Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Welly, Well.

All Novels Are Experimental.

... A Clockwork Orange- And I Said: 'that's A Fair Gloopy Title. Who Ever Heard Of A Clockwork Orange?' Then I Read A Malenky Bit Out Loud In A Sort Of Very High Type Preaching Goloss: '- The Attempt To Impose Upon A Man, A Creature Of Growth And Capable Of Sweetness, To Ooze Juicily At The Last Round The Bearded Lips Of God, To Attempt To Impose, I Say, Laws And Conditions Appropriate To A Mechanical Creation, Against This I Raise My Swordpen-

A Haydn Symphony Had A Meaning For The Social Group That Listened To It. A Mahler Symphony Had A Meaning For The Man Who Composed It. Here Is The Difference Between The Classical And Romantic Attitudes To Art.

And I Sort Of Frowned About That, Thinking. 'you Felt Ill This Afternoon,' He Said, 'because You're Getting Better. When We're Healthy We Respond To The Presence Of The Hateful With Fear And Nausea. You're Becoming Healthy, That's All.

It Seems Priggish Or Pollyannaish To Deny That My Intention In Writing The Work Was To Titillate The Nastier Propensities Of My Readers. My Own Healthy Inheritance Of Original Sin Comes Out In The Book And I Enjoyed Raping And Ripping By Proxy. It Is The Novelist’s Innate Cowardice That Makes Him Depute To Imaginary Personalities The Sins That He Is Too Cautious To Commit For Himself.