«A Clockwork Orange»

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Every day there was something about Modern Youth, but the best
veshch they ever had in the old gazetta was by some starry pop in a doggy
collar who said that in his considered opinion and he was govoreeting as a
man of Bog IT WAS THE DEVIL THAT WAS ABROAD and was like ferreting his way
into like young innocent flesh, and it was the adult world that could take
the responsibility for this with their wars and bombs and nonsense. So that
was all right. So he knew what he talked of, being a Godman. So we young
innocent malchicks could take no blame. Right right right.
When I'd gone erk erk a couple of razzes on my full innocent stomach, I
started to get out day platties from my wardrobe, turning the radio on.
There was music playing, a very nice malenky string quartet, my brothers, by
Claudius Birdman, one that I knew well. I had to have a smeck, though,
thinking of what I'd viddied once in one of these like articles on Modern
Youth, about how Modern Youth would be better off if A Lively Appreciation
Of The Arts could be like encouraged. Great Music, it said, and Great Poetry
would like quieten Modern Youth down and make Modern Youth more Civilized.
Civilized my syphilised yarbles. Music always sort of sharpened me up, O my
brothers, and made me feel like old Bog himself, ready to make with the old
donner and blitzen and have vecks and ptitsas creeching away in my ha ha
power. And when I'd cheested up my litso and rookers a bit and done dressing
(my day platties were like student-wear: the old blue pantalonies with
sweater with A for Alex) I thought here at last was time to itty off to the
disc-bootick (and cutter too, my pockets being full of pretty polly) to see
about this long-promised and long-ordered stereo Beethoven Number Nine (the
Choral Symphony, that is), recorded on Masterstroke by the Esh Sham Sinfonia
under L. Muhaiwir. So out I went, brothers.
The day was very different from the night. The night belonged to me and
my droogs and all the rest of the nadsats, and the starry bourgeois lurked
indoors drinking in the gloopy worldcasts, but the day was for the starry
ones, and there always seemed to be more rozzes or millicents about during
the day, too. I got the autobus from the corner and rode to Center, and then
I walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick I favoured
with my inestimable custom, O my brothers. It had the gloopy name of
MELODIA, but it was a real horrorshow mesto and skorry, most times, at
getting the new recordings. I walked in and the only other customers were
two young ptitsas sucking away at ice-sticks (and this, mark, was dead cold
winter and sort of shuffling through the new pop-discs--Johnny Burnaway,
Stash Kroh, The Mixers, Lay Quit Awhile With Ed And Id Molotov, and all the
rest of that cal).