J. G. Ballard (1930–2009)
Author of Empire of the Sun
About the Author
J. G. Ballard was born to British parents in Shanghai, China on November 15, 1930. While a child during World War II, he spent four years in a Japanese POW camp. This experience was the basis for the emotionally moving novel Empire of the Sun, which he adapted into a successful movie, directed by show more Steven Spielberg. Before becoming a full-time writer, he studied medicine at Cambridge University and served as a pilot in the British Royal Air Force. Ballard is best known for his science fiction writings. His early works were heavily influenced by surrealism. Most of his novels deal with death and destruction of the human spirit. Novels such as Crash, Concrete Island, and High Rise portray a society that is devolving into barbaric chaos. Crash was made into a movie by David Cronenberg in 1996. The Drowned World describes an apocalyptic society, with a hero that ushers in the destruction of the world. His novel Empire of the Sun was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and awarded the Guardian Fiction Prize and James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. Empire of the Sun was filmed by Steven Spielberg in 1987, starring a young Christian Bale as Jim (Ballard). Ballard moved away from science fiction, but he is still considered one of the leading authors of the genre. He died on April 19, 2009 at the age of 78. (Bowker Author Biography) show less
Image credit: Jerry Bauer
Series
Works by J. G. Ballard
The Dying Fall 6 copies
Gli scultori di nuvole 5 copies
The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered as a Downhill Motor Race [short story] 5 copies, 2 reviews
Saggezza stellare: nel segno di Lovecraft racconti soprannaturali per il nuovo millennio (1997) 5 copies
Autòpsia del nou mil·lenni [Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona on es presenta entre el 22 de juliol i el 2 de novembre de 2008] (2008) 3 copies
Corrida Selvagem 3 copies
El huracán cósmico 2 copies
Solens Rike 2 copies
The Autobiography of J G Ballard 2 copies
Cataclismo Solar 2 copies
The Draining Lake 1 copy
Coitus 80 1 copy
J. G. Ballard. Cauchemar à quatre dimensions : Ethe Four-dimensional nightmaree. Traduit de l'anglais par Laure Casseau (1963) 1 copy
Venise Des Écrivains 1 copy
旱魃世界 1 copy
ミレニアム・ピープル 1 copy
Собрание сочинений 1 copy
J・G・バラード短編全集3 (終着の浜辺) 1 copy
J・G・バラード短編全集1 (時の声) 1 copy
CRONOPOLIS 1 copy
Mobile [short story] 1 copy
Terminal Beat 1 copy
BAL Super.Cannes 1 copy
PERANDORIA E DIELLIT 1 copy
Tutti i racconti (racconti) 1 copy
Las Voces del Tiempo 1 copy
Kokain Geceleri 1 copy
Billennium - J. G. Ballard 1 copy
Gente do milénio 1 copy
Potopljeni svet 1 copy
Imperiul soarelui 1 copy
Locura desenfrenada 1 copy
Huracán cósmico 1 copy
Paradiese der Sonne 1 copy
Kadinlarin Sefkati 1 copy
Low-Flying Aircraft 1 copy
My Invented Country 1 copy
Привет, Америка! 1 copy
The Drowned Giant 1 copy
Olá, América 1 copy
HLa Imostra delle atrocita 1 copy
Garden of Time 1 copy
Associated Works
The Doors of Perception / Heaven and Hell (1959) — Foreword, some editions — 5,156 copies, 47 reviews
The Big Book of Science Fiction: The Ultimate Collection (2016) — Contributor — 522 copies, 8 reviews
Storming the Reality Studio: A Casebook of Cyberpunk and Postmodern Science Fiction (1991) — Contributor — 263 copies
The Graphic Canon, Vol. 3: From Heart of Darkness to Hemingway to Infinite Jest (2013) — Contributor — 162 copies, 1 review
The Pleasure of Reading: 43 Writers on the Discovery of Reading and the Books That Inspired Them (2015) — Contributor — 104 copies, 2 reviews
The Prentice Hall Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy (2000) — Contributor — 100 copies, 2 reviews
Fakes: An Anthology of Pseudo-Interviews, Faux-Lectures, Quasi-Letters, "Found" Texts, and Other Fraudulent Artifacts (2012) — Contributor — 85 copies, 4 reviews
The Best Fantasy Stories from the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction (1985) — Contributor — 78 copies, 2 reviews
SF: The Year's Greatest Science-Fiction and Fantasy: Second Annual Volume (1958) — Contributor — 75 copies, 1 review
The Mammoth Book of Tales from the Road: Tales of Life on the Move (Mammoth Books) (2003) — Contributor — 52 copies
Twenty Houses of the Zodiac: Anthology of International Science Fiction (1979) — Contributor — 47 copies, 1 review
The Second Gates of Paradise: The Anthology of Erotic Short Fiction (1997) — Contributor — 38 copies
Light Years and Dark: Science Fiction and Fantasy of and for Our Time (1984) — Contributor — 38 copies
