious and strong work of Anthony Burgess left a significant mark on the culture of the 20th century. The cult novel became the basis for a cult film and influenced the work of many actors, directors and musicians. In particular, in one of his last songs, David Bowie used slang created by Burgess. Read A Clockwork Orange book online for free and without registration in electronic library BooksReading.
