«A Clockwork Orange»

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Then he said: "Oh, as I say, you're
a living witness, poor boy. Eat up all your breakfast and then come and see
what I've written, for it's going into `The Weekly Trumpet' under your name,
you unfortunate victim."
Well, brothers, what he had written was a very long and very weepy
piece of writing, and as I read it I felt very sorry for the poor malchick
who was govoreeting about his sufferings and how the Government had sapped
his will and how it was up to all lewdies to not let such a rotten and evil
Government rule them again, and then of course I realized that the poor
suffering malchick was none other than Y. H. N.
"Very good," I said. "Real horrorshow. Written well thou hast, O sir."
And then he looked at me very narrow and said:
"What?" It was like he had not slooshied me before.
"Oh, that," I said, "is what we call nadsat talk. All the teens use
that, sir." So then he ittied off to the kitchen to wash up the dishes, and
I was left in these borrowed night platties and toofles, waiting to have
done to me what was going to be done to me, because I had no plans for
myself, O my brothers.
While the great F. Alexander was in the kitchen a dingalingaling came
at the door. "Ah," he creeched, coming out wiping his rookers, "it will be
these people. I'll go." So he went and let them in, a kind of rumbling
hahaha of talk and hallo and filthy weather and how are things in the
hallway, then they ittied into the room with the fire and the book and the
article about how I had suffered, viddying me and going Aaaaah as they did
it. There were three lewdies, and F. Alex gave me their eemyas. Z.Dolin was
a very wheezy smoky kind of a veck, coughing kashl kashl kashl with the end
of a cancer in his rot, spilling ash all down his platties and then brushing
it away with like very impatient rookers. He was a malenky round veck, fat,
with big thick-framed otchkies on. Then there was Something Something
Rubinstein, a very tall and polite chelloveck with a real gentleman's
goloss, very starry with a like eggy beard. And lastly there was D. B. da
Silva who was like skorry in his movements and had this strong von of scent
coming from him. They all had a real horrorshow look at me and seemed like
overjoyed with what they viddied. Z. Dolin said:
"All right, all right, eh? What a superb device he can be, this boy. If
anything, of course, he could for preference look even iller and more
zombyish than he does. Anything for the cause. No doubt we can think of
something."
I did not like that crack about zombyish, brothers, and so I said:
"What goes on, bratties? What dost thou in mind for thy little droog have?"
And the F. Alexander swooshed in with:
"Strange, strange, that manner of voice pricks me.