A Review of A Clockwork Orange

So this oomny writer veck by the eemya of Anthony Burgess wrote a bloshy, interessovating,and choodnessy book that I kopatted real horrorshow. In the nachinatting, I had trouble ponying the nadsat slang used by narrator Alex and his droogs. A few pages in, I was scratching my gulliver and messeling to myself, "So why's this chelloveck forcing me to rabbit real hard to read this here raskazz, eh?" But once I became accustomed to the slovos and began to pony the argot dobbier, not only did I not mind this ostensibly bezooomny way of govoreeting, but I nachit to kopat it real horrorshow like.

Prior to reading the book, I'd viddied the starry Kubrick film quite a few times, the first viewing being way back when I was malenky more than a wee malchick. In fact, I still regard the sinny adapt as one of my favorite films (I'm a bolshy Kubrick fan). Perhaps needless to skazat, the book is much dobbier than the film. For any of my Goodreads droogs and other lewdies who have not read it—especially anyone interested in the idea of the bolshy importance of freewill as a fundamental lomtick of morality—itty get this book and read it. You'll kopat it too, so long as you don't mind oozhassny ultra-violence and the old in-out in-out relayed through the narrative goloss of a prestoopnik who is largely without remorse for his like crimes.

Once you get the hang of the nadsat, the book reads real like skorry.

In conclusion, A Clockwork Orange was a veritable radosty to read. Sodding-krovvy horrorshow, really. And if you messel that's chepooka, than you're likely a grahzny, gloopy bratchny.