top it, stop it, stop it,” I kept on creeching out. “Turn it off you grahzny bastards, for I can stand no more.” It was the next day, brothers, and I had truly done my best morning and afternoon to play it their way and sit like a horrorshow smiling cooperative malchick in their chair of torture while they flashed nasty bits of ultra-violence on the screen, my glazzies clipped open to viddy all, my plott and rookers and nogas fixed to the chair so I could not get away. What I was being made to viddy now was not really a veshch I would have thought to be too bad before, it being only three or four malchicks crasting in a shop and filling their carmans with cutter, at the same time fillying about with the creeching starry ptitsa running the shop, tolchocking her and letting the red red krovvy flow. But the throb and like crash crash crash in my gulliver and the wanting to be sick and the terrible dry rasping thirstiness in my rot, all were worse than yesterday. “Oh. I’ve had enough” I cried. “It’s not fair, you vonny sods,” and I tried to struggle out of the chair but it was not possible me being as good as stuck to it.

“First-class,” creeched out this Dr. Brodsky. “You’re doing really well. Just one more and then we’re finished.”

What it was now was the starry 1939–45 War again, and it was a very blobby and liny and crackly film you could viddy had been made by the Germans. It opened with German eagles and the Nazi flag with that like crooked cross that all malchicks at school love to draw, and then there were very haughty and nadmenny like German officers walking through streets that were all dust and bomb-holes and broken buildings. Then you were allowed to viddy lewdies being shot against walls, officers giving the orders, and also horrible nagoy plotts left lying in gutters, all like cages of bare ribs and white thin nogas. Then there were lewdies being dragged off creeching though not on the sound-track, my brothers, the only sound being music, and being tolchocked while they were dragged off. Then I noticed, in all my pain and sickness, what music it was that like crackled and boomed on the sound-track, and it was Ludwig van, the last movement of the Fifth Symphony, and I creeched like bezoomny at that. “Stop!” I creeched. “Stop, you grahzny disgusting sods. It’s a sin, that’s what it is, a filthy unforgivable sin, you bratchnies!” They didn’t stop right away, because there was only a minute or two more to go—lewdies being beaten up and all krovvy, then more firing squads, then the old Nazi flag and THE END. But when the lights came on this Dr. Brodsky and also Dr. Branom were standing in front of me, and Dr. Brodsky said:

“What’s all this about sin, eh?”

“That,” I said, very sick. “Using Ludwig van like that. He did no harm to anyone. Beethoven just wrote music.” And then I was really sick and they had to bring a bowl that was in the shape of like a kidney.

“Music,” said Dr. Brodsky, like musing. “So you’re keen on music. I know nothing about it myself. It’s a useful emotional heightener, that’s all I know. Well, well. What do you think about that, eh, Branom?”

“It can’t be helped,” said Dr. Branom. “Each man kills the thing he loves, as the poet-prisoner said. Here’s the punishment element, perhaps. The Governor ought to be pleased.”

“Give me a drink,” I said, “for Bog’s sake.”

“Loosen him,” ordered Dr. Brodsky. “Fetch him a carafe of ice-cold water.” So then these under-vecks got to work and soon I was peeting gallons and gallons of water and it was like heaven, O my brothers. Dr. Brodsky said:

“You seem a sufficiently intelligent young man. You seem, too, to be not without taste. You’ve just got this violence thing, haven’t you? Violence and theft, theft being an aspect of violence.” I didn’t govoreet a single slovo, brothers, I was still feeling sick, though getting a malenky bit better now. But it had been a terrible day. “Now then,” said Dr. Brodsky, “how do you think this is done? Tell me, what do you think we’re doing to you?”

“You’re making me feel ill. I’m ill when I look at those filthy pervert films of yours. But it’s not really the films that’s doing it. But I feel that if you’ll stop these films I’ll stop feeling ill.”

“Right,” said Dr. Brodsky. “It’s association, the oldest educational method in the world. And what really causes you to feel ill?”

“These grahzny sodding veshches that come out of my gulliver and my plott,” I said, “that’s what it is.”

“Quaint,” said Dr. Brodsky, like smiling, “the dialect of the tribe. Do you know anything of its provenance, Branom?”

“Odd bits of old rhyming slang,” said Dr. Branom, who did not look quite so much like a friend any more. “A bit of gipsy talk, too. But most of the roots are Slav. Propaganda. Subliminal penetration.”

“All right, all right, all right,” said Dr. Brodsky, like impatient and not interested any more. “Well,” he said to me, “it isn’t the wires. It’s nothing to do with what’s fastened to you. Those are just for measuring your reactions. What is it, then?”

