«A Clockwork Orange»

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" It was probable that this was his third or fourth lot that
evening, for he had that pale inhuman look, like he'd become a `thing,' and
like his litso was really a piece of chalk carved. Really, if he wanted to
spend so long in the land, he should have gone into one of the private
cubies at the back and not stayed in the big mesto, because here some of the
malchickies would filly about with him a malenky bit, though not too much
because there were powerful bruiseboys hidden away in the old Korova who
could stop any riot. Anyway, Dim squeezed in next to this veck and, with his
big clown's yawp that showed his hanging grape, he stabbed this veck's foot
with his own large filthy sabog. But the veck, my brothers, heard nought,
being now all above the body.
It was nadsats milking and coking and fillying around (nadsats were
what we used to call the teens), but there were a few of the more starry
ones, vecks and cheenas alike (but not of the bourgeois, never them)
laughing and govoreeting at the bar. You could tell them from their
barberings and loose platties (big stringy sweaters mostly) that they'd been
on rehearsals at the TV studios around the corner. The devotchkas among them
had these very lively litsos and wide big rots, very red, showing a lot of
teeth, and smecking away and not caring about the wicked world one whit. And
then the disc on the stereo twanged off and out (it was Johnny Zhivago, a
Russky koshka, singing `Only Every Other Day'), and in the like interval,
the short silence before the next one came on, one of these devotchkas--very
fair and with a big smiling red rot and in her late thirties I'd
say--suddenly came with a burst of singing, only a bar and a half and as
though she was like giving an example of something they'd all been
govoreeting about, and it was like for a moment, O my brothers, some great
bird had flown into the milkbar, and I felt all the little malenky hairs on
my plott standing endwise and the shivers crawling up like slow malenky
lizards and then down again. Because I knew what she sang. It was from an
opera by Friedrich Gitterfenster called `Das Bettzeug,' and it was the bit
where she's snuffing it with her throat cut, and the slovos are `Better like
this maybe.' Anyway, I shivered.
But old Dim, as soon as he'd slooshied this dollop of song like a
lomtick of redhot meat plonked on your plate, let off one of his
vulgarities, which in this case was a lip-trump followed by a dog-howl
followed by two fingers pronging twice at the air followed by a clowny
guffaw. I felt myself all of a fever and like drowning in redhot blood,
slooshying and viddying Dim's vulgarity, and I said: "Bastard. Filthy
drooling mannerless bastard." Then I leaned across Georgie, who was between
me and horrible Dim, and fisted Dim skorry on the rot.