Alex from Anthony Burgess's novel "A Clockwork Orange" is one of the most entertaining and charming psychopathic charachters ever to be put to written word. He is sadistically violent, portrayed as someone who murders, robes, and rapes for little more than personal bemusement. For him the kill is the motive, hurting someone is the end. Ironically, he is also the protagonist of the book, acting as somewhat of the perfect anti-hero. He is the novel only 15 years old and already very seasoned in delinquent behavior. He leads a small gang called the Droogs, and he is the youngest member of the group, though he is portrayed as far more intelligent and vicious than his buddies and comes up with the majority of their sick tirades. As an intellectual, he knows his actions are inherently wrong, though because of a deep seeded need to destroy he doesn't feel any real remorse over his actions. He is most definitely a classic psychopath.
Even though he is a sadistic killer, the reader at times finding themselves enjoying Alex's many quirks, and in some ways it wouldn't be surprising if the reader would at some point come to like Alex. He speaks with a strange dialect created by Burgess called Nadsat, teenage slang based on some English and Russian words. He is enormously witty. He likes to drink milk that is laced with various stimulants, most likely methamphetamines, as well as psychedelics. He has a passion for Classical music, especially Beethoven. There is a scene in the book where he passionately listens to Beethoven and goes into deep and detailed fantasies of torture and rape, bringing him to the point of orgasm.
When Alex is eventually sold out by his friends to the police (they got sick of his arrogant manner), he is sentenced to a unique form of aversion therapy. Alex is injected with a drug and becomes violently ill, and then exposed to scenes of rape and murder. He is then not even able to fantasize about hurting people without experiencing the same symptoms. He is let out of prison, but still wholly unable to integrate himself back into society. He runs into old friends and enemies, all who mercilessly beat him, with Alex not even able to defend himself. The climax comes when Alex runs into the writers who's wife he had raped, the assault of which resulted in her death by some unnamed illness. The writer is able to make this connection after hearing Alex sing, "Singin in the Rain", the same tune he hummed when he raped his wife. The writer drugs Alex and locks him in a room, making him listen to the ninth symphony, the sound of also makes Alex incredibly ill. Alex attempts to commit suicide by jumping out of the house, but instead wakes up in the hospital, with the illness apparently subsided. He instantly reverts to his evil self, fantasizing of torture and murder. The novel ends on an ambiguous note, with a 21 year old Alex working a government job and fantasizing about starting a family. Alex represents the futility of trying to reform violent criminals, as his nature is deep rooted and unchangeable. The end of the novel shows that it was only boredom that was able to make Alex grow out of his psychopathy, but even then he is left with sinister urges.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Long Road Home; pt. 5
He was tired. For so long he had no where to go and no idea where he was going. She took her clothes off, and sat on the bed. The room reeked of alcohol and bad sex. He noticed dried blood on the wall beside the television set. He felt disturbed, but the scenario seemed all too familiar too him.
“Uh, maybe we can just get some coffee, or something,” he said.
She looked at him with a cold and castrating glare, “You drag me all the way up here and you’re not even going to get it done.”
He felt emasculated. He noticed a fifth of whiskey on a sink at the side of the room. He poured himself a drink. The warmth and comfort of the alcohol soothed his mind, and he decided to go through with the act.
He approached her at the bed, and kissed her. She pushed him away, “None of that,” she said.
He didn’t understand her hesitance. She did not want any emotions; this was purely for satisfaction, or even comfort. He had no problem with this, and he took his time taking his pants off.
“Do it,” she said.
He slid his hands between her legs. She was undeniably sexy, skin smooth and milky, like an actress in an old Film Noir. She remained silent, and he wondered if he was doing it right, it had been a while. She grabbed his penis, making him painfully aware of his total lack of an erection.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said.
He was humiliated. His face wore a color of red generally associated with blood. He simply couldn’t feel. He wanted to be alive, to give this strange and exotic woman comfort, but he lacked the courage and fortitude to be fully engaged in the act of love. Or maybe, there was something else to the situation.
She kicked him out of bed and he swiftly put his clothes back on. She put on the television, flipping through the channels, and stopped when she noticed “Casablanca” being played on AMC.
