I Was Always On My Oddy Knocky.

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.

Keep Away From Physicians. It Is All Probing And Guessing And Pretending With Them. They Leave It To Nature To Cure In Her Own Time, But They Take The Credit. As Well As Very Fat Fees.

... 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-

What Critics Often Ask For Is The Impossible, Though This May Be A Salutary Means Of Extending The Borders Of Art.

Art Is Rare And Sacred And Hard Work, And There Ought To Be A Wall Of Fire Around It.