And then I became furious.

A day later, I am still raging inside. I am going to re/read a lot of his work now and pour my rage out into making works of my own.

My favourite quote of his: “I want to rub the human face in its own vomit. And force it to look in the mirror” is the kind of sentiment I shall carry with me when I make my works.

For those interested, here’s a video of Ballard reading from Kingdom Come: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/newsnight/review/8007390.stm
Other links on the page contain reviews of his works by famous writers and politicians on the Beeb.

I had started reading Crash in ’89 while experiencing a horrendously protracted state of intense paranoia accompanied by sensations of physical distress and revulsion resulting from a singularly ghastly drug experience.
It was, to say the least, difficult to ingest in that state, but after things had leveled off, I continued reading, and found myself richly rewarded for the effort.
His writing and way of thinking got me through the early 90′s, I feel.
I recall something he said about the future of alternative lifestyle modalities,suggesting that with sensibilities having come full circle, it will soon be considered more outre to purposefully choose to live the conservative,suburban family life with the office job.
To paraphrase Ballard, it would be perceived as being as adventurous as Gauguin going off to Tahiti.

I just began reading “High Rise” last week, and read that he was ill with cancer, as well.It’s strange, but I wondered what he was thinking once he knew he’d die…or what the last thought of that sort of brain would be. I really don’t even know what I think of the bits I’ve read thus far, whether I find it funny, or abnormal,or stupid, or pretentious or accurate.

That adds another layer of off to an off day.

Then smashing it.

Tonight I’m drinking Cuervo, setting things on fire and playing some Ballardian music. Should anyone care to join me…

*clink clink SMASH*

There is a scene in Empire of the Sun I dimly remember: two thieves are emptying their pockets of rice. I can’t understand why, but that image is etched into my head.

Years later, I learned who Ballard was, and found a used copy of The Voices of Time. I read and reread each story, trying to find the joints and gears in his machinery. His meaning was transparent, but his craftsmanship was utterly opaque.