“Life is never like this,” she said.
“It can be,” he said, “some people can live like that, but we are of a dead generation.”
“Don’t get fucking philosophical on me,” she said, “I can’t even get a decent lay out of a useless prick like you.”
He felt suddenly violent. He wanted to lunge at her, but she was of such inconsequence to him that the feelings of hurt vanished as if they were never there to begin with.
“Get the fuck out,” she said.
He walked towards the doorway, and looked at her one last time. She lay there, mouthing along to Humphrey, “Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
He opened the door, and gazed into the abyss. Then, he walked back into the darkness, and made his way to the road.
“Uh, maybe we can just get some coffee, or something,” he said.
She looked at him with a cold and castrating glare, “You drag me all the way up here and you’re not even going to get it done.”
He felt emasculated. He noticed a fifth of whiskey on a sink at the side of the room. He poured himself a drink. The warmth and comfort of the alcohol soothed his mind, and he decided to go through with the act.
He approached her at the bed, and kissed her. She pushed him away, “None of that,” she said.
He didn’t understand her hesitance. She did not want any emotions; this was purely for satisfaction, or even comfort. He had no problem with this, and he took his time taking his pants off.
“Do it,” she said.
He slid his hands between her legs. She was undeniably sexy, skin smooth and milky, like an actress in an old Film Noir. She remained silent, and he wondered if he was doing it right, it had been a while. She grabbed his penis, making him painfully aware of his total lack of an erection.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said.
He was humiliated. His face wore a color of red generally associated with blood. He simply couldn’t feel. He wanted to be alive, to give this strange and exotic woman comfort, but he lacked the courage and fortitude to be fully engaged in the act of love. Or maybe, there was something else to the situation.
She kicked him out of bed and he swiftly put his clothes back on. She put on the television, flipping through the channels, and stopped when she noticed “Casablanca” being played on AMC.
“Life is never like this,” she said.
“It can be,” he said, “some people can live like that, but we are of a dead generation.”
“Don’t get fucking philosophical on me,” she said, “I can’t even get a decent lay out of a useless prick like you.”
He felt suddenly violent. He wanted to lunge at her, but she was of such inconsequence to him that the feelings of hurt vanished as if they were never there to begin with.
“Get the fuck out,” she said.
He walked towards the doorway, and looked at her one last time. She lay there, mouthing along to Humphrey, “Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.”
He opened the door, and gazed into the abyss. Then, he walked back into the darkness, and made his way to the road.
Friday, October 9, 2009
5 Most Evil Charachters in Literature pt. 2; Lady Macbetj
This article is referring to Lady Macbeth in the first two acts of the play, but mainly the first, as she eventually takes her life out of guilt, displaying at least some kind of remorse for her actions.
I've always found Lady Macbeth to be one of Shakespeare's most fascinating characters. She is in many ways a Femme Fatale, the way she tempts Macbeth to commit the heinous act of murder for her own personal gain and Macbeth's eventual destruction, but she is also kind of de-sexified. Many critics have talked about her being an "anti-mother", especially for the part in the play when she asks to be de-sexed and of course the infamous line about wanting to bash in the brains of the baby who sucks from her breast. These lines were particularly hideous for early Modern England, a country with mother issues anyways (they still have a queen yknow). She wants power, and wants to take it with dominance usually associated with males in Shakespeare. But, she her power is still maternal, acting as a guide for Macbeth's tremendously powerful ambition. She brings us images of motherhood, but they are evil and destructive images. When she wants to be un-sexed, I have always felt she was asking to have the rotten feelings of human compassion stripped away from her, as those emotions are usually associated with maternity.
Many critics say Lady Macbeth is a classic witch. Critic Joanna Levin defines a witch as a woman that succumbs to satanic force, a lust for the devil, and who, either for this reason or the desire to obtain supernatural powers, invokes (evil) spirits. Lady Macbeth conjures the evil spirits, "the three witches", that show Macbeth his path that leads him to murder and eventually self--destruction. She uses her lust for supernatural power as a means of getting ahead of Macbeth, and also attacks his masculinity, making her the dominant force in the relationship. Her desire is absolute power, and she seeks to attain that goal in a single minded fashion. To me, Lady Macbeth is act one only is beaten by Othello's Iago (I'll get to him soon) in terms of Shakespeare's most sinister characters.
