“Goodness is something chosen. When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man.”
And there I was, O my brothers, re-reading A Clockwork Orange for the first time in over a decade like. Not since I was a malenky malchick, dear brothers, had I spent time with my dear old droog Alex and had a horrorshow time with some ultraviolence. (Okay, I’ll stop there because every review of this book apparently needs a nadsat impression, and I’m willfully refusing to add to that anymore than I must.) This is undoubtedly one of those books that ages like fine cheese; as you mature, the book is more readily digested and comprehended. I probably understood nadsat (or likely glossed over it) more readily as a teen, but now I fully appreciated the challenge of peeking behind this creative linguistic barrier, and unveiling the many layers of the story.Burgess was evidently a linguist, and a brilliant one at that—his use of nadsat in this book feels not only appropriately alienating but even timeless. The use of nadsat is chaotic yet regular enough for any devoted reader to become quite familiar after just a half hour spent in the book. I incidentally know many more Slavic words now than I did during my first read of this book, so it became almost a game to guess the nadsat words as they came along; every time I knew with certainty, it was a new exciting thing. Not only did this help unburden the active work this book requires, but it helped in situating myself in the mindset of the ‘long-suffering and humble narrator’, Alex.That brings me to the next point—Burgess’s creation of Alex, the book’s narrator and protagonist, is no short than a work of brilliance. He is perhaps the most disgusting, vile, and loathsome creature to grace modern fiction, and at the same time, he manages to rope in the poor, unsuspecting reader into sympathizing with his struggles and coming along on his journey of ‘redemption’. I can hardly say I like Alex, nor would I want to spend any time with him (except maybe in listening to music, that being the only exception); and at the same time, I rooted for him, reader. Burgess lays the psychological trap brilliantly—and I can’t fully explain it all, as I’m no genius literary analyst myself. Is is the disguised distancing of the nadsat that shields the reader from violence, or perhaps the ‘suffering’ Alex so often alludes to? It’s hard to say.This novel is also an interesting capsule of looking back to the 1960s. The ever-present threat of socialist regimes and totalitarianism springing up; the overbearing shadow cast by the Iron Curtain; a multitude quieted by breads and circuses while the government runs amok; bleakness all around. All of these, and many other such themes, feature quite prominently in the novel, which is supposed to take place in either the late 20th or early 21st century—it is unclear. Of course, in hindsight, this example of retro-futurism comes off as quite garish and silly, but it’s not too hard to understand the fears underlying them. If one buys Pinker’s argument, then we are perhaps living in one of the most peaceful times in recorded human history—and that is no small marvel. Contrary to the dystopian picture painted in the novel, we do not have gangs of youths beating up the old or committing senseless violence without repercussion (thankfully). In the modern eye, crime has largely been swept under the rug; not completely eradicated, but largely out of sight—so too are the criminals.In addition to the exploration of philosophical themes of free will, agency, and what it means to be good or do good deeds, Burgess also dares to explore an optimistic view of human nature. The infamously ‘deleted’ 21st chapter of the book, left out for the American audience, was only added back into the book in the 80s, well after the film version had dazzled our glazzies (sorry, the rhyme was too good). Apparently this was a controversial decision and many dislike the ‘added’ chapter, despite it being Burgess’s original intents. I’m not sure which version I read many years ago, but I read the one with all chapters this time, and I appreciated the last chapter. Burgess is careful to show us a more introspective Alex—not at all the same Alex we see at the beginning of the story, because of course this Alex has suffered, and suffered, and suffered, as he says. The tone Burgess takes in this final chapter was optimistic and hopeful, though far from a perfectly sanitized conclusion; I enjoyed the ‘true ending’, as it were, and find that it provides for a more complex dive into some of the philosophical themes underpinning the novel. Is it possible for a person to aspire—whether by design or by ignorance—towards the good? Or is wickedness an inborn quality that cannot be overcome? Burgess takes us to task to wrestle with these questions, and I find that leaving the final chapter out leaves a bit too simplistic an ending than he would have liked.If you can handle descriptions of unabashed ultraviolence, then I wholeheartedly recommend reading this book (listening to Beethoven’s Ninth while reading for maximum points). I originally gave this 4 stars; now I give it the full 5, because, dear brothers and friends, I knew it was going to be a real horrorshow of a time as soon as I started. Teen me probably thought I was cool and radical for reading such a terrific book, but now I’m able to not only find myself cool, I can better appreciate Burgess’s intentions and ideas. Oh, and I watched the film version (which had been unfortunately unwatched by me until this moment); it was decent, and I found it fascinating how the story was transformed into the visual scene, but I do miss that final chapter. Can’t wait to re-read this in another 10 or 20 years and see how it goes.
