by Martin Amis
Then there was like quiet and we were full of like hate, so [we] smashed what was left to be smashed—typewriter, lamp, chairs—and Dim, it was typical old Dim, watered the fire out and was going to dung on the carpet, there being plenty of paper, but I said no. ‘Out out out out,’ I howled. The writer veck and his zheena were not really there, bloody and torn and making noises. But they’d live.
And all this has been accomplished by the time we reach page 20.
Before Part One ends, thirty-five pages later, with Alex in a rozz-shop smelling “of like sick and lavatories and beery rots [mouths] and disinfectant,” our “Humble Narrator” drugs and ravishes two ten-year-olds, slices up Dim with his britva, and robs and murders an elderly spinster:
But this baboochka…like scratched my litso [face]. So then I screeched: “You filthy old soomka [woman],” and upped with the little malenky [little] like silver statue and cracked her a fine fair tolchock [blow] on the gulliver [head] and that shut her up real horrorshow [good] and lovely.
In the brief hiatus between these two storms of “ultra-violence” (the novel’s day one and day two), Alex goes home—to Municipal Flatblock 18A. And here, for a change, he does nothing worse than keep his parents awake by playing the multispeaker stereo in his room. First he listens to a new violin concerto, before moving on to Mozart and Bach. Burgess evokes Alex’s sensations in a bravura passage which owes less to nadsat, or teenage pidgin, and more to the modulations of Ulysses:
The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed.
Here we feel the power of that enabling throb or whisper—the authorial insistence that the Beast would be susceptible to Beauty. At a stroke, and without sentimentality, Alex is decisively realigned. He has now been equipped with a soul, and even a suspicion of innocence—a suspicion confirmed by the deft disclosure in the final sentences of Part One: “That was everything. I’d done the lot, now. And me still only fifteen.”
In the late 1950s, when A Clockwork Orange was just a twinkle in the author’s eye, the daily newspapers were monotonously bewailing the rise of mass delinquency, as the postwar Teddy Boys diverged and multiplied into the Mods and the Rockers (who would later devolve into the Skinheads). Meanwhile, the literary weeklies were much concerned with the various aftershocks of World War II—in particular, the supposedly startling coexistence, in the Third Reich, of industrialized barbarism and High Culture. This is a debate that the novel boldly joins.
Lying naked on his bed, and thrilling to Mozart and Bach, Alex fondly recalls his achievements, earlier that night, with the maimed writer and his ravaged wife:
And I thought, slooshying [listening] away to the brown gorgeousness of the starry [old] German master, that I would like to have tolchocked them both harder and ripped them to ribbons on their own floor.
Thus Burgess is airing the sinister but not implausible suggestion that Beethoven and Birkenau didn’t merely coexist. They combined and colluded, inspiring mad dreams of supremacism and omnipotence.
In Part Two, violence comes not from below but from above: it is the “clean” and focused violence of the state. Having served two years of his sentence, the entirely incorrigible Alex is selected for Reclamation Treatment (using “Ludovico’s Technique”). This turns out to be a crash course of aversion therapy. Each morning he is injected with a strong emetic and wheeled into a screening room, where his head is clamped in a brace and his eyes pinned wide open; and then the lights go down.
At first Alex is obliged to watch familiar scenes of recreational mayhem (tolchocking malchicks, creeching devotchkas, and the like). We then move on to lingering mutilations, Japanese tortures (“you even viddied a gulliver being sliced off a soldier”), and finally a newsreel, with eagles and swastikas, firing squads, naked corpses. The sound track of the last clip is Beethoven’s Fifth. “Grahzny bratchnies [filthy bastards],” whimpers Alex when it’s over:
“Using Ludwig van like that. He did no harm to anyone. He 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….
“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.”
From now on Alex will feel intense nausea, not only when he contemplates violence but also when he hears Ludwig van and the other starry masters. His soul, such as it was, has been excised.