I've always found Lady Macbeth to be one of Shakespeare's most fascinating characters. She is in many ways a Femme Fatale, the way she tempts Macbeth to commit the heinous act of murder for her own personal gain and Macbeth's eventual destruction, but she is also kind of de-sexified. Many critics have talked about her being an "anti-mother", especially for the part in the play when she asks to be de-sexed and of course the infamous line about wanting to bash in the brains of the baby who sucks from her breast. These lines were particularly hideous for early Modern England, a country with mother issues anyways (they still have a queen yknow). She wants power, and wants to take it with dominance usually associated with males in Shakespeare. But, she her power is still maternal, acting as a guide for Macbeth's tremendously powerful ambition. She brings us images of motherhood, but they are evil and destructive images. When she wants to be un-sexed, I have always felt she was asking to have the rotten feelings of human compassion stripped away from her, as those emotions are usually associated with maternity.
Many critics say Lady Macbeth is a classic witch. Critic Joanna Levin defines a witch as a woman that succumbs to satanic force, a lust for the devil, and who, either for this reason or the desire to obtain supernatural powers, invokes (evil) spirits. Lady Macbeth conjures the evil spirits, "the three witches", that show Macbeth his path that leads him to murder and eventually self--destruction. She uses her lust for supernatural power as a means of getting ahead of Macbeth, and also attacks his masculinity, making her the dominant force in the relationship. Her desire is absolute power, and she seeks to attain that goal in a single minded fashion. To me, Lady Macbeth is act one only is beaten by Othello's Iago (I'll get to him soon) in terms of Shakespeare's most sinister characters.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Correction
The previous article is about "Judge Fowler" and not "Judge Archon" as I repeatedly called him. I was tired and wrote the article in a hurry and was thinking about the end of the article when I argued that Fowler could be a sort of gnostic archon. In any case, very sloppy, my apologies.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
5 Most Evil Charachters in Literature; part. 1
I've been thinking about whom are the most evil charachters in all of literature are. It took me a while to narrow it down, but here's what I came up with.
Number 5
Judge Archon from Cormac McCarthy’s “Blood Meridian” is one of the most disturbing and unabashedly evil characters from all of literature. For those unfamiliar with the novel, in the bulk of it depicts a real historical gang of scalp-hunters who raped, robbed, and massacred Native Americans through the Mexico-United States borderlands in 1849 and 1850. Judge Archon, also a real historical figure, bands the man of the Clanton Gang together and leads them on a journey of despicable torture, sadism, and murder.
Judge Archon acts as the leader of the gang along with John Joel Glanton. He at first appears as a very mysterious character. He is massive, well over 7 feet tall and capable of welding a battle cannon as if it were a simple rifle, he is also totally pale and completely bereft of body hair, giving him an inhuman appearance. He is described as unscrupulous and violent, and is totally devoted to conflict and the destruction of innocent life. Throughout the novel he kills countless people, including children. He is extremely intelligent, and has what seems like a supernatural level of knowledge and skills, yet doesn’t seem to exude any sort of formal education. His skills are seemingly self-taught, and he uses these skills to weld dominance over other humans. He claims in the novel that his only goal is total power; he wishes to weld this total power in a world where there are other powerful men.
Judge Archon is a manifestation of pure evil, an embodiment of everything wrong with the human condition. He has no motive other than the destruction of innocence. He kills in cold blood, and gets more than just a little satisfaction out of it, for him the kill is the only satisfaction. McCarthy also implied in the novel that he may be a pedophile. Aside from the children that he openly kills, there are also scenes that depict him enticing young children with sweets, and many times in the novel children go missing when he is in the area. His murders of children to him resemble the ultimate destruction of innocence. He is not a typical psychopath as is portrayed in modern cinema and literature. He doesn’t have any interest in appearing to those around him as cunning or charming, he makes no bones about what he is. He is a ruthless killer devoid of any conscience. Even scarier is the fact that he is not insane; he is clear and concise in his motives, if there are any.
