Although the book was recommended to me by a dear friend whose opinion I trust and respect, I confess that I approached A Clockwork Orange with not a little trepidation.
Both the novel and subsequent Stanley Kubrick film are notorious for their scenes of violence and rape, neither of which turn me on as a reader or a film fan, so it was something I had chosen to avoid on the assumption that it would take all value away from the story. But I have to admit that I was wrong and A Clockwork Orange turned out to be a highly intelligent and thought-provoking novel.
There are two things that hit you about the book straightaway. The first is the language, some sort of youth slang which appears almost impenetrable at first glance, but never underestimate the power and versatility of the human brain. Built for code-breaking, my little straining grey cells grasped it surprisingly quickly and although there were some words and phrases which I'm still not sure about, I was astonished at how easily I was able to follow the story.
The second thing is the violence. Within the first few pages, our lead character Alex and his cronies get up to some truly appalling antics, yet strangely enough it was not as nausea-inducing as I had assumed it would be. I put that firmly down to the use of this strange language, as it somehow muffles the horror, like watching the acts through obscured glass, or catching a conversation in French when you have only a beginner's grasp of the language and so can only pick up the general gist. Whether this was a deliberate ploy by Burgess to soften the blow of this revolting behaviour or not, I don't know, but it is somehow effective and leaves the reader feeling less soiled by the experience.
Alex, a 15-year-old delinquent who enjoys 'ultra violence', rape and classical music, is the stuff of nightmares. Yet he is also horribly real. Clearly an intelligent and articulate boy, you can't help feeling the same frustration with him as you would with a real-life promising child who goes the wrong way and, true to form, he dissolves into remorseless self pity the moment the tables are turned.
God knows when or where the book is set, but Burgess transports the reader there effortlessly. Without a word of background explanation as to what this dystopian future is like or how it got that way, the reader understands Alex's world very quickly. It sounds like a horrible place with little in the way of stimulation or warmth, which prompts the usual questions about whether nature or nurture is to blame for producing such a horrendous little arsehole.
I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that fairly early in the book, Alex is caught and submitted to a radical new treatment in which he essentially has a conscience forced upon him in the only way he can understand. And this is really the crux of the story's message - ideas of conscience and whether it is possible, or indeed desirable, to take away someone's free will for the sake of the greater good. Also, it raises uncomfortable questions about the conscience and its purpose. Do the majority of us avoid doing atrocious things to other people simply because we do not wish them to be harmed, or because we know we'll feel terrible if we did? Is all generosity, consideration and altruism simply a mask we wear, a facade that is more designed to protect the person within than be of benefit to the people around us?
When Alex - initially devoid of this burden - is forced into caring, it sheds a rather unsettling light on the true nature of human understanding and motives. Even when an unexpected ray of kindness enters Alex's life, it turns out that this person has their own motivations and is not above a little cruelty if it serves their purpose.
Like all the best endings, A Clockwork Orange leaves you wondering just what has really happened and quietly debating the story's themes with yourself long after you have turned the final page.
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