I viddied then, of course, what a bezoomny shoot I was not to notice that it was the hypodermic shots in the rooker.

“Oh,” I creeched, “oh, I viddy all now. A filthy cally vonny trick. An act of treachery, sod you, and you won’t do it again.”

“I’m glad you’ve raised your objections now,” said Dr. Brodsky. “Now we can be perfectly clear about it. We can get this stuff of Ludovico’s into your system in many different ways. Orally, for instance. But the subcutaneous method is the best. Don’t fight against it, please. There’s no point in your fighting. You can’t get the better of us.”

“Grahzny bratchnies,” I said, like snivelling. Then I said: “I don’t mind about the ultra-violence and all that cal. I put up with that. But it’s not fair on the music. It’s not fair I should feel ill when I’m slooshying lovely Ludwig van and G. F. Handel and others. All that shows you’re an evil lot of bastards and I shall never forgive you, sods.”

They both looked a bit like thoughtful. Then Dr. Brodsky said: “Delimitation is always difficult. The world is one, life is one. The sweetest and most heavenly of activities partake in some measure of violence—the act of love, for instance; music, for instance. You must take your chance, boy. The choice has been all yours.” I didn’t understand all these slovos, but now I said:

“You needn’t take it any further, sir.” I’d changed my tune a malenky bit in my cunning way. “You’ve proved to me that all this dratsing and ultra-violence and killing is wrong wrong and terribly wrong. I’ve learned my lesson, sirs. I see now what I’ve never seen before. I’m cured, praise God.” And I raised my glazzies in a like holy way to the ceiling. But both these doctors shook their gullivers like sadly and Dr. Brodsky said:

“You’re not cured yet. There’s still a lot to be done. Only when your body reacts promptly and violently to violence, as to a snake, without further help from us, without medication, only then—” I said:

“But, sir, sirs, I see that it’s wrong. It’s wrong because it’s against like society, it’s wrong because every veck on earth has the right to live and be happy without being beaten and tolchocked and knifed. I’ve learned a lot, oh really I have.”

But Dr. Brodsky had a loud long smeck at that, showing all his white zoobies, and said:

“The heresy of an age of reason,” or some such slovos. “I see what is right and approve, but I do what is wrong. No, no, my boy, you must leave it all to us. But be cheerful about it. It will soon be all over. In less than a fortnight now you’ll be a free man.” Then he patted me on the pletcho.

Less than a fortnight, O my brothers and friends, it was like an age. It was like from the beginning of the world to the end of it. To finish the fourteen years without remission in the Staja would have been nothing to it. Every day it was the same. When the devotchka with the hypodermic came round, though, four days after this govoreeting with Dr. Brodsky and Dr. Branom, I said: “Oh, no you won’t,” and tolchocked her on the rooker, and the syringe went tinkle clatter on to the floor. That was like to viddy what they would do. What they did was to get four or five real bolshy white-coated bastards of under-vecks to hold me down on the bed, tolchocking me with grinny litsos close to mine, and then this nurse ptitsa said: “You wicked naughty little devil, you,” while she jabbed my rooker with another syringe and squirted this stuff in real brutal and nasty. And then I was wheeled off exhausted to this like hell sinny as before.

Every day, my brothers, these films were like the same, all kicking and tolchocking and red red krovvy dripping off of litsos and plotts and spattering all over the camera lenses. It was usually grinning and smecking malchicks in the heighth of nadsat fashion, or else teeheeheeing Jap torturers or brutal Nazi kickers and shooters. And each day the feeling of wanting to die with the sickness and gulliver pains and aches in the zoobies and horrible horrible thirst grew really worse. Until one morning I tried to defeat the bastards by crash crash crashing my gulliver against the wall so that I should tolchock myself unconscious, but all that happened was I felt sick with viddying that this kind of violence was like the violence in the films, so I was just exhausted and was given the injection and was wheeled off like before.

And then there came a morning when I woke up and had my breakfast of eggs and toast and jam and very hot milky chai, and then I thought: “It can’t be much longer now. Now must be very near the end of the time. I have suffered to the heighths and cannot suffer any more.” And I waited and waited, brothers, for this nurse ptitsa to bring in the syringe, but she did not come. And then the white-coated under-veck came and said:

“Today, old friend, we are letting you walk.”

“Walk?” I said. “Where?”

“To the usual place,” he said. “Yes, yes, look not so astonished. You are to walk to the films, me with you of course. You are no longer to be carried in a wheelchair.”

“But,” I said, “how about my horrible morning injection?”

For I was really surprised at this, brothers, they being so keen on pushing this Ludovico veshch into me, as they said. “Don’t I get that horrible sicky stuff rammed into my poor suffering rooker any more?”

“All over,” like smecked this veck. “For ever and ever amen. You’re on your own now, boy. Walking and all to the chamber of horrors. But you’re still to be strapped down and made to see. Come on then, my little tiger.” And I had to put my over-gown and toofles on and walk down the corridor to the like sinny mesto.

Now this time, O my brothers, I was not only very sick but very puzzled. There it was again, all the old ultra-violence and vecks with their gullivers smashed and torn krovvy-dripping ptitsas creeching for mercy, the like private and individual fillying and nastiness. Then there were the prison-camps and the Jews and the grey like foreign streets full of tanks and uniforms and vecks going down in withering rifle-fire, this being the public side of it. And this time I could blame nothing for me feeling sick and thirsty and full of aches except what I was forced to viddy, my glazzies still being clipped open and my nogas and plott fixed to the chair but this set of wires and other veshches no longer coming out of my plott and gulliver. So what could it be but the films I was viddying that were doing this to me? Except, of course, brothers, that this Ludovico stuff was like a vaccination and there it was cruising about in my krovvy, so that I would be sick always for ever and ever amen whenever I viddied any of this ultra-violence. So now I squared my rot and went boo hoo hoo, and the tears like blotted out what I was forced to viddy in like all blessed runny silvery dewdrops. But these white-coat bratchnies were skorry with their tashtooks to wipe the tears away, saying: “There there, wazzums all weepy-weepy den.” And there it was again all clear before my glazzies, these Germans prodding like beseeching and weeping Jews—vecks and cheenas and malchicks and devotchkas—into mestos where they would all snuff it of poison gas. Boo hoo hoo I had to go again, and along they came to wipe the tears off, very skorry, so I should not miss one solitary veshch of what they were showing. It was a terrible and horrible day, O my brothers and only friends.

I was lying on the bed all alone that nochy after my dinner of fat thick mutton stew and fruit-pie and ice-cream, and I thought to myself: “Hell hell hell, there might be a chance for me if I get out now.” I had no weapon, though. I was allowed no britva here, and I had been shaved every other day by a fat bald-headed veck who came to my bed before breakfast, two white-coated bratchnies standing by to viddy I was a good non-violent malchick. The nails on my rookers had been scissored and filed real short so I could not scratch. But I was still skorry on the attack, though they had weakened me down, brothers, to a like shadow of what I had been in the old free days. So now I got off the bed and went to the locked door and began to fist it real horrorshow and hard, creeching at the same time: “Oh, help help. I’m sick, I’m dying. Doctor doctor doctor, quick. Please. Oh, I’ll die, I shall. Help.” My gorlo was real dry and sore before anyone came. Then I heard nogas coming down the corridor and a like grumbling goloss, and then I recognized the goloss of the white-coated veck who brought me pishcha and like escorted me to my daily doom.

He like grumbled:

“What is it? What goes on? What’s your little nasty game in there?”

“Oh, I’m dying,” I like moaned. “Oh, I have a ghastly pain in my side. Appendicitis, it is. Ooooooh.”

“Appendy shitehouse,” grumbled this veck, and then to my joy, brothers, I could slooshy the like clank of keys. “If you’re trying it little friend, my friends and me will beat and kick you all through the night.” Then he opened up and brought in like the sweet air of the promise of my freedom. Now I was like behind the door when he pushed it open, and I could viddy him in the corridor light looking round for me puzzled. Then I raised my two fisties to tolchock him on the neck nasty, and then, I swear, as I viddied him in advance lying moaning or out out out and felt the like joy rise in my guts, it was then that this sickness rose in me as it might be a wave and I felt a horrible fear as if I was really going to die. I like tottered over to the bed going urgh urgh urgh, and the veck, who was not in his white coat but an over-gown, viddied clear enough what I had in mind for he said:

“Well, everything’s a lesson, isn’t it? Learning all the time, as you could say. Come on, little friend, get up from that bed and hit me. I want you to, yes, really. A real good crack across the jaw. Oh, I’m dying for it, really I am.” But all I could do, brothers, was to just lay there sobbing boo hoo hoo. “Scum,” like sneered this veck now. “Filth.” And he pulled me up by like the scruff of my pyjama-top, me being very weak and limp, and he raised and swung his right rooker so that I got a fair old tolchock clean on the litso. “That,” he said, “is for getting me out of my bed, you young dirt.” And he wiped his rookers against each other swish swish and went out. Crunch crunch went the key in the lock.

And what, brothers, I had to escape into sleep from then was the horrible and wrong feeling that it was better to get the hit than give it. If that veck had stayed I might even have like presented the other cheek.