Throughout “Blood Meridian”, many might start to wonder about Archon’s stance as “human”. Whereas the other members of the gang seem to age, Archon doesn’t, his appearance remains the same throughout a whole 30 year span. The novel’s “protagonist”, the Kid, begins to feel horrible guilt for the vicious crimes he committed throughout his tenure on the Clanton gang. The Judge feels no guilt, and in the final scene with the Kid, he talks about almost missing those days. His speed, strength, and stamina all appear to be superhuman. Indeed, towards the end of the novel, Archon is described more explicitly as superhuman, maybe even a demonic entity or the concept of evil personified.
In his essay "Gravers False and True: Blood Meridian as Gnostic Tragedy", literature professor Leo Daugherty argued that McCarthy's Holden is, or at least embodies, a Gnostic archon, a kind of demon. McCarthy has often been viewed as a Gnostic writer, Gnosticism believing in one divine being or creator, basically God. The Archons are entities who act to separate humanity from god, while mirroring humanity itself. Many Archons are likened to Christian angels, pure good, while the others are Christian demons, pure evil. Judge Holden is one of the most fascinatingly evil characters throughout literature, as he stands as something more than human while mirroring humanity’s darkest aspects simultaneously.
Number 5
Judge Archon from Cormac McCarthy’s “Blood Meridian” is one of the most disturbing and unabashedly evil characters from all of literature. For those unfamiliar with the novel, in the bulk of it depicts a real historical gang of scalp-hunters who raped, robbed, and massacred Native Americans through the Mexico-United States borderlands in 1849 and 1850. Judge Archon, also a real historical figure, bands the man of the Clanton Gang together and leads them on a journey of despicable torture, sadism, and murder.
Judge Archon acts as the leader of the gang along with John Joel Glanton. He at first appears as a very mysterious character. He is massive, well over 7 feet tall and capable of welding a battle cannon as if it were a simple rifle, he is also totally pale and completely bereft of body hair, giving him an inhuman appearance. He is described as unscrupulous and violent, and is totally devoted to conflict and the destruction of innocent life. Throughout the novel he kills countless people, including children. He is extremely intelligent, and has what seems like a supernatural level of knowledge and skills, yet doesn’t seem to exude any sort of formal education. His skills are seemingly self-taught, and he uses these skills to weld dominance over other humans. He claims in the novel that his only goal is total power; he wishes to weld this total power in a world where there are other powerful men.
Judge Archon is a manifestation of pure evil, an embodiment of everything wrong with the human condition. He has no motive other than the destruction of innocence. He kills in cold blood, and gets more than just a little satisfaction out of it, for him the kill is the only satisfaction. McCarthy also implied in the novel that he may be a pedophile. Aside from the children that he openly kills, there are also scenes that depict him enticing young children with sweets, and many times in the novel children go missing when he is in the area. His murders of children to him resemble the ultimate destruction of innocence. He is not a typical psychopath as is portrayed in modern cinema and literature. He doesn’t have any interest in appearing to those around him as cunning or charming, he makes no bones about what he is. He is a ruthless killer devoid of any conscience. Even scarier is the fact that he is not insane; he is clear and concise in his motives, if there are any.
Throughout “Blood Meridian”, many might start to wonder about Archon’s stance as “human”. Whereas the other members of the gang seem to age, Archon doesn’t, his appearance remains the same throughout a whole 30 year span. The novel’s “protagonist”, the Kid, begins to feel horrible guilt for the vicious crimes he committed throughout his tenure on the Clanton gang. The Judge feels no guilt, and in the final scene with the Kid, he talks about almost missing those days. His speed, strength, and stamina all appear to be superhuman. Indeed, towards the end of the novel, Archon is described more explicitly as superhuman, maybe even a demonic entity or the concept of evil personified.
In his essay "Gravers False and True: Blood Meridian as Gnostic Tragedy", literature professor Leo Daugherty argued that McCarthy's Holden is, or at least embodies, a Gnostic archon, a kind of demon. McCarthy has often been viewed as a Gnostic writer, Gnosticism believing in one divine being or creator, basically God. The Archons are entities who act to separate humanity from god, while mirroring humanity itself. Many Archons are likened to Christian angels, pure good, while the others are Christian demons, pure evil. Judge Holden is one of the most fascinatingly evil characters throughout literature, as he stands as something more than human while mirroring humanity’s darkest aspects simultaneously.
