First Chapter, First Paragraph – A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

What’s it going to be then, eh?

There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither. Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg.Or you could peet milk with knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, and that was what we were peeting this evening I’m starting off the story with.

One of the seminal dystopian works ever written, A Clockwork Orange is a story of casualty cruelties and linguistic and storytelling brilliance. Burgess wrote a story of one of the most unlikable protagonists in all of literature, Alex and his Droogs. I have been attempting for years to read this story, but I always get hung up on the language. I am listening to it on Audio as a way to get around the language barrier. We shall see how it goes.

First Chapter, First Paragraph

I am currently reading the second book in The Hatching Series by Ezekiel Boone, “Skitter.” Pretty exciting stuff, although not quite the pacing and rhythm of the first book. 

“It was a big freaking spider. That was the only reason he screamed. He wasn’t afraid of spiders. Really. But the thing had been the size of a quarter, Right on his cheek. He’s been backpacking solo for fifteen days, and he hadn’t been scared once. Until his last day out, today, when he woke up with a hairy, scary spider on his cheek. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Fifteen days alone in the Wind River Range in Wyoming, not seeing another soul the entire time? Fifteen days of scrambling across scree fields, traversing open ridges, even doing a little free-solo rock climbing despite what he promised his dad? He’s be a complete moron not to feel a twinge of concern here and there. And Winthrop Wentworth Jr. – nineteen, the son of privilege – was not a complete moron.”