Advertiser’s Announcement: ‘Sex: Inner Space: J.G. Ballard’. Ambit no. 33, 1967.

Better Living through Psychopathology
Benjamin Noys (2009)

Presentation at at ‘The Future’, David Roberts Art Foundation, Fitzrovia, London (5 November 2009).

The image of the future which I have selected is one of the series of J. G. Ballard’s pseudo-advertisements that he published in Ambit no. 33 in 1967. Ballard explains that:

Back in the late 60s I produced a series of advertisements which I placed in various publications (Ambit, New Worlds, Ark and various continental alternative magazines), doing the art work myself and arranging for the blockmaking, and then delivering the block to the particular journal just as would a commercial advertiser. Of course I was advertising my own conceptual ideas, but I wanted to do so within the formal circumstances of classic commercial advertising – I wanted ads that would look in place in Vogue, Paris Match, Newsweek, etc. To maintain the integrity of the project I paid the commercial rate for the page, even in the case of Ambit of which I was and still am prose editor. I would have liked to have branched out into Vogue and Newsweek, but cost alone stopped me … (R/S 147).

The actual image is a still from Stephen Dwoskin’s 1963 film Alone (USA 1963 13min), of a woman masturbating. The text is a typically concise and forensic manifesto for Ballard’s own counter-science fiction.

The reason for my fascination with this image as an image of the future, which is in fact over forty years old, is that it represents the deliberate attempt to construct an image of the future that can resist the obsolescence of the future. This might seem an ironic proposition when we consider the fact that this image was created in the mid-60s – a time when, as Ballard retrospectively notes, ‘people … were intensely interested in the future’ (1994). Yet, he also notes that ‘[s]adly, at some point in the 1960s our sense of the future seemed to atrophy and die’ and that, by the 70s, only ‘a few romantics like myself still believe[d] that our sense of the future remain[ed] intact’ (1994). In fact, the atrophy of the future took place because of the impoverishment of our images of the future. The possibility of the future became blocked by those images of the future that seemed to attest to faith in a better tomorrow: the space race, two years away from the moon landing, pop futurism, the consumption-driven Keynesian compact, ‘the dreams that money can buy’, ‘advertising and pseudoevents’ (R/S 96). These images of a promised land of ‘outer space and the far future’ (R/S 97) had been predicted and generated by the science fiction of the 1950s. Locating himself as a science-fiction writer Ballard recognised the exhaustion of this tradition in its realisation: ‘by an ironic paradox, modern science fiction became the first casualty of the changing world it anticipated and helped to create.’ (R/S 97)

Ballard’s image is a counter-image to this atrophy and impoverishment of the future. It is a ‘chromosome of the future’ designed to ‘divide and grow in the reader’s mind’ (Ballard 1994). We can understand it as belonging to that conceptual Third World War Ballard would later invoke in The Atrocity Exhibition: ‘The blitzkriegs will be fought out on the spinal battlefields, in terms of the postures we assume, of our traumas mimetized in the angle of a wall or balcony.’ (AE 11) With the threat that ‘the future is ceasing to exist, devoured by the all-voracious present’ (R/S 97), the counter-image tries to extract a new future; the obsolete science-fiction of outer space has to give way to the new science-fiction of inner space. Reviewing Hitler’s Mein Kampf in 1969 Ballard remarks ‘[t]he psychopath never dates’ and speculates that: ‘perhaps one reason why the American and Russian space programs have failed to catch our imaginations is that this quality of explicit psychopathology is missing.’ (R/S 104) In response conventional science-fiction can only ratify its own transition to archaism, by producing images of the future that are ‘a kind of historical romance in reverse, a sealed world into which the hard light of contemporary reality was never really allowed to penetrate.’ (R/S 97) (Ballard’s reference is 2001, but I also think of Star Wars).

