The Book Blog - Learning Resources at St. Johns River State College

Rereading A Clockwork Orange: How Time and Experience Changed My Perspective

04/28/2025

Dr. Brittnee Fisher

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The first time I read A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, I thought it was just okay. The language was confusing, the violence jarring, and the story, though unique, felt more like a disturbing thought experiment than something that resonated with me personally. I admired the style but didn’t connect with it. I was also deeply influenced by my love of the film adaptation, which shaped how I approached the book- and perhaps, unfairly, how I judged it.

Now, years later, I’ve decided to revisit the novel (because of this business), and to my surprise, I’m enjoying it immensely. It’s an entirely different experience this time around, and I’ve found myself thinking about why that is. What changed between then and now? The text hasn’t changed- but I have. And that’s the beauty of rereading: the book stays the same, but the reader doesn’t.

I’ve come to believe that my continual reading over the years has improved my literacy- not just my ability to decode and understand complex language, but my capacity to read between the lines, to appreciate subtlety, satire, and tone. Burgess’s invented language, Nadsat (there was no web guide my first time reading), once felt like an obstacle; now it feels like a brilliantly crafted layer that adds richness and depth to the narrative. I'm picking up on references and rhythms I missed before and no longer rushing to “get through” the story. I’m savoring it.

But it’s not just about literacy. I think A Clockwork Orange is one of those books that becomes more relevant- and more haunting- the older you get. When I first read it, I was closer in age to Alex and his droogs. The violence felt performative, surreal. Now, with more life behind me, I read the book through a different lens. I think about morality, free will, and the terrifying implications of state-imposed conformity. I see the tragedy of a young man shaped- and ultimately broken- by a system more interested in control than in rehabilitation.

The themes of choice and consequence hit harder now. I better understand the danger of a world that prioritizes obedience over understanding. And how essential it is to preserve one’s ability to choose, even if that means choosing wrong. The moral ambiguity that once made the book feel cold now feels complex and intentional. Younger me just didn’t get it. Burgess wasn’t glorifying violence- he was interrogating it, questioning the foundations of societal control.

It was also fascinating to see how our cultural context changes our reading. In today’s climate, where surveillance, algorithmic control, and polarized ideologies dominate our lives, A Clockwork Orange reads as eerily prophetic. It’s no longer just a dystopian fantasy- it’s a chilling reflection of our own reality, a warning about what happens when systems are designed to suppress rather than support the individual.

This reread has been a reminder that some books are meant to grow with us. What once felt alienating, and abrasive now feels bold and brave. And maybe the best thing about literature is that it waits for us- it holds its meaning quietly, ready to reveal more as we become ready to receive it.

If you haven’t read A Clockwork Orange since your younger years- or if you found it inaccessible the first time- consider giving it another shot. You might be surprised at what you find the second time around. I certainly was!

Here are a few of my favorite made-up words from the book!

Boomaboom- thunder
Clop- to knock
Eggiweg- egg
Gloopy- stupid
Guttiwuts- guts

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Book Rec: The Beauty of the End by Lauren Stienstra

04/21/2025

Kayla Cook

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TW for discussions of murder, suicide, reproductive health, infertility, human trafficking, and eugenics.

For thousands of years, very possibly for as long as humans have existed, people have been worried about “the end.” In both religious and scientific circles, the idea that one day we won’t exist remains a hot topic of discussion; for some, the idea that our species’ existence is finite is a source of fear or existential dread, while for others, this comes as a comfort.

But what might happen if we knew the expiration date? How would that impact our lives and the way we live them? Would we do something to try to stop the end from happening, or would we welcome it?

Author Lauren Stienstra attempts to answer these questions in her debut novel, The Beauty of the End.

In Stienstra’s novel, humanity realizes its impending extinction in an unexpected way: the cicadas don’t emerge when they’re scheduled to. In fact, they don’t emerge at all, which prompts entomologists to start digging—literally—and they find that the previous generation of cicadas did not lay any eggs before they died. The entomologists then up all their fellow biologist buddies and begin investigating other extinct and endangered species, and ultimately discover something in every living thing’s DNA (don’t ask me what; I’m not a scientist, but Stienstra is, and this is science fiction, so I suspended disbelief and took her word for it) that can approximate about how many generations a species or individual has left in their genetic line.

