Clockwork Masterpiece

A Clockwork Orange is one of those books which everyone has heard of but which few people have actually read, seemingly prefering the 1971 big screen adaptation by Stanley Kubrick, which, I have to say, pales into insignificance compared to Anthony Burgess' dystopian novel of nine years previous.

In short, the story centres around Alex, a fifteen year old boy. But, he's not any old fifteen year old boy. He is a twisted, sadistic, violent fifteen year old boy. He is the self proclaimed leader of his gang, his Droogs, and between them they set out on a hideous rampage of rape, torture and murder. Then Alex is imprisoned for his crimes and the state, via mind control, tries to reform him

The story is, famously, preceded by a reputation of shocking violence, and, I’m not going to deny that it shy's away from it in any shape or form, featuring lengthy accounts of heinous crimes, and they’re vivid, excitement filled, descriptions (of which Burgess later wrote in his autobiography: ‘I was sickened by my own excitement at setting it down.’) Yet it does not glorify violence, nor is it a book about violence per se. Rather it’s an exploration of the morality of free will. Of whether it is better to choose to be bad than to be conditioned to be good. It is a storey of alienation and how to deal with the excesses to which such alienation may lead. And ultimately, of one man’s decision to say goodbye to all that. (At least in the UK version. The American version, on which Stanley Kubrick’s film adaptation was based, ends on a less optimistic note.) In short, it’s a novel of ideas which just happens to contain a fair bit of violence.
It is also nothing short of a marvellous artistic and linguistic achievement. Those who have seen the film will know that Alex (the anti-hero) and his droogs speak a made-up language full of Russian loanwords, Shakespearean and Biblical influences and Cockney rhyming slang. Initially this nadsat language was nearly incomprehensible to me and caused my avoiding it for a long time. I found myself cursing Burgess for his pretention at writing such a novel. Then, one day I picked it up finally made a stand to give it one last go, and it was only then that I realised that I had found one the best books ever written.

However, despite all these issues regarding the language, Burgess takes great care to introduce his new words in an understandable way, so, after a few pages you get the hang of the nadsat lingo, and, after a few pages more you’ll begin to admire it, because for one thing, Burgess is awfully consistent about it, and for another, it just sounds so damned good. I mean, if you’re going to come up with a new word for ‘crazy’, you might as well choose bezoomny, right? Because it actually sounds mad. Doesn’t it? Anyhow, there’s more to A Clockwork Orange than just philosophical ideas and linguistic pyrotechnics. The writing itself is unexpectedly lyrical, and not just when it deals with violence. Some of the most beautiful passages in the book deal with music. More specifically, classical music, because, for all his wicked ways, Alex has a passion for classical music, and a particular adoration for Beethoven. He is cultured, and while his culturedness obviously does not equal civilisation and goodness (a point he himself is quick to make), it does put him a notch above the average hooligan. It’s the apparent dichotomy between Alex’ tastes in art and his taste for violence which makes him such an interesting protagonist and which keeps you following his exploits to their not entirely believable (but good) conclusion.
In short, to say that Burgess' most famous creation is anything other than a masterpiece is utter nonsence. It stands, in my opinion, alongside Orwells 1984 and Salingers Catcher in the Rye, as one of the greatest works of 20th century literature.