Enter A Clockwork Orange
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A Clockwork Orange
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Alright. It’s been awhile. A long while.
No, my near-zero readers, I have not been blasting through books like a cheetah chasing a pack of gimp zebras, too busy to pause and bless you all with the literary miracle that is my writing. The total number of books I’ve read since my last post over a month ago is zero. That’s right. Zero.
But here’s the truly depressing part. My current yearly total of three books (maybe…? I’d have to go back and count and frankly I’m too lazy to count past one right now) is apparently about 1000% more than roughly half of Americans. And we can all take a wild guess who a good portion of that crowd voted for. Hint: his favorite color appears to be orange.
That being said, I’m ashamed of my lack of reading. I feel utterly terrible that you’ve all been in the throes of despair, waiting for me to finally put pen to paper, or in the modern age, violently clack on an expensive machine. Dear reader, I’m sorry. Although, after what I’m about to write, I might be more sorry for what’s coming next.
Book Club Status Report
Let’s do a quick update on the many clubs I’ve irresponsibly created. My original trio (which almost became a quatro, I guess) has dissolved into dust. Feel free to consult previous posts if you want to relive that catastrophe.
My second marriage of a book club, consisting of twelve family members, is now down to ten. But we’re chugging along, which in book club terms counts as thriving. Then there’s Book Bingo with my RL spouse. Yes, RL means real life, for those of you who apparently need subtitles for basic abbreviations.
Current score update: I remain flawless in the “Family Orgy” square, multiple people owe us shots, and one participant quit without saying a word, which is both cowardly and deeply on-brand for the modern reader.
And then there’s my wife. She was up 2-0 until this very book finally put me on the scoreboard. Suck it, IRL wifey. I’m coming for you. And not in the fun kind of way.
Enter A Clockwork Orange
And so it begins. A Clockwork Orange. Hold my hand as we walk into a world of utter depravity together. There is no safe word, asshole.
For reasons known only to the silicon demon we call ChatGPT (thanks for the book bingo suggestions, you computerized jerk), I have once again been handed a deeply depressing book. I warned my family that if the next book club or bingo pick was sad, I might not be around much longer to provide these beautifully written prose. And honestly, after reading this book, I feel just a little gross. The kind of gross that might require a few counseling sessions to unpack properly.
The closest comparison I can make is this: it’s like attending an open-casket funeral and thinking, “Wow… she looks pretty hot for a dead woman.” The icks, in more directions than one.
I realized pretty quickly that the book was going to be a doozy. About 25 pages in, I was treated to a rather gnarly rape scene committed by a group of teenage boys. Unfortunately, this happened to coincide with news stories floating around about Orange Man and 13-year-olds, which made the timing feel… spectacular.
Still, I buckled down and thought, “Alright. This one is going to take some emotional stamina.” I mentioned to a friend in an elevator that I had just reached the rape scene, and without even pausing he asked, “Which one?”
Oh boy.
That about perfectly summarizes the rest of the book. In the next twenty-five pages we get another rape scene, one involving two girls that maybe Mighty Orange himself would have appreciated, and another that any human being with a thread of moral fabric finds utterly revolting. Fortunately, I fall into the latter category. Sorry Orange Man. We ain’t homies.
That was probably the peak of the yuck factor. Actually, it definitely was. But along the way we also get a few beatings, lots of blood, and a death. Good wholesome family reading.
The Part Where It Almost Worked
Up to this point, I was hovering around a B+. Yes, I know. Weird. The sheer depravity, combined with Burgess’s bizarre twist on the English language, created a vibe that somehow mostly worked.
But then Burgess decided to perform three narrative 180s over the next hundred pages, and that’s where things started to unravel.
First, our scoundrel protagonist lands in prison, which quickly morphs into a rehabilitation program. Our “hero” (and no folks, he’s absolutely not a hero) is forced to watch violent films with his eyes literally held open, the idea being that violence will become physically nauseating to him.
Apparently Burgess thought we might start to feel bad for this poor young man.
You know.
The guy who committed three rapes.
Yeah. That didn’t land.
Instead of sympathy, I found myself hoping someone would stab him in the balls. Sadly, that did not occur. Instead, he becomes “reformed,” meaning violence makes him violently ill and even classical music causes him to feel like vomiting.
There’s actually a short seven-page philosophical discussion about whether free choice is more important than preventing rape and murder. It’s interesting, it’s thoughtful, and then Burgess promptly abandons it, because apparently he had more narrative whiplash planned.
Narrative Whiplash
The second 180 comes almost immediately. In the blink of an eye, our scoundrel is a scoundrel again. No more nausea, no more conditioning. The prison reform program is undone by a failed suicide attempt. Apparently if you’re going to jump out a window you need to aim for 15 floors or higher, you bonehead.
While recovering in the hospital, our scoundrel realizes he’s back to his old violent self. We get about ten to fifteen pages of an older version of him running around with a new gang, since his original gang has grown up and moved on.
The Final Turn
And then we get the final 180, which hits about as hard as our hero’s failed suicide jump.
In the final two or three pages, our scoundrel suddenly decides he wants to grow up and have a little boy of his own someday. That’s right. After everything we’ve just witnessed, the story ends with our protagonist basically deciding that maybe he’s ready to become a family man.
Excuse me.
What the holy hell kind of joyride did we just go on? This part reminded me quite a bit of California liberals who like to tell us that multiple rapists suddenly transform into model citizens and loving husbands. Yeah. Folks. That’s usually a lie. Sorry to burst that bubble for you hippies.
The best part is that Burgess actually wrote an introduction criticizing his American publisher for removing this ending in early editions, claiming the book needed this moment of “growth.”
Well Burgess, I regret to inform you that your publisher got it right. This final turn nearly pushed the book straight into C- territory.
Final Thoughts
So yes. It was an experience.
I am now going to pour battery acid into my eyes while simultaneously plunging my head into a bucket full of animal shit.
And after all that, I still have no idea what the hell “A Clockwork Orange” means.