Humans, it turns out, have only about four generations left before the species dies out. Some individuals or families may have more or fewer generations left. While four is the average, some people may naturally score a five or even a six on their genetic report, while others can score three, two, one, or even zero. With each generation, that number goes down, and fewer people are born, which leads to some interesting changes to the society which emerges in this universe.

Women are encouraged to have babies later (in their 40s or 50s if possible), or, if they can’t wait, to have a lot of babies, preferably with multiple fathers so as to “diversify the gene pool.” If you are a young woman who doesn’t want to have children but still wants to help, you have the option to become a “Mendel,” a doctor who specializes in genetics and reproduction, named for Gregor Mendel, the father of genetics. People who score higher in their generational genetic testing are preferred, both as Mendels and as sexual partners, especially since it seems that reproducing individuals with lower scores tend to have greater likelihood of passing their scores on to their offspring (for instance, if you are a 2, and you have a child with a 5, despite your partner’s high score, your children will almost certainly score a 1, meaning they can have children, but their children will not be able to have children). People unlucky enough to score zero become known as “naughts” and are inevitably looked down upon for their inability to reproduce naturally.

People are desperate to find a way to stop the “Limit” as that four-generation expiration date comes to be known, and from that desperation come great atrocities. Human trafficking runs rampant. Women are kidnapped and sold. Men rent their wives out to be used like breeding stock. The government gives scientists almost complete autonomy to experiment as they wish, which leads to the discovery that, sometimes, people with disabilities or terrible genetic illnesses can produce children who score as high as 12, which, in turn, leads to more of the aforementioned atrocities, now specifically targeting people with these diagnoses. Families fall apart. People kill their partners and children. Mass suicides abound.

If you think that all sounds pretty awful, I would agree with you!

And so, it seems, would the narrator of this story, Dr. Charlie Tannehill, a young woman who agreed to become a Mendel not out of a desire to help stop the Limit, but to continue to live a life as close to the one she believes she would have had if the Limit had never been discovered. Goods have become so expensive, and the social expectation for women to reproduce is stronger than ever, so she sees becoming a Mendel as a way to both continue to afford food and the ability to live as a single woman, and to not have to reproduce. Because the Mendelia, the organization that trains Mendels, takes your ovaries when you join in lieu of tuition.

Over time, however, as she witnesses the horrors endured by her patients at the hands of her colleagues, and the way her sister and brother-in-law's lives are destroyed by their and the Mendelia’s ambition, she begins to fight back against what society has become.

This book was pretty heavy in terms of content, but I thought it was a fascinating thought experiment and I enjoyed the speculative aspect of it because it seemed like something that could potentially happen. The last couple of chapters really lost me, but I think that had more to do with my personal preferences than anything to do with the way it was written. I would definitely recommend this one to any fan of speculative science fiction.

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A Short Book That Shattered Me: I Who Have Never Known Men

04/15/2025

Victoria Slaughter

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Every now and then, I stumble across a book that completely blindsides me—in the best, most haunting way. I Who Have Never Known Men by Jacqueline Harpman was exactly that kind of surprise.

I was just looking for a short audiobook to keep me company while cleaning the house one weekend. That’s it. Something under eight hours, something I could half-focus on while folding laundry or doing dishes. The cover caught my eye first, then the title. I didn’t even bother reading the description before I hit play. A few minutes in, though, I was hooked—and not long after, I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, back against a cabinet, completely floored by the story unfolding in my ears.

Here’s the official description from Libby:

Deep underground, forty women live imprisoned in a cage. Watched over by guards, the women have no memory of how they got there, no notion of time, and only a vague recollection of their lives before. As the burn of electric light merges day into night and numberless years pass, a young girl—the fortieth prisoner—sits alone and outcast in the corner. Soon she will show herself to be the key to the others' escape and survival in the strange world that awaits them above ground.

It sounds dystopian, and it is—but it’s also something more: sparse, poetic, philosophical, and deeply introspective. At just around six hours long (or 184 pages in print), it’s not a lengthy read. But trust me when I say: this book holds power. A quiet, aching kind of power that lingers long after you’ve finished the last sentence.

