Thirty-four years ago, I was excited that we were reading Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange for English class. I had already read it of my own interest some time before, and loved it. The books, with that gorgeous cover, were handed out. I read it again. Discussing the work in class, I asked what had happened to the final chapter, where Alex imagines himself a husband and father. Where's the baby? I wanted to know. The teacher scornfully questioned my mental health. There was no such chapter, he said. I was humiliated. And I was a bit scared. How had I "made up" a whole chapter in a book? The recollection of the chapter was so vivid. I could only conclude I had somehow dreamed it. I didn't speak up much in English class again.
This morning I picked up the New Yorker of June 4th & 11th, the Science Fiction issue. Yesterday, in its pages, I read the wonderful Sam Lipsyte story The Republic of Empathy, and Ray Bradbury's remembrance of discovering science fiction magazines as a child. Today, I began reading Anthony Burgess' comments on A Clockwork Orange. He wrote the article in 1973 when the release of Stanley Kubrick's film meant he "found [himself] called upon to explain the true meaning of both book and film". It's a very interesting article - you should read it.
And on page 70, you will find the following paragraph:
"In the British edition of the book - though not in the American, nor in the film - there is an epilogue that shows Alex growing up, learning distaste for his old way of life, thinking of love as more than a mode of violence, even foreseeing himself as a husband and father."
Huh.
The first time I read the book, I took it from my parents' bookshelf. This is what I now think happened. They must have had the British edition, and when the book was given to us in class, we got the American edition.
Young people trying to learn should not be humiliated. Even if they are wrong. And if they say something that sounds a bit mad, maybe do some research yourself.
It is an incident I have never forgotten. And though today I am vindicated by the author himself (thanks, Anthony) nonetheless I feel a lingering sadness.
But now I can re-read a novel which I loved - the language! oh the language! - because I realise I never read it again because of the shame. Not even to check whether I was right.
(And Nerida Sims, wherever you are, one of the highlights of my late adolescence was the day you and I piled on the pale blue eyeshadow - hey, it was the 70s - and brazened our way into the R-rated film underage.)