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction October 1982, Vol. 63, No. 4 (1982) — Author — 16 copies
Science fiction verhalen [1969] — Contributor, some editions; Contributor, some editions — 14 copies, 1 review
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction October 1967, Vol. 33, No. 4 (1967) — Contributor — 14 copies
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction October 1989, Vol. 77, No. 4 (1989) — Author — 11 copies
Die Fußangeln der Zeit. Die schönsten Zeitreise- Geschichten I. (1984) — Contributor, some editions — 11 copies
The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction 68. Mythen der nahen Zukunft. (1984) — Contributor — 7 copies
Die englische Literatur 10 in Text und Darstellung. 20. Jahrhundert 2. (2001) — Contributor — 6 copies
The Profession of Science Fiction: SF Writers on Their Craft and Ideas (1992) — Contributor — 6 copies
Fantastrenna — Contributor — 3 copies
Millemondi Primavera 2001: Nuove avventure nell'ignoto — Contributor — 2 copies
Den elektriske myre og andre science fiction-fortællinger (1984) — Author, some editions; Author, some editions — 2 copies, 1 review
Zärtlich war die Zukunft. (7445 415). Liebesgeschichten aus der Welt von morgen. (1989) — Contributor — 2 copies
Ki ょ う も 気 God prepared a short masterpiece SF election (Kadokawa library) (2010) — Contributor — 2 copies
カイエ 1978年 12月号 特集・SFから現代文学へ — Contributor — 1 copy
新潮 1990年 09月号 現代SFの冒険 — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 1966年05月号 (通巻81号) — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 1973年 11月 第8号 — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 6号 — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 3号 — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 1号 — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 1967年10月号 (通巻100号) — Contributor — 1 copy
Antaeus No. 35, Autumn 1979 — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 2009年 11月号 [雑誌] — Contributor — 1 copy
海 1972年05月号 — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 2000年 02月号 [雑誌] — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 1976年 08月 第12号 — Contributor — 1 copy
SFの評論大全集 (別冊奇想天外 4) — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 1968年 01月号(通巻103号) — Contributor — 1 copy
構造と美文 山尾悠子偏愛アンソロジー — Contributor — 1 copy
季刊NW-SF 1976年 01月 第11号 — Contributor — 1 copy
New Worlds Science Fiction 106, May 1961 — Contributor — 1 copy
Crash! (Documentary short, 1971) — Contributor — 1 copy
Science Fiction Eye #08, Winter 1991 — Contributor — 1 copy
S-Fマガジン 1967年04月号 (通巻93号) — Contributor — 1 copy
Tagged
Common Knowledge
- Legal name
- Ballard, James Graham
- Birthdate
- 1930-11-15
- Date of death
- 2009-04-19
- Gender
- male
- Education
- Queen Mary College, University of London
King's College, Cambridge
Leys School, Cambridge - Occupations
- writer
author
pilot
magazine editor - Organizations
- Ambit
Chemistry and Industry
Royal Air Force - Awards and honors
- Commonwealth Writers' Prize (2001)
Golden PEN Award (2008) - Agent
- Margaret Hanbury
- Relationships
- Walsh, Claire (long-time companion)
- Short biography
- Born and brought up in colonial Shanghai comfort, young James Graham Ballard saw his life change forever when, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbour, Japanese forces swept into the city. The three years he spent in an internment camp moulded his view of "a world turned up-side down" and have constantly influenced his fiction.
Back in Britain, he abandoned his medical studies at Cambridge to become a full-time writer, and his first novel, The Drowned World, was published in 1962. As with many of his works, the wanderings of his characters' minds are charted as minutely as the external world they inhabit. The Drought, The Wind from Nowhere and The Crystal World all strengthened his reputation for bleak but beautiful chronicles of a post-Hiroshima age.
After the death of his wife in 1964, Ballard retreated to Shepperton by the River Thames to raise his three children. But if his surroundings were sleepy and suburban, his imagination remained at the cutting edge. When he produced Crash in 1973, legend has it that one publisher marked in her notes, "writer beyond psychiatric help". Crash, dealing with the erotic possibilities of car accidents, was well ahead of its time. Ballard himself called it "the first pornographic book based on technology" and David Cronenberg's film version in 1996 provoked six months' deliberation for the British censor.
Steven Spielberg's lavish production of Empire of the Sun, Ballard's autobiographical account of his childhood, brought the author financial security and public clamour for his earlier works. At this point, Ballard could have easily put down his pen.
Instead, he has continued to chart the struggle of a restless society, one caught between a need for security and a craving for the reckless. His latest novel, Millennium People, once again describes characters drawn to violence through technologically-induced boredom.
He once called himself "an architect of dreams, sometimes nightmares" and his seeming obsession with disaster, depravity and dystopia is not to everyone's taste. But, in this pop-bang throwaway age, JG Ballard remains curious and alert, reminding us, too, that "imagination itself is an endangered species". - Cause of death
- prostate cancer
- Nationality
- England
UK - Birthplace
- Shanghai, China
- Places of residence
- Shepperton, Surrey, England, UK
Shanghai, China - Place of death
- London, Middlesex, England, UK
- Burial location
- Kensal Green Cemetery, London, Middlesex, England, UK
- Map Location
- England, UK
Members
Discussions
1001 Group Read--Dec, 2011: Empire of the Sun in 1001 Books to read before you die (December 2011)
Reviews
This has to be the most incredible book I have ever read. Literary criticism shouldn’t have to resort to profanity, but there is no other term for it than ‘utterly f****d up’.
But that f****d upness doesn’t bring pleasure through a process of sensationalism or controversy. It’s not incredible because it’s daring or deliberately provocative. It’s the juxtaposition between the instinctually abhorrent, repulsive subject matter; base and maladjusted as it is, and the way it’s show more expressed which is where the strength lies. Clinical and detached, but at the same time beautiful and expressive – every nuance and feeling and description and sensory element laid bare and examined, crafted carefully with word choice and simile, elegant and considered.
And the result is the most incredible insight into a mentality that you’d never normally see, never be able to delve into, would instinctively shy away from. It carries itself with a voice that gives a false rationality to it all, and by virtue of it being unrelenting in its constant, constant onslaught of description, page after page of nothing but violent sexual obsession, there’s a level of desensitization that almost brings you to a place where you feel you’re not repelled, but instead almost understand. Not relate (or at least hopefully not, or at least not to such complete levels), but a position where you almost feel that reprieve can be granted because you at least understand. But at the same time, Ballard achieves the opposite. He takes the mundane and dissects it, defamiliarises it, turns it into a monster far different to its common form. In the case of Crash, it’s the car. So on the one hand Ballard leads us to accept the unacceptable, whilst at the same time causing us to flinch at the mundane. You won't look at a steering wheel the same again.
It is utterly compelling.
***
And then, suddenly, it’s not. It’s too much. Two hours in out of six, and suddenly I can barely stand to listen. Repetitive, self-involved, tedious, obsessive and repugnant. Round and round it goes, every character contemptible in their base obsession and their pretentious self-examination of it. It is sickening in how one-dimensional it all seems to become. And if I hear the words ‘sexual act’, ‘chromium’, ‘stylized’ or 'instrument panel' again I will sure kill someone – appearing as they do like clockwork every two minutes.
And in a way, that’s perfect too. For a book about sex – obsessional, erotic sex - what a perfect feeling to invoke; a movement from the in-the-moment, all-consuming, profound, poetic ‘this is the most important thing in the world’ feelings, where ‘one-dimensional’ is in reality attributable to ‘I can think of nothing else’, to what can only be described as ‘post-nut’ clarity; tedious, embarrassing, pathetic, mundane, sordid and lacking any of the intrigue and addiction it held in the moments before. Moving from something that seems limitless at the time, to a realization that there are only so many things you can stick in so many orifices (and in the case of the book, only so many ways you can describe that). A true echoing of book and its subject matter in the way that it invokes that ‘what the hell did I see in this that had me so hooked’ feeling.
So even for how much I hated it by the end, I loved it and must rate it five stars – both for the thrilling, profound impact it had at the beginning, but also how right it was to have hatred and disgust at the end. Because if that isn’t the nature of obsessional sex, I don’t know what is. show less
But that f****d upness doesn’t bring pleasure through a process of sensationalism or controversy. It’s not incredible because it’s daring or deliberately provocative. It’s the juxtaposition between the instinctually abhorrent, repulsive subject matter; base and maladjusted as it is, and the way it’s show more expressed which is where the strength lies. Clinical and detached, but at the same time beautiful and expressive – every nuance and feeling and description and sensory element laid bare and examined, crafted carefully with word choice and simile, elegant and considered.
And the result is the most incredible insight into a mentality that you’d never normally see, never be able to delve into, would instinctively shy away from. It carries itself with a voice that gives a false rationality to it all, and by virtue of it being unrelenting in its constant, constant onslaught of description, page after page of nothing but violent sexual obsession, there’s a level of desensitization that almost brings you to a place where you feel you’re not repelled, but instead almost understand. Not relate (or at least hopefully not, or at least not to such complete levels), but a position where you almost feel that reprieve can be granted because you at least understand. But at the same time, Ballard achieves the opposite. He takes the mundane and dissects it, defamiliarises it, turns it into a monster far different to its common form. In the case of Crash, it’s the car. So on the one hand Ballard leads us to accept the unacceptable, whilst at the same time causing us to flinch at the mundane. You won't look at a steering wheel the same again.
It is utterly compelling.
***
And then, suddenly, it’s not. It’s too much. Two hours in out of six, and suddenly I can barely stand to listen. Repetitive, self-involved, tedious, obsessive and repugnant. Round and round it goes, every character contemptible in their base obsession and their pretentious self-examination of it. It is sickening in how one-dimensional it all seems to become. And if I hear the words ‘sexual act’, ‘chromium’, ‘stylized’ or 'instrument panel' again I will sure kill someone – appearing as they do like clockwork every two minutes.
And in a way, that’s perfect too. For a book about sex – obsessional, erotic sex - what a perfect feeling to invoke; a movement from the in-the-moment, all-consuming, profound, poetic ‘this is the most important thing in the world’ feelings, where ‘one-dimensional’ is in reality attributable to ‘I can think of nothing else’, to what can only be described as ‘post-nut’ clarity; tedious, embarrassing, pathetic, mundane, sordid and lacking any of the intrigue and addiction it held in the moments before. Moving from something that seems limitless at the time, to a realization that there are only so many things you can stick in so many orifices (and in the case of the book, only so many ways you can describe that). A true echoing of book and its subject matter in the way that it invokes that ‘what the hell did I see in this that had me so hooked’ feeling.
So even for how much I hated it by the end, I loved it and must rate it five stars – both for the thrilling, profound impact it had at the beginning, but also how right it was to have hatred and disgust at the end. Because if that isn’t the nature of obsessional sex, I don’t know what is. show less
Wonderfully elegant and strange and vivid. A typically Ballardian protagonist, an emotionally obscure doctor, gets mixed up with a small cast of fellow-foreigners in a central African country (Cameroon, we're told, but I think actually Gabon, right on the equator) which is undergoing crystallization. The same process is underway elsewhere in the world and seems to be connected with heavenly bodies: galaxies, stars, the moon. The crystal brings a kind of geometric order to space, replicating show more itself with countless baroque reconfigurations, coating plants, crocodiles, people in polychrome crusts, but also seems to be freezing or desiccating time:
The characters seem to double each other and the prose replicates itself, too, words like "sheathed", "prismatic", "jewel" revolving through the novel. But the brightness and beauty of Ballard's vision mean it doesn't become dull. Ecstatic paragraphs like this abound:
(the "wind on the water" calling Genesis to mind), or this:
...with those hissing glass-like trellises of moss whistling off the page like a lurid, lucid dream.
Clearly a major influence on Vandermeer's Annihilation, and in fact Alex Garland, giving names to the unnamed characters of that novel for his brilliant film adaptation, borrowed at least three from The Crystal World. The same themes are here, of uncheckable cancerlike growth, of metamorphosis, of the unknowable other and how we approach it, seek to know it, fight it, flee it or embrace it. Just crazy good shit and straight to the top of my Ballard ranking. show less
The beauty of the spectacle had turned the keys of memory, and a thousand images of childhood, forgotten for nearly forty years, filled his mind, recalling that paradisal world when everything seemed illuminated by that prismatic light described so exactly by Wordsworth in his recollections of childhood.
The characters seem to double each other and the prose replicates itself, too, words like "sheathed", "prismatic", "jewel" revolving through the novel. But the brightness and beauty of Ballard's vision mean it doesn't become dull. Ecstatic paragraphs like this abound:
The sky was clear and motionless, the sunlight striking uninterruptedly upon this magnetic shore, but now and then a stir of wind crossed the water and the scene erupted into cascades of colour that rippled away into the air around them. Then the coruscation subsided, and the images of the individual trees reappeared, each sheathed in its armour of light, foliage glowing as if loaded with deliquescing jewels.
(the "wind on the water" calling Genesis to mind), or this:
They were soon within the body of the forest, and had entered an enchanted world. The crystal trees around them were hung with glass-like trellises of moss. The air was markedly cooler, as if everything was sheathed in ice, but a ceaseless play of light poured through the canopy overhead.
...with those hissing glass-like trellises of moss whistling off the page like a lurid, lucid dream.
Clearly a major influence on Vandermeer's Annihilation, and in fact Alex Garland, giving names to the unnamed characters of that novel for his brilliant film adaptation, borrowed at least three from The Crystal World. The same themes are here, of uncheckable cancerlike growth, of metamorphosis, of the unknowable other and how we approach it, seek to know it, fight it, flee it or embrace it. Just crazy good shit and straight to the top of my Ballard ranking. show less
On the very first page, after a crashing car has come to rest, we get this: “Maitland lay across his steering wheel, his jacket and trousers studded with windshield fragments like a suit of lights…” Yep, for the first time in decades I’m back reading J G Ballard again.
And this is classic Ballard too, from his early science-fiction days. Robert Maitland, at the wheel of a Jaguar speeding home one afternoon on the Westway out of central London, is hurled through a temporary show more barrier when his front nearside tyre explodes. The car plunges down a steep embankment and comes to rest, not on an uncharted tropical island like Crusoe, but its modern equivalent maybe: a traffic island. Formed at the junction of two motorways and a feeder road, this is a fenced-off, perhaps forgotten, triangle of uncut grass and the foundations of demolished buildings. Badly injured in a subsequent escape attempt, first comes self-pity, a bottle of Burgundy from the wrecked Jag, an exhausted sleep; then, next morning, his bid for survival begins: water, food, shelter, a signal-fire, rescue.
But there are psychological problems to confront too—and these are more insidious, harder to overcome, because this only starts out like a modern Robinson Crusoe. Throughout his whole time on an eighteenth-century island, Defoe’s castaway never becomes anything other than the civilised man who washed up there in the first place; in fact, he expends a great deal of effort trying to recreate the world with all its home comforts he’s lost. Ballard, by contrast, was fascinated by the idea of the whole superstructure of our civilisation suddenly removed and the possible psychological consequences for any survivors. In many of those early science-fiction novels not everyone is devastated by this loss, and some are even glad to be rid of it all. So you may find water on your concrete island, even food of a sort, but can you sustain the desire to escape? Or might it begin to seem like a refuge, your prison of embankments and flyovers a release, a strange freedom? show less
And this is classic Ballard too, from his early science-fiction days. Robert Maitland, at the wheel of a Jaguar speeding home one afternoon on the Westway out of central London, is hurled through a temporary show more barrier when his front nearside tyre explodes. The car plunges down a steep embankment and comes to rest, not on an uncharted tropical island like Crusoe, but its modern equivalent maybe: a traffic island. Formed at the junction of two motorways and a feeder road, this is a fenced-off, perhaps forgotten, triangle of uncut grass and the foundations of demolished buildings. Badly injured in a subsequent escape attempt, first comes self-pity, a bottle of Burgundy from the wrecked Jag, an exhausted sleep; then, next morning, his bid for survival begins: water, food, shelter, a signal-fire, rescue.
But there are psychological problems to confront too—and these are more insidious, harder to overcome, because this only starts out like a modern Robinson Crusoe. Throughout his whole time on an eighteenth-century island, Defoe’s castaway never becomes anything other than the civilised man who washed up there in the first place; in fact, he expends a great deal of effort trying to recreate the world with all its home comforts he’s lost. Ballard, by contrast, was fascinated by the idea of the whole superstructure of our civilisation suddenly removed and the possible psychological consequences for any survivors. In many of those early science-fiction novels not everyone is devastated by this loss, and some are even glad to be rid of it all. So you may find water on your concrete island, even food of a sort, but can you sustain the desire to escape? Or might it begin to seem like a refuge, your prison of embankments and flyovers a release, a strange freedom? show less
J.G. Ballard was one of the most distinctive penetrating voices of 20th century fiction. This book, the complete stories is a monument. And in true Ballardian fashion, it takes the form of a grotesque Brutalist labyrinth, and endless transit from reality into a psychosis of non-space and non-time. In some sense, this review is also a review of my own failure. I began this book in October 2017, nearly five years ago, with the plan of reading one story a day, paired with a brief reaction in show more words and images. My expectations for the project, formed by reading The Best Short Stories of J.G. Ballard as well as several of his novels, was inadequate preparation for The Complete Stories. Indeed, I am uncertain if anything could have prepared me for The Complete Stories.
Ballard's major theme is the implosion of modernity. His early stories play with crowded, stimulated, commercialized societies reaching points of parodic collapse with grim irony for his protagonists. The overt science-fiction themes ebb in the mid 1960s (coincident with the death of his wife), and the stories focus on alienated individuals undergoing a destructive final psychological crisis, often a collapse of time perception with fugues and blackouts, or perhaps a novel relation to space. The central image here is the beach, a sun-burnt strip of sand between the vast unchanging ocean and the detritus strewn land.
Ballard wrote some truly impressive stories. "Thirteen to Centaurus" is a first rank story in any form. "The Cage of Sand" was written at the height of the space race and imagines Cape Canaveral as a toxic desert haunted by obsessives maintaining a vigil on the orbiting capsules of dead astronauts. The deconstructed stories like "Answers to a Questionnaire" and "The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered As a Downhill Motor Race" do clever and ambitious things with form. Ballard wrote at least a dozen fascinating and provocative stories.
The problem is that there are about 100 stories in the book, and after those top dozen the quality begins to fall fast. I can't bring myself to care about the dissipated artists and aristocrats of the Vermillion Sands cycle. There are far too many meditations on how space flight was a cosmic sin which will be punished by eliminating time. The general misanthropy of these stories is a key part of the theme and tone, a cosmological realization that our present mode of life is a brief blip between an animal past and a dead future. But there's also a very particular and ugly misogyny, with story after story of unfaithful wives and the kamikaze husbands who destroy them.
Should you read Ballard? Absolutely. Should you read The Complete Stories? Only if you have a specific desire for literary exhaustion. show less
Ballard's major theme is the implosion of modernity. His early stories play with crowded, stimulated, commercialized societies reaching points of parodic collapse with grim irony for his protagonists. The overt science-fiction themes ebb in the mid 1960s (coincident with the death of his wife), and the stories focus on alienated individuals undergoing a destructive final psychological crisis, often a collapse of time perception with fugues and blackouts, or perhaps a novel relation to space. The central image here is the beach, a sun-burnt strip of sand between the vast unchanging ocean and the detritus strewn land.
Ballard wrote some truly impressive stories. "Thirteen to Centaurus" is a first rank story in any form. "The Cage of Sand" was written at the height of the space race and imagines Cape Canaveral as a toxic desert haunted by obsessives maintaining a vigil on the orbiting capsules of dead astronauts. The deconstructed stories like "Answers to a Questionnaire" and "The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered As a Downhill Motor Race" do clever and ambitious things with form. Ballard wrote at least a dozen fascinating and provocative stories.
The problem is that there are about 100 stories in the book, and after those top dozen the quality begins to fall fast. I can't bring myself to care about the dissipated artists and aristocrats of the Vermillion Sands cycle. There are far too many meditations on how space flight was a cosmic sin which will be punished by eliminating time. The general misanthropy of these stories is a key part of the theme and tone, a cosmological realization that our present mode of life is a brief blip between an animal past and a dead future. But there's also a very particular and ugly misogyny, with story after story of unfaithful wives and the kamikaze husbands who destroy them.
Should you read Ballard? Absolutely. Should you read The Complete Stories? Only if you have a specific desire for literary exhaustion. show less
Lists
Read (1)
THE WAR ROOM (1)
Must read (1)
Must read (1)
War Literature (1)
Kink Classics (1)
Booker Prize (1)
el (1)
1970s (1)
Allie's Wishlist (1)
2015 UpROOTed (1)
Read These Too (1)
Shaking a Leg (1)
Favourite Books (1)
1980s (1)
Franklit (2)
My TBR (2)
Best Dystopias (2)
to get (3)
A Novel Cure (3)
On the pile (1)
Writers at Risk (1)
Backlisted (1)
SF Masterworks (1)
Erotic Fiction (1)
Folio Society (1)
Books (1)
Cooper (1)
Best First Lines (1)
Climate Change (1)
Yet another list (1)
Asia (1)
Awards
You May Also Like
Associated Authors
Statistics
- Works
- 291
- Also by
- 195
- Members
- 37,662
- Popularity
- #481
- Rating
- 3.6
- Reviews
- 842
- ISBNs
- 908
- Languages
- 24
- Favorited
- 200








































