There’s this misconception that short books can’t hit as hard as epics. But I Who Have Never Known Men proves otherwise. It’s a book that made me pause, reflect, and want to start it all over again the moment it ended.

It made me think about womanhood—what it means to be a woman when you’ve been completely removed from societal expectations of gender, love, and relationships. It made me reflect on the importance of community, and also the quiet strength in being alone. It’s about survival and curiosity, about being brave enough to explore the unknown even when everything feels uncertain.

It doesn’t offer every answer. In fact, it leaves you with quite a few questions. And honestly? I’m okay with that. Sometimes a book doesn’t need to tie everything up neatly to leave a lasting impact.

So if you’re looking for something short but profound—something that will haunt you in the quiet moments and make you look at the world just a little differently—give I Who Have Never Known Men a chance. Just maybe don’t try to multitask while you’re reading it. You might end up sitting on your kitchen floor, heart cracked open, wondering how a book so small could hold so much.

You can listen through SJR State Library's Libby!

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Jeff VanderMeer and Weird Science Fiction

04/07/2025

Dr. Brittnee Fisher

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This week, we welcome another great blog post from History Professor and Library Super User Matt Giddings!

Jeff VanderMeer and Weird Science Fiction

“There’s a fungus among us, and it’s going to kill me.”

Jeff VanderMeer is a science fiction writer who lives and works in Tallahassee, Florida, a setting that has inspired his most well-known work (The Southern Reach series). However, today, I’d like to discuss some of his less well-known works – the Ambergris series. These books are, well, weird. Really, all of VanderMeer’s writing is, but I’d argue that these books are perhaps the weirdest.

The Ambergris series begins with a lengthy collection of short stories titled “City of Saints and Madmen” – the title refers to Ambergris, the city in which the majority of the stories are set and which is named for “the most secret and valued part of the whale.” Frankly, this set of stories defies easy description – one early edition of it had a short story on the inside of the dust jacket written in code (mercifully decoded and printed in the book in later editions). Ambergris is a moldy, dank, crumbling metropolis inhabited by humans who have, at some point in the past, driven the aboriginal inhabitants of the city underground. In this case, quite literally so, as these mysterious beings are called “Gray Caps” and seem to be fungus people. The Gray Caps lurk in the background throughout the stories, which mostly revolve around art criticism, madness, and an annual festival involving the reproductive habits of river squids.

VanderMeer followed this collection up with a novel, “Shriek: An Afterword.” Randomly, I grabbed this off the shelf last week (or perhaps a gust of dank crypt air, laden with spores, wafted from a crepuscular corner of the library and impelled me to select this particular tome- who can say?) and took a trip back up the river Moth to Ambergris. “Shriek” is a much more straightforwardly presented text, in this case the memoir of a famous Ambergrisian art critic named Janice Shriek (a character readers of “City of Saints and Madmen” will have encountered). Janice writes about the strange and strained relationship she has with her brother Duncan, who has become fascinated with the Gray Caps and the alleged atrocities they have committed against the residents of Ambergris.

What makes “Shriek” an interesting read to me is the text and the subtext. Janice recounts her brother's activities, sometimes quoting his diaries or letters but at other times recounting her suppositions about his life and works. Duncan, who is far from dead, annotates the work with his own commentary, providing a real view of his activities. Well, what he thinks is real. So, “Shriek” is a memoir by an unreliable narrator, with commentary by another unreliable narrator about subjects for which reliable narration may be impossible.

Or, to put it bluntly, it’s exactly the kind of work VanderMeer would write.

I’m a big fan of this whole series, and I like “Shriek” more than I thought I would. It’s connected to the central mystery of the series – those odd, unsettling, and potentially malevolent Gray Caps – which is the thing that I wished “City of Saints and Madmen” had spent more time explaining. There is a sequel, “Finch”, which is apparently a noir-ish murder mystery which I already have and will probably read next.

Have you read any of VanderMeer’s work? Do you like fungus or weird stories or madness? Come find me at the book club (or on the St. Augustine or Palatka campuses) and share!

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