«A Clockwork Orange»

Загрузить книгу на мобильный телефон.

"Except to my enemies."
"Well," said the Int Inf Min, sitting down by my bed. "I and the
Government of which I am a member want you to regard us as friends. Yes,
friends. We have put you right, yes? You are getting the best of treatment.
We never wished you harm, but there are some who did and do. And I think you
know who those are."
"Yes yes yes," he said. "There are certain men who wanted to use you,
yes, use you for political ends. They would have been glad, yes, glad for
you to be dead, for they thought they could then blame it all on the
Government. I think you know who those men are."
"There is a man," said the Intinfmin, "called F. Alexander, a writer of
subversive literature, who has been howling for your blood. He has been mad
with desire to stick a knife in you. But you're safe from him now. We put
him away."
"He was supposed to be like a droogie," I said. "Like a mother to me
was what he was."
"He found out that you had done wrong to him. At least," said the Min
very very skorry, "he believed you had done wrong. He formed this idea in
his mind that you had been responsible for the death of someone near and
dear to him."
"What you mean," I said, "is that he was told."
"He had this idea," said the Min. "He was a menace. We put him away for
his own protection. And also," he said, "for yours."
"Kind," I said. "Most kind of thou."
"When you leave here," said the Min, "you will have no worries. We
shall see to everything. A good job on a good salary. Because you are
helping us."
"Am I?" I said.
"We always help our friends, don't we?" And then he took my rooker and
some veck creeched: "Smile!" and I smiled like bezoomny without thinking,
and then flash flash crack flash bang there were pictures being taken of me
and the Intinfmin all droogy together. "Good boy," said this great
chelloveck.
"Good good boy. And now, see, a present."
What was brought in now, brothers, was a big shiny box, and I viddied
clear what sort of a veshch it was. It was a stereo. It was put down next to
the bed and opened up and some veck plugged its lead into the wall-socket.
"What shall it be?" asked a veck with otchkies on his nose, and he had in
his rookers lovely shiny sleeves full of music. "Mozart? Beethoven?
Schoenberg? Carl Orff?"
"The Ninth," I said. "The glorious Ninth."
And the Ninth it was, O my brothers. Everybody began to leave nice and
quiet while I laid there with my glazzies closed, slooshying the lovely
music. The Min said: "Good good boy," patting me on the pletcho, then he
ittied off. Only one veck was left, saying: "Sign here, please." I opened my
glazzies up to sign, not knowing what I was signing and not, O my brothers,
caring either.