L'orange mécanique - Pavillons poche

It was me, Alex, and my three droogs - that is, my mates - Dim, Georgie, and Pete. We were at the Korova Milkbar, a real horrorshow place with its like plastic sculpts and milk vellocet, synthemesc, or drencrom, which is what we were lushing. The starry ptitsas on the wall seemed to watch us as we planned out our evening's bit of the old ultraviolence. Life was one big glorious razdraz, a chance to smash and bash and feel the real horrorshow thrill of it all. We were young, strong, and full of the glorious energy of youth, ready to make a little bit of the old in-out, in-out, and fill the night with screams.

Our nights were a symphony of violence, each act a carefully orchestrated movement in my own grand, personal opera. We'd give a good kicking to some drunky old veck staggering home, or break into a cottage, where the man of the house would get a good malenky beaking, and his lovely wife, she'd get the full treatment. Oh, it was like a beautiful dance, the fear in their glazzies, the sounds of their suffering, all set to the glorious music of Ludwig van Beethoven, my most dearest friend. One night, a bit of a sherricking, a real brawl with Billyboy's gang, turned sour. We broke into a stately home, and while my droogs were busy with their own greedy devotchka, I dealt with the lady of the house. But something went wrong, a real nasty surprise, and my droogs, those filthy traitorous bratchnies, left me to the rozzers.

The iron gates clanged shut, and I was in Staja, the State Jail, for a good long stretch. The days were long and grey, full of the dull routine of prison life, but I was a clever chellovek. I soon found my way to the prison chaplain, a kindly, if a bit gullible, old veck, and pretended to find God. I read the Holy Bible, not for its teachings, but for the bits of ultraviolence and sex, the real juicy bits. Then came the news of a new way out, a quick way to freedom: the Ludovico Technique. They called it a cure, a way to make bad men good. I volunteered, eager to escape the gray walls and the endless boredom, not knowing what real horrorshow awaited me.

The Ludovico Technique was no picnic, my brothers. Strapped to a chair, eyelids clamped open, I was forced to watch films of sickening ultraviolence and vile sex, while a drug made me feel like I was going to like vomit and pass out. The worst part, though, was the music. My beloved Beethoven, my glorious Ninth, was played over these films of horrorshow, linking the beauty I adored with the sickness I felt. Soon, the mere thought of violence, or even hearing my favorite classical tunes, sent me into fits of nausea and agony. They'd turned me into a mechanical toy, a clockwork orange, with goodness forced upon me, taking away my right to choose.

Released back into the world, I was a different chellovek. No longer capable of violence, I was utterly defenseless. My old droogs, Dim and Georgie, now rozzers themselves, gave me a proper beating. Then I ended up at the cottage of F. Alexander, a writer whose wife my old gang had brutalized. He took me in, not knowing who I was, seeing me as a political weapon against the very government that had "cured" me. But when I, like a fool, started humming "Singin' in the Rain," a tune from that terrible night, he knew. He tried to drive me to suicide, bombarding me with Beethoven, which now brought me nothing but pure physical agony.

I jumped, a long fall, and woke up in the hospital, broken but free from the conditioning. The government, eager to cover up their little experiment, showered me with apologies and promises of a good future, a good job. I was cured, all right, cured of the cure. The sickness was gone, and I could once again appreciate the glorious music, the beautiful sound of Beethoven. But something else had shifted inside me, a deeper change.

I saw Pete, my old droog, now a respectable married man with a loving wife. He had grown up, moved on from the ultraviolence, found a different path. And as I sat there, thinking of my own future, of getting married and having a malenky starry son of my own, a feeling came over me. The desire for the old ultraviolence, the smashing and the bashing, it was fading. The energy of youth, which once drove me to such horrorshow acts, now seemed to yearn for something different, something calmer, more mature. The phase was passing, like a sickness leaving the body, and I realized that perhaps, after all the horrorshow, I was finally ready to grow up.