The Long Road home part 3
They walked upstairs to the long lonely stairway corridor. The stairs winded for what seemed like an eternity, and he felt as if they might be stuck in the upwards vortex for all eternity, yet he didn’t seem to mind. He looked at her from behind, following her; she was beautifully shaped, long legs and firm hips, a midsection made for love. And yet, he couldn’t smell her, and he barely even longed to taste her. He didn’t understand the point of following her, and yet he continued to do so. He felt rats skitter under his feet, startling him, almost making him fall backward into the abyss he felt as he had spent his entire life trying to climb out of. Maybe this was all there was. There was the stench of death in the air, like burning jasmine leaves through a mid summer’s drought, beauty lost. And beauty was lost. As he looked at the beautiful girl he was following he didn’t recognize beauty, only a hallow shape of a well endowed female.
They finally reached the top of the winding stairs.
“Cmon,” she said, “My room is just up the way.”
He noticed the wallpaper coming off the walls, the humidity causing the cheap brand paper to lose its stick; it smelled something awful, like a sweaty obese man refusing to take a shower. And yet, he followed. He wasn’t sure if he was following her for sex, for love, or for no reason at all. He didn’t remember what love felt like, and he was sure he remembered that he liked the feeling of sex, but he felt as if he didn’t deserve such bodily pleasures. He tried to remember the feeling, but his mind was blank, he had tried to forget himself for so long that he didn’t know the difference between consciousness and sleep. He was in a state of drift, drifting through life (was he alive?) and drifting through death, a no man’s land through the ugliest depths of the human consciousness. The hallway seemed longer than the corridor, and as he walked past the rooms every sound revealed its own ugly scene. He heard screams in one room, and laughs, a woman pining her way for freedom against a ruthless assaulter. He put his ear to the door, and heard the vicious cracks of bones and the maniacal laughter. He wanted to help, but he didn’t see how he could. He heard sniffs and sighs in one room, and then nothing in another. He was clearly not alone in this cruel existence.
“We’re here,” she said.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Here, yknow, my home.”
“You live here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it living, would you?”
He was bewildered by the question, and yet he thought he instinctively knew the answer. Hesitantly, he followed her in to the tight doorway, and shut the door behind him with a powerful thud.
They finally reached the top of the winding stairs.
“Cmon,” she said, “My room is just up the way.”
He noticed the wallpaper coming off the walls, the humidity causing the cheap brand paper to lose its stick; it smelled something awful, like a sweaty obese man refusing to take a shower. And yet, he followed. He wasn’t sure if he was following her for sex, for love, or for no reason at all. He didn’t remember what love felt like, and he was sure he remembered that he liked the feeling of sex, but he felt as if he didn’t deserve such bodily pleasures. He tried to remember the feeling, but his mind was blank, he had tried to forget himself for so long that he didn’t know the difference between consciousness and sleep. He was in a state of drift, drifting through life (was he alive?) and drifting through death, a no man’s land through the ugliest depths of the human consciousness. The hallway seemed longer than the corridor, and as he walked past the rooms every sound revealed its own ugly scene. He heard screams in one room, and laughs, a woman pining her way for freedom against a ruthless assaulter. He put his ear to the door, and heard the vicious cracks of bones and the maniacal laughter. He wanted to help, but he didn’t see how he could. He heard sniffs and sighs in one room, and then nothing in another. He was clearly not alone in this cruel existence.
“We’re here,” she said.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Here, yknow, my home.”
“You live here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it living, would you?”
He was bewildered by the question, and yet he thought he instinctively knew the answer. Hesitantly, he followed her in to the tight doorway, and shut the door behind him with a powerful thud.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Long Road Home; pt. 3
He gazed at the room with bewilderment and yet a curious sense of wonder. He felt more whole in this shady dive than he had for years in his own home. Anonymity was something he strived for. He took a sip from his cold perspiring beer and took in the enchantedly lifeless scene. He saw her across the bar. He felt enthralled; she wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but nevertheless she exuded mysterious sensuality and her very presence felt seductive. He ordered two shots, one for liquid courage, and another for luck. They hit his empty stomach hard, the bile almost peaking to the surface, but only held down by the knots in his stomach, making him aware of emotions he’d long forgotten how to feel.
