In Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (1962), the protagonist, ultrahooligan Alexander de Large, frequently expresses disdain for the sundry authorities that oppress him with this piece of lip music: "Brrrrzzzzrrrr." I assume the melody denotes a certain farting of the lips, an inexorably juvenile speech act, without question, but Alex is a juvenile sonofabitch, and the speech act reflects his character with accuracy and precision. But of course there is much more to lip music than idle teenagery. There is "meaning." There is "energy." There is intellect and viscera, given particular contexts. And all that cal.

Observe the curvature of the eyebrow. The arch. I dare anyone to match it. I've looked in the Tall Mirror for many hours and can't make my eyebrow rise with such _____. Above its apex, a series of careful wrinkles denotes the hard reality of impeding doom coupled with an epistemological resolve, and this resolve is enforced by a seemingly (and perhaps nonexistent) dread. Nonexistent or not, dread always wins. It always beats resolve, in any case.

There is only one ear. There might not be another ear. The ear in view, a round thing with more than one round place, a cavernous thing with shadows and liminal potential, suggests that the figure might be listening to something. Something curious. Or ominous. But probably not offensive, given this man's Countenance-at-Large. We must turn to the eyes for further speculation. Ignore the spectacles, however thin and fashionable they may appear. Spectacles are the _____ of truth.

A ruff of hair threatens to crawl down the telling brow. It points directly at the left eyeball and seems to apply pressure to the left eyelid, as if closing it will solve the world's problems, invoking an apocalypse of handshakes and friendly neighborhood sex acts. Marriage vows will be broken, rent, exploded en masse. And yet divorce courts will go bankrupt, unable to negotiate the deluge of fingers and genitals.

Together the eyes peer offscreen. This in itself is grounds for _____.

The nose. Formless, more or less. Two faint lines extend down from the nostrils and frame the protagonist of this narrative:

The mouth.

It does nothing, suggests nothing. Viewers are given no indication that it will open, speak, purse, twitch, vomit, smile. Has it ever smiled? But there is no evidence that it has ever frowned either. Like an (anti)hero on a freshly mowed battlefield when the smoke clears, the mouth stands there, slightly downturned at the edges from fatigue, but rigid, and victorious. Victorious in its _____. Its defiance of character, of classfication, of formula.

War produces gore. I can see the memory of entrails dripping down the chin.

And this brings us to the climax and conclusion of our discussion. There is no lip music on the horizon. There is only what there is: a face, an identity, an indolent hermeneutic. Authentic expression is a monkey's chore. Leave it to the Nadsats.