We now embark on the curious apolgetics of Part Three. “Nothing odd will do long,” said Dr. Johnson—meaning that the reader’s appetite for weirdness is very quickly surfeited. Burgess (unlike, say, Franz Kafka) is sensitive to this near-infallible law; but there’s a case for saying that A Clockwork Orange ought to be even shorter than its 141 pages. It was in fact published with two different endings. The American edition omits the final chapter (this is the version used by Kubrick), and closes with Alex recovering from what proves to be a cathartic suicide attempt. He is listening to Beethoven’s Ninth:
When it came to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear running and running on very light and mysterious nogas [feet], carving the whole litso of the creeching world with my cut-throat britva. And there was the slow movement and the lovely last singing movement still to come. I was cured all right.
This is the “dark” ending. In the official version, though, Alex is afforded full redemption. He simply—and bathetically—“outgrows” the atavisms of youth, and starts itching to get married and settle down; his musical tastes turn to “what they call Lieder, just a goloss [voice] and a piano, very quiet and like yearny”; and he carries around with him a photo, scissored out of the newspaper, of a plump baby—“a baby gurgling goo goo goo.” So we are asked to accept that Alex has turned all soft and broody—at the age of eighteen.
It feels like a startling loss of nerve on Burgess’s part, or a recrudescence (we recall that he was an Augustinian Catholic) of self-punitive religious guilt. Horrified by its own transgressive energy, the novel submits to a Reclamation Treatment sternly supplied by its author. Burgess knew that something was wrong: “a work too didactic to be artistic,” he half-conceded, “pure art dragged into the arena of morality.” And he shouldn’t have worried: Alex may be a teenager, but readers are grown-ups, and are perfectly at peace with the unregenerate. Besides, A Clockwork Orange is in essence a black comedy. Confronted by evil, comedy feels no need to punish or convert. It answers with corrosive laughter.
In his book on Joyce, Joysprick (1973), Burgess made a provocative distinction between what he calls the “A” novelist and the “B” novelist: the A novelist is interested in plot, character, and psychological insight, whereas the B novelist is interested, above all, in the play of words. The most famous B novel is Finnegans Wake, which Nabokov aptly described as “a cold pudding of a book, a snore in the next room”; and the same might be said of Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle, by far the most B-inclined of Nabokov’s nineteen fictions. Anyway, the B novel, as a genre, is now utterly defunct; and A Clockwork Orange may be its only long-term survivor. It is a book that can still be read with steady pleasure, continuous amusement, and—at times—incredulous admiration. Anthony Burgess, then, is not “a minor B novelist,” as he described himself; he is the only B novelist. I think he would have settled for that.
The New York Times Book Review 2012
* This is my introduction to the “restored” anniversary edition (Heinemann, 2012).
Sport
Three Stabs at Tennis
1. THE PERSONALITIES OF THE COURT
I have a problem with—I am uncomfortable with
—the word personality and its plural, as in “Modern tennis lacks personalities” and “Tennis needs a new star who is a genuine personality.” But if, from now on, I can put “personality” between quotation marks, and use it as an exact synonym of a seven-letter duosyllable starting with a and ending with e (and also featuring, in order of appearance, an ss, an h, an o, and an I), why, then “personality” and I are going to get along just fine.
How come it is always the old “personalities” who lead complaints about the supposed scarcity of young “personalities”? Because it takes a “personality” to know a “personality”? No. Because it takes a “personality” to like a “personality.”
Ilie Nastase was a serious “personality”—probably the most complete “personality” the game has ever seen. In his memoir, Days of Grace, Arthur Ashe, while acknowledging that Nastase was an “unforgettable personality,” also recalls that Ilie called him “Negroni” to his face and, once, “nigger” behind his back. Ilie, of course, was known as a “clown” and a “showman”; i.e., as an embarrassing narcissist. Earlier this year, his untiring “antics” earned him a dismissal and a suspension as Romania’s Davis Cup captain (“audible obscenities and constant abuse and intimidation”). Ilie is forty-seven. But true “personalities” merely scoff at the passage of time. They just become even bigger “personalities.”