As he approached her he became aware of the wild pattering rhythm of his heart, giving life to a dead organ. This is life. As he stood beside her, he could not catch even the slightest hint of acknowledgement or emotion on her face, suggesting she too had been on the road as long as him, or she was just illustrating a carefully constructed persona. Her hair was long, down to her middle back, and jet black, darker than the room itself. Eyes of ice; crystal blue, penetrating and alarming, and lips so red and full he thought they surely could not exist.
“Im, uh…, can I buy you a drink?” he said.
“I already have one, you can clearly see that?”
She clearly was in disdain of the courting rituals as much as he, though she had gone on to abandon them all together, in favor of cold and distant relations that seemed so much real and human to the both of them. The modernist world does not require romance, in a cold and distant world the only rational behavior is to also remain cold and distant, unchangeable.
“What’s your name?”, he said, clearly aware of the futility and pointlessness of the question.
“It doesn’t matter what my name is, and I don’t want to know your name either,” she said, “Names do not have relevance in this dimension that we exist in, but I can see you’re attracted to me, so if you like, you can sit here and drink with me.”
“Ok, what are you drinkin?” he said.
“Dry gin”, she said, with her face resembling lady liberty, unchanging and stone.
They sat there and did not talk much, and when they did speak, they only spoke of the road. Their life previous to the road only held significance in that it eventually brought them to this long and never-ending cycle. Were they even human anymore? He dazed off and imagined the silliness of the word “human” being explicative of emotion and passion, as nearly every human he came across was a creature with no emotion or passion, just drifting through the days. St. Augustine thought purgatory was bad, but he clearly had never lived in the post-modern era.
“Many are freed from the prison of hell ... through the good works of the living and the Church's prayers for them, most of all through the unbloody sacrifice, which is offered on certain days for all the living and the dead.”
She looked bored, she gazed into him and evoked the chills he felt when he first saw someone dead.
“You’ve been good, we can go upstairs if you like.”
As he approached her he became aware of the wild pattering rhythm of his heart, giving life to a dead organ. This is life. As he stood beside her, he could not catch even the slightest hint of acknowledgement or emotion on her face, suggesting she too had been on the road as long as him, or she was just illustrating a carefully constructed persona. Her hair was long, down to her middle back, and jet black, darker than the room itself. Eyes of ice; crystal blue, penetrating and alarming, and lips so red and full he thought they surely could not exist.
“Im, uh…, can I buy you a drink?” he said.
“I already have one, you can clearly see that?”
She clearly was in disdain of the courting rituals as much as he, though she had gone on to abandon them all together, in favor of cold and distant relations that seemed so much real and human to the both of them. The modernist world does not require romance, in a cold and distant world the only rational behavior is to also remain cold and distant, unchangeable.
“What’s your name?”, he said, clearly aware of the futility and pointlessness of the question.
“It doesn’t matter what my name is, and I don’t want to know your name either,” she said, “Names do not have relevance in this dimension that we exist in, but I can see you’re attracted to me, so if you like, you can sit here and drink with me.”
“Ok, what are you drinkin?” he said.
“Dry gin”, she said, with her face resembling lady liberty, unchanging and stone.
They sat there and did not talk much, and when they did speak, they only spoke of the road. Their life previous to the road only held significance in that it eventually brought them to this long and never-ending cycle. Were they even human anymore? He dazed off and imagined the silliness of the word “human” being explicative of emotion and passion, as nearly every human he came across was a creature with no emotion or passion, just drifting through the days. St. Augustine thought purgatory was bad, but he clearly had never lived in the post-modern era.
“Many are freed from the prison of hell ... through the good works of the living and the Church's prayers for them, most of all through the unbloody sacrifice, which is offered on certain days for all the living and the dead.”
She looked bored, she gazed into him and evoked the chills he felt when he first saw someone dead.
“You’ve been good, we can go upstairs if you like.”
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