"What's it going to be then, eh?"
No time for the old in-out, love. I've just come to read the meter.
"Come with uncle," I said, "and hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited."
There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening.
Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this surprising visit?
You try to frighten me. Admit so, sir. This is some new form of torture. Say it, Brother Sir.
The Korova milkbar sold milk-plus, milk plus vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom, which is what we were drinking. This would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of the old ultraviolence."
"Oh bliss! Bliss and heaven! Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeousity made flesh. It was like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now. As I slooshied, I knew such lovely pictures!"
"Initiative comes to thems that wait."
"What we were after now was the old surprise visit. That was a real kick and good for laughs and lashings of the old ultraviolence."
You needn't take it any further, sir. You've proved to me that all this ultraviolence and killing is wrong, wrong, and terribly wrong. I've learned me lesson, sir. I've seen now what I've never seen before. I'm cured! Praise Bog! I'm cured!
"Itís funny how the colours of the real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen."
"Suddenly, I viddied what I had to do, and what I had wanted to do, and that was to do myself in; to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked, cruel world. One moment of pain perhaps and, then, sleep forever, and ever and ever."
"I was cured all right."
"Well, well, well, well. If it isn't fat, stinking billygoat Billy-Boy in poison. How art thou, thy globby bottle of cheap, stinking chip-oil? Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch jelly thou."
"Then I looked at its top sheet, and there was the name -A CLOCKWORK ORANGE- and I said: 'That's a fair gloopy title. Who ever heard of a clockwork orange?'"
"There was a man. . .a writer of subversive literature."
ìPadre, these are subtleties. Weíre not concerned with motives, with the higher ethics. We are concerned only with cutting down crime--and. . .with relieving the ghastly congestion in our prisons. He will be your true Christian: ready to turn the other cheek, ready to be crucified rather than crucify, sick to the very heart at the thought even of killing a fly! Reclamation! Joy before the angels of God! The point is that it works.î
"Excellent. He's enterprising, aggressive, outgoing, young, bold, vicious. He'll do...He's perfect. I want his records sent to me. This vicious young hoodlum will be transformed out of all recognition."
ìThe common people will let it go. Oh yes, theyíll sell liberty for a quieter life. That is why they must be led, sir, driven, pushed!î
I've just come from the hospital; your victim has died.
It'll be your own torture. I hope to God it'll torture you to madness.
ìWe study the problem. Weíve been studying it for damn well near a century, yes, but we get no further with our studies. Youíve got a good home here, good loving parents. Youíve got not too bad of a brain! Is it some devil that crawls inside of you?î
"What's it going to be then, eh?"
"A lot of idiots you are, selling your own birthright for a saucer of cold porridge! The thrill of theft! Of violence! The urge to live easy! Well, I ask you what is it worth when we have undeniable truth, yes, incontrovertible evidence that Hell exists."