The colonisation of reality by fictions requires a dialectic of involution and externalisation. We turn inward to the body and the psyche – fiction is a branch of neurology – as ‘the one small node of reality left to us is inside our own heads.’ (R/S 98) And yet that inner reality has been turned inside-out, as our innermost desires are always-already realised by science, pornography, and advertising. For Ballard the usual elements of the so-called ‘human condition’ – sex and death – are the first casualties of this war. Instead of de-conceptualising them, to recover their ‘natural’ form, à la Reich or Marcuse, we must take them as manipulable elements ‘of a wholly conceptual character’ (AT 80). The ‘node of reality’ is not even some residual or surplus (Lacanian) capital ‘R’ Real, which could resist the totalising forces of mediatisation. Instead, ‘We’re living in an abstracted world, where there aren’t any values, where rather than fall back, one has to, as Conrad said, immerse oneself in the most destructive element, and swim.’ (R/S 161)

To wage this Third World (Image) War we have to move deeper into our own psychoses (AT 9) – to immerse ourselves in the image-stream to wrest the future from the perpetual present by an ‘elective psychopathy’ (Ballard 2008). The subsumption of the psyche makes it available for further re-conceptualisation, for the invention of new pathologies and new perversions. Ballard’s image is a radicalisation of the fact ‘that sex is becoming more and more a conceptual act, an intellectualization divorced from affect and physiology alike’ (AT 56). We can imagine it as the creation of one of the psychiatric patients in The Atrocity Exhibition, the future image guerrillas of this Third World War: ‘these bizarre images, with their fusion of Eniwetok and Luna Park, Freud and Elizabeth Taylor’ (AT 7). The involution to inner space, to scenarios of nerve and blood vessel, forms an alternative ‘conceptualized psychopathology’ (AT 99) of re-externalisation.

The ‘future’ is now an image concocted from the iconography of the mediatised unconscious, in which Jung’s archetypes and Freud’s drives are re-figured in ‘the nasal prepuce of L.B.J., crashed helicopters, the pudenda of Ralph Nader, Eichmann in drag, the climax of a New York happening: a dead child.’ (AT 20) The result is that these images become reversible; as one character ponders in The Atrocity Exhibition: ‘Are space vehicles merely overgrown V-2s, or are they Jung’s symbols of redemption, ciphers in some futuristic myth?’ (AT 84) Instead of merely being quaint and anachronistic technologies harnessed to an anodyne future, we can re-conceptualise and re-pathologise space vehicles. The science-fiction writer creates a new ‘predictive mytholog[y]’ (R/S 42): myths of the future that are also performative acts to create and construct that future.

From the original Doubleday edition, Michael Foreman’s artwork for an Atrocity Exhibition chapter, ‘You: Coma: Marilyn Monroe’.

Through the choice of psychopathology as a conscious act we can shape new written mythologies of memory and desire. The images of the ‘future’ that previously closed-out the future can now become the material for mythologies of a truly new future. Of course, the problem of such a mythology is that the more successful it is the more it is absorbed by the very mediascape it mimetizes. As Ballard writes ‘A lot of my prophecies about the alienated society are going to come true’ (R/S 155), however, if they come true, then they become superfluous. In The Atrocity Exhibition a ‘Festival of Atrocity Films’ is put on in a venue presumably very much like this one: ‘the results were disappointing; whatever Talbot had hoped for had clearly not materialized. The violence was little more than a sophisticated entertainment. One day he would carry out of Marxist analysis of this lumpen intelligentsia.’ (AT 19) Leaving aside the interesting question of what that analysis might be, and its relevance today, Ballard presciently probes the neuralgic point of his own fiction. The coinage ‘Ballardian’ is the very sign of this ironic success, as Ballard’s own fiction succumbs to the fate he had sketched for the science-fiction of the 1950s: ‘bec[oming] the first casualty of the changing world it anticipated and helped to create’.

It appears that the angle between two walls does not have a happy ending. Ballard’s own creation of himself as a brand or concept becomes another image in the media stream. This, however, is the essential risk of Ballard’s own active nihilism, which accepts that abstraction and conceptualisation operate all the way down: there is no point of immunity or safety from which one might safely create a ‘pure’ image of the future. His images of the future are always, explicitly, transitory, with ‘in-built-obsolescence’. In response we could extrapolate two possible positions from Ballard’s work. The first is that of a quasi-Weberian re-enchantment of a denuded reality through re-conceptualisation. In The Atrocity Exhibition the character Travers ‘has composed a series of new sexual deviations, of a wholly conceptual character, in an attempt to surmount this death of affect’ (AE 80) We could also cite Ballard’s retrospective tendency to position The Atrocity Exhibition as a work of moral commentary. We fall back from the future into a kind of Swiftean satire, at once reactionary and conservative.

The second position is something like what Nietzsche calls ‘completed nihilism’: the traversal and transcendence of the nihilism Ballard anatomises. In this case, Ballard’s dialectic proceeds by the ‘bad side’: the worse the better. He remarked in a 2006 interview that: ‘I’m somebody who stands by the side of the road with a sign saying, Dangerous Bends Ahead – Slow Down.’ He pauses. ‘Although it is true that I sometimes seem to be saying Dangerous Bends Ahead – Speed Up.’ (in Brown, 2006: 20) That speeding up, this accelerationism, of course risks passing from an active nihilism to a mere passive nihilism: the embrace of what is, and the closure of any possibility of the future, or the courting of a deliberate cynicism that re-converges with the position of the moral critic as disgusted and disenchanted observer.

This unease or instability is I want to suggest the reason why Ballard’s image of the future is so resonant. This image, of course, appears as a very 60s image, imbued with the kind of deliberately perverse utopianism that no longer registers with us except in the forms of nostalgia or cynicism. The difference is that this image disjoints itself from that moment by its prescient refusal of the usual models of repression, liberation, and recuperation. In The Atrocity Exhibition Ballard notes that images of elective psychopathy, in which Vietnam combat films are shown with a muzak soundtrack, create an environment ‘in which work-tasks, social relationships and overall motivation reached sustained levels of excellence’ (AT 94). The release of repressed desires can be made to serve the logic of the ‘perpetual present’ of accumulation. This is the mechanism of ‘repressive desublimation’, sketched by Marcuse, in which our desires are ‘liberated’ as the ‘dreams that money can buy’. In response the writer can only immerse themselves and swim, by imagining ‘an optimum torture and execution sequence’ (AE 93). This image fascinates me as an image of the future because it embraces fully the saturation of the future by abstraction and the only remaining possibility being further abstraction. For all its kitsch retro-sixties styling the encrypted moment of resistance figured in this image is the embrace of a future that never really took place, in which the only form of a future we can construct is one that takes place through absolute abstraction.

Bibliography
Ballard, J. G. (1984), Re/Search: J. G. Ballard 8/9. [R/S]
___ (1985) The Atrocity Exhibition [1970], London: Triad Granada. [AE]
___ (1994) ‘Introduction’ in Myths of the Near Future, London: Vintage.
___ (2008) ‘An Exhibition of Atrocities: J. G. Ballard on Mondo Films’, An Interview with Mark Goodall, The Ballardian, http://www.ballardian.com/jg-ballard-on-mondo-films [consulted 16 April 2009].

Brown, M. (2006) ‘From Here to Dystopia: Interview with J. G. Ballard’, Telegraph Magazine 2 September: 16-22.

Nietzsche, F. (1968) The Will to Power, trans. Walter Kaufmann, New York: Vintage.

BALLARDOSCOPE: SOME ATTEMPTS AT APPROACHING THE WRITER AS A VISIONARY

by Jordi Costa

by Mike Holliday

ABOVE: Artwork by Jeffrey K. Potter for ‘News from the Sun’ (commissioned for the collection Memories of the Space Age, Arkham House, 1988).

The late 70s and early 80s represent a sort of interregnum in Ballard’s career — between the last of the urban disaster novels, High-Rise (1975), and the success of Empire of the Sun (1984). During this period he published two of his most atypical novels, The Unlimited Dream Company and Hello America, and returned to earlier concerns with three short stories that are preoccupied with time, and which recall such works as The Crystal World and ‘The Voices of Time’. These three stories — ‘News from the Sun’ (1981), ‘Memories of the Space Age’ (1982), and ‘Myths of the Near Future’ (1982) — are all concerned with a psychological disturbance of our perception of the flow of time, a dislocation that has been caused, somehow, by human space-flight. These stories are so similar to each other that one might suspect self-plagiarism, were they not written by Ballard. In the chronologically arranged Complete Short Stories, they sit there one after the other, eighty or so pages of obsessive investigation of the same themes.

‘Memories of the Space Age’ can serve as an exemplar for all three stories. Dr Mallory, an ex-NASA physician, has driven from Vancouver with his wife, Anne, to reach an abandoned Cape Kennedy in search of Hinton — an astronaut who murdered his co-pilot whilst in orbit. Mallory and his wife are suffering from a ’space-sickness’, in which time appears to slow so that a few minutes of normal time seem to last all day. This condition was first observed in returned astronauts, then in other NASA personnel, and has now spread out to envelop the whole of Florida. Mallory hopes that by returning to the source of the sickness he can understand its true meaning:

The murder of the astronaut and the public unease that followed had marked the end of the space age, an awareness that man had committed an evolutionary crime by travelling into space, that he was tampering with the elements of his own consciousness. The fracture of that fragile continuum erected by the human psyche through millions of years had soon shown itself, in the confused sense of time displayed by the inhabitants of the towns near the space centre. Cape Kennedy and the whole of Florida itself became a poisoned land to be forever avoided …

As time slows, it seems to Mallory that the world is bathed in a bright light, with ‘photons backing up all the way to the sun’. The descriptions of surrounding objects resemble those in The Crystal World: a fountain turns into ‘a glass tree that shed an opalescent fruit onto his shoulders and hands’, and ‘the waves were no longer running towards the beach, and were frozen ruffs of icing sugar’.

ABOVE: Artwork by Jeffrey K. Potter for ‘Memories of the Space Age’ (commissioned for the collection Memories of the Space Age).

At the Cape, Hinton has collected a number of antique aircraft, apparently in an attempt to engineer his own escape from time:

We had to get out of time — that’s what the space programme was all about. … Flight and time, Mallory, they’re bound together. The birds have always known that. To get out of time we first need to learn to fly. That’s why I’m here. I’m teaching myself to fly, going back through all these old planes to the beginning. I want to fly without wings …

Hinton attacks Mallory from his aircraft, and Mallory realizes that his own real aim is to kill Hinton. They seek each other through the deserted Cape and abandoned suburbs, but eventually Hinton sets fire to his aircraft and, taking Anne Mallory with him, he climbs the Shuttle launch platform and steps off with her ‘into the light’. Knowing that time will have stopped for his wife and Hinton as they experience this final moment of flight, Mallory looks forward to his own ending — he plans to open the cage housing a tiger that was once part of a small zoo:

… without time the lion could at last lie down with the lamb. … The key to the tiger cage he held always in his hand. There was little time left to him now, the light-filled world had transformed itself into a series of tableaux from a pageant that celebrated the founding days of creation. In the finale every element in the universe, however humble, would take its place on the stage in front of him. … He would unlock the door soon … lie down with this beast in a world beyond time.

The other two stories repeat the formula, with variations. In ‘News from the Sun’ people who have been associated with the space-programme, or who watched the flights on TV, are suffering deep fugues that leave them unconscious and motionless for increasing periods each day. Some of the victims eventually learn to become conscious through these fugues and they then become aware of a world where objects are endlessly multiplied as their past, present and future selves become simultaneously present. The sickness in ‘Myths of the Near Future’ is characterized by a ‘reluctance to go out of doors, the abandonment of job, family and friends, a dislike of daylight, a gradual loss of weight and retreat into a hibernating self ‘ and in the later stages by a perception that time is slowing-down to an eventual frozen instant.

All three stories are remarkably similar. In each case, (i) the time distortions represent a psychic disorder caused by mankind attempting to leave the planet; (ii) each of the protagonists realizes that this change makes available to them a world where time no longer exists and all events — past and future — are simultaneously present; (iii) this new ‘world without time’ is characterized by a bright light; and (iv) the stories all include astronauts (or people who believe they are astronauts) and characters obsessed with flight, for example with micro-light planes, antique aircraft, and birds. Even minor elements are repeated: in all three stories the main protagonist has taken a long journey to or from Cape Kennedy once the psychological disorientation becomes apparent, and they each lose a considerable amount of weight as the condition progresses.

This repetition of themes in three stories in such a short space of time is rather puzzling, particularly as the concept of transcending time had already featured strongly in Ballard’s fiction in the early and mid-1960s. Why should he return to this theme in 1981-2? And why visit it three times in such a short period? In trying to understand this conundrum, it’s interesting to look at some of the comments that Ballard has made about his own creative activity, where he admits that the forces driving his imaginative processes are obscure, even to himself:

I just tend to write whatever comes mentally to hand, and what I find interesting at a particular time. These decisions as to what one’s going to write tend to be made somewhere at the back of one’s mind, so one can’t consciously say: ‘that’s what I’m going to write’. It doesn’t work out like that! (interview in ‘J. G. Ballard: The First Twenty Years’, 1976).

I’m barely aware of what is going on. Recurrent ideas assemble themselves, obsessions solidify themselves … (interview in ‘The Paris Review’, 1984).

I feel that the writer of fantasy has a marked tendency to select images and ideas which directly reflect the internal landscapes of his mind, and the reader of fantasy must interpret them on this level, distinguishing between the manifest content, which may seen obscure, meaningless or nightmarish, and the latent content, the private vocabulary of symbols drawn by the narrative from the writer’s mind (‘Time, Memory and Inner Space’, 1963).

If we take these comments at face value, then something within the landscape of Ballard’s mind was presumably driving him in the direction taken by these three stories from the early 1980s. Perhaps a clue is evident in his own personal situation. Following the death of his wife, Ballard had brought up his three young children on his own. His close involvement and the deep satisfaction he got from his family is evident in both his semi-autobiographical novel The Kindness of Women and his recent autobiography Miracles of Life. But by the late ’70s all three children had left home, and interviews at the time show the deep impact this had on him:

… the absence of those three children left a colossal vacuum in my life. … It is very strange … So I’ve been asking that question for at least a year — what the hell do I do now?’ (interview conducted in 1979 and published in J. G. Ballard: A Primary and Secondary Bibliography, 1984)

I get up in the morning and the day just sort of stretches like the plains of Kansas, with not a speck on the horizon. Which is great, of course! (interview conducted in 1982 and published in Re/Search #8/9: J G Ballard, 1984)

And in The Kindness of Women, the fictionalized version of Ballard explains ‘I spent the whole of my adult life with children. Suddenly, when I’m fifty, there’s this colossal vacuum. Mothers feel the same way. Nature hasn’t provided a contingency plan — or, as Dick would say, nature’s contingency plan is death.’ So it isn’t surprising that Ballard’s unconscious creative processes should turn once again to the notion of time, and of time’s involvement with the creation of meaning in one’s life.

ABOVE: Artwork from Ambit for ‘News from the Sun’. Illustration by Mark Foreman.

But why the specific obsession with a ‘frozen time’? I think that to comprehend this, we have to go back to Ballard’s idea that reality is, at bottom, a construct of the human brain. This has long been has been one of his favourite themes in interviews, and here’s a typical example:

What I do have is the notion, which I take from modern experimental psychology, that the universe presented to us by our senses is a kind of ramshackle construct that happens to suit the central nervous system of an intelligent bipedal mammal with a rather short conceptual and physical range. We see rooms and people and have perceptions — but it’s all a construct (interview in ‘Rolling Stone’, 1987).

The roots of this idea seem to lie in Ballard’s boyhood in Shanghai and his early grasp of the notion that the everyday world is a sort of stage-set, as he describes in his autobiography Miracles of Life in a passage where he and his father enter a deserted nightclub:

[I] walked on tiptoe through the silent gaming rooms where roulette tables lay on their sides and the floor was covered with broken glasses and betting chips. Gilded statues propped up the canopy of the bars that ran the length of the casino, and on the floor ornate chandeliers cut down from the ceiling tilted among the debris of bottles and old newspapers. Everywhere gold glimmered in the half-light, transforming this derelict casino into a magical cavern from the Arabian Nights tales. But it held a deeper meaning for me, the sense that reality itself was a stage set that could be dismantled at any moment, and that no matter how magnificent anything appeared, it could be swept aside into the debris of the past.

If our reality is a constructed reality, then this applies equally to our notion of time and those aspects of our lives that are closely connected with our sense of lived time, such as our memories, hopes, and ideals:

… the view of modern psychology [is] that the brain presents us with only a ramshackle view of reality, a partial construct imperfect in numerous ways, from the more trivial — the geometry of the rooms we inhabit — to the more serious — our sense of time, memory, our hopes, ideals and private mythologies (interview in ‘Impulse: The Magazine of Time and Space’, 1988).

And if our sense of lived time is a construct, then it becomes possible to conceive of an alternative form of reality that contains some form of timelessness or a non-linear time. But the source of this alternative notion of time must lie within ourselves, or as one of the characters in ‘Memories of the Space Age’ tells Mallory, ‘Doctor … The real Cape Kennedy is inside your head, not out here.’

Implicit in what Mallory refers to as ‘a world without time, an indefinite and unending present’ is the disappearance or metamorphosis of the future and of the past. The evanescence of the future is heralded in each of these three stories by the failure of the manned space programme and the resulting psychic disorientation, and is reflected in the landscapes, which are derelict or overgrown and largely deserted of inhabitants: ‘an immense silence of deserted marinas and shopping malls, abandoned citrus farms and retirement estates, silent ghettoes and airports.’ The shedding of the past can be seen in the loss of weight that occurs in those who experience time dislocation — as Mallory puts it, ‘he and Anne had each lost more than thirty pounds, as if their bodies were carrying out a re-inventory of themselves for the coming world without time.’ And the past explicitly withdraws in ‘Memories of the Space Age’:

Thankfully, as time evaporated, so did memory. He looked at his few possessions, now almost meaningless … The minutes were beginning to stretch, urged on by this eventless universe free of birds and aircraft. His memory faltered, he was forgetting his past, the clinic at Vancouver and its wounded children, his wife asleep in the hotel at Titusville, even his own identity.

But the stories do not represent the past and the future as disappearing completely. Instead they become available again in a new form of existence that brings past, present and future together simultaneously. In ‘News from the Sun’ and ‘Myths of the Near Future’ this occurs explicitly through a process that is reminiscent of the crystallization of the universe that takes place in The Crystal World — the multiplication of objects so that all the different versions, past, present and future, exist at one and the same time:

The sun was annealing plates of copper light to his skin, dressing his arms and shoulders in a coronation armour. Time was condensing around him, a thousand replicas of himself from the past and future had invaded the present and clasped themselves to him. … The flow of light through the air had begun to slow, layers of time overlaid each other, laminae of past and future fused together. Soon the tide of photons would be still, space and time would set forever (‘Myths of the Near Future’).

ABOVE: Artwork from Ambit for ‘News from the Sun’. Illustration by Mark Foreman.

But sometimