The Friday 56 is a weekly meme hosted over at Freda’s Voice. The rules are simple and go something like this.
1. Grab a book, any book.
2. Turn to page 56 or 56% in your eReader (If you have to improvise, that’s ok.)
3. Find any sentence, (or a few, just don’t spoil it)
4. Post it.
5. Add the post url, not your blog url to the Linky.
6. Tweet it #Friday56 (not an official Freda’s Voice rule)
This weeks Friday 56 is A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. This has been on my TBR list for a while and now I don’t have an excuse to put it off. Why? It’s the June selection for my book club and on top of that I’m hosting the discussion. Whoo Hoo! (I think) 🤔 I’ll post my thoughts after the discussion, so stay tuned.
Summary from back cover
In Anthony Burgess’s nightmare vision of the future, where criminals take over after dark, the story is told by the central character, Alex, a vicious fifteen-year-old “droog”, who talks in a brutal invented slang that brilliantly renders his and his friends’ social pathology. A Clockwork Orange is a frightening fable about good and evil, and the meaning of human freedom. When the state undertakes to reform Alex—to “redeem” him—the novel asks, “At what cost?”
. . . And now on to this weeks Friday 56
Ittying down the street in a like aimless sort of a way, brothers, in these night plates which lewdies like stared at as I went by, cold too, it being a bastard cold winter day, all I felt I wanted was to be away from all this and not to have to think any more about any sort of veshch at all. So I got the autos to Center, then I walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootlick MELODIA I had used to favor with my inestimable custom, O my brothers, and it looked much the same sort of pesto as it always had, and walking in I expected to giddy old Andy whom I had kupetted discs in the old days. But there was no Andy there now, brothers, only a cream and a breech of nadsat (teenage, that is) malchicks and pittas slooshying some new horrible popping and dancing to it as well, and neck behind the counter not much more than a nadsat himself, clicking his rooker-bones and smecking like bezoomny. So I went up and waited till he like deigned to notice me, then I said:
‘I’d like to hear a disk of the Mozart Number Forty. . .’
‘Forty what, friend?’
Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange pg. 156