Jimmy Connors: another total “personality.” Imagine the sepsis of helpless loathing he must have inspired in his opponents during his “great runs” at the US Open. There’s Jimmy (what a “personality”), orchestrating mass sex with the Grandstand Court. It’s great for the mild-mannered Swede or Swiss up at the other end: he double-faults, and New York goes wild. Jimmy was such an out-and-out “personality” that he managed to get into a legal dispute with the president of his own fan club. Remember how he used to wedge his racquet between his legs with the handle protruding and mime the act of masturbation when a call went against him? That’s a “personality.”
Twenty-odd years ago, I encountered Connors and Nastase at some PR nightmare in a Park Lane hotel. Someone asked these two bronzed and seersuckered “personalities” what they had been doing with themselves in London. “Screwing each other,” Nastase said, and collapsed in Connors’s arms. I was reminded of this incident when, last fall, I saw an account of a whistle-stop tour undertaken by John McEnroe and Andre Agassi. Questioned about their relationship, Agassi described it as “completely sexual.” Does such raillery inevitably come about when self-love encounters mutual admiration? Or is it part of a bonding ritual between “personalities” of the same peer group?
By turning my TV up dangerously loud, I once heard McEnroe mutter to a linesman (and this wasn’t a Grand Slam event but one of those German greed fests where the first prize is something like a gold helicopter), “Get your fucking head out of your fucking [‘personality’].” Arthur Ashe also reveals that McEnroe once called a middle-aged black linesman “boy.” With McEnroe gone, it falls to Agassi to shoulder the flagstaff of the “personalities”—Agassi, the Vegas traffic light, the “Zen master” (B. Streisand) who used to smash forty racquets a year. And I don’t think he has the stomach for it, funnily enough. Nastase, Connors, McEnroe, and Agassi are “personalities” of descending magnitude and stamina. McEnroe, at heart, was more tremulous than vicious; and Agassi shows telltale signs of generosity—even of sportsmanship.
There is a “demand” for “personalities,” because that’s the kind of age we’re living in. Laver, Rosewall, Ashe: these were dynamic and exemplary figures; they didn’t need “personality” because they had character. Interestingly, too, there have never been any “personalities” in the women’s game. What does this tell us? That being a “personality” is men’s work? Or that it’s boys’ work?
We do want our champions to be vivid. How about Pete Sampras, then—so often found wanting in the “personality” department? According to the computer, Sampras is almost twice as good as anyone else in the sport. What form would his “personality” take? Strutting, fist-clenching, loin-thrashing? All great tennis players are vivid, if great tennis is what you’re interested in (rather than something more tawdrily generalized). The hare-eyed Medvedev, the snake-eyed Courier, the droll and fiery Ivanisevic, the innocent Bruguera, the Wagnerian (and Machiavellian) Becker, the fanatical Michael Chang. These players demonstrate that it is perfectly possible to have, or to contain, a personality—without being an asshole.
The New Yorker 1994
2. MY AD
Every couple of years, I improve and update the Tennis Monster. The Tennis Monster is the kind of ultimate player that Baron Frankenstein might assemble, working in close conjunction with some Floridian guru like Nick Bollettieri. Here’s how he’s looking.
Head: Muster. Legs: Chang. (This is already a fine start.) Hands: Stich. Armpits: Courier (still the number-one sweater boy). Torso: Becker. To wire the actual shots, one would simply cannibalize the top two Americans. First serve, second serve, overhead: Sampras. Forehand, backhand, return of serve: Agassi. And then you’d loot Edberg for the volleys.
This year, at Wimbledon, I suspected that Baron Bollettieri had gone into the lab and come up with the hulking violence of Mark Philippoussis. You could practically see the bolts sticking out of his neck. But then the Baron calmed down, and produced Richard Krajicek. That explained the mysterious absence, in the later stages, of all the major stars: they were lying in bits on the Baron’s slabs.
Krajicek, however, is not the Tennis Monster. No, Richard Krajicek is not that player. I am that player; yes, I am that player. Krajicek may be strong, but I am stronger—in at least two departments. First, my confidence (so crucial in sports) belongs to a different league. Krajicek was surprised to win Wimbledon! Yet when my turn comes, I will take my triumph humorlessly in stride. Second, Krajicek keeps getting injured. And I don’t.
True, the near-immobilizing back pain I suffer from is probably the result of playing too much tennis. Or any tennis whatever. And both my knees hurt a lot all the time. But I never get injured. Of course, I can already hear the doubting Thomases who will soon be telling me that I have left it too late to make a serious bid for world dominance. It’s perfectly possible, they claim, that I might not make the top three, or even the top ten. I have nothing to say to this. Because I prefer to do my talking on the tennis court.
In preparation, I am taking the trouble to compile my entry for the ATP Tour Player Guide. Here’s how it’s looking.
Birth date: 8/25/49. Height: 5' 6¼". Weight: 150. Plays: Right-handed. Career winnings: A cruise around the British Isles. Career losings: About £200 (betting on victory).
Career highlights: 1989—Playing in Morocco, took a game off the hotel pro, Kabir, who once warmed up with Yannick Noah. 1991—Beat a sixty-year-old to reach career-best second round of Paddington Sports Club Over Thirty-Fives. 1993—Beat Zach, David, and Andy on consecutive Sundays at PSC. 1995—Partnered by Peter Fleming, caused a venerable publisher to cramp on match point, winning first Pro-Am event (and the waived cruise around the British Isles). 1996—Took a set off Chris at PSC, causing him to break two new racquets. Beat Ray at PSC.
Readers will notice that intriguing question mark, which whispers, “Amis for the US Open—in ’96?” But I skipped the Olympics, and I have now pulled out of the Open. My plan is to conserve myself for Wimbledon ’97. There is still a weakness in my game—one I am resolved to eliminate.
Frankly, it’s my return of serve, which is not as good as Andre Agassi’s. I sometimes think that in this department I’m not much better than Jimmy Connors. A serve is by definition a short ball, but my reply still tends to be hurried. I particularly notice this when I face players who are taller than me (or insufficiently shrunken by age). So I usually settle for a kind of chip.
But there’s only one server who really worries me. Not Sampras. Because Sampras is only six foot one. I know he can jump higher than Air Jordan and hasn’t missed an overhead in ten years. But I’
d precision-lob him, or else dink my returns to his feet, making Pete crazy. Courier can expect the same treatment.
At Wimbledon, I will probably be unseeded and may face quite reasonable players in the early rounds. I can see it now: toward dusk on the opening day, on court 13, in poor light. We have reached the inevitable first-set tiebreak. I peer over the net, and focus. Grass is my opponent’s best surface, and he’s playing out of his skin. Goran Ivanisevic is preparing to serve with new balls…
Yet Goran’s nerve will fail him, as it always does. And my confidence will start to soar. I don’t foresee a problem until the round of sixteen, at which stage I may get taken to four sets by someone like Stich or Kafelnikov. Then Edberg in the quarters; then Pete or Andre—whichever—in the semis. By now Baron Bollettieri will be sniffing around my locker room. He’ll be after my big shots: that lob, and the little pat I give the spare ball at the end of a service game. He’ll be hoping to re-enmonster Krajicek for the final. Well, let them patch him up all they like. I don’t want a neo–Boris Becker out there, for that rendezvous on center court. I want Boris Karloff. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The New Yorker 1996
3. THE TIMS
Over the past twelve months Tim Henman has accumulated much praise: praise for his bowshot serve and his matador backhand; praise for his “boyish” good looks and his sound choice of girlfriend; and praise for the way he “handles” the heavy burden of a nation’s hopes. But these are mere details. In my view, Tim’s real distinction has never been properly assessed—or even mentioned. It is an achievement that transcends the realm of sport and aspires to something world-historical. And it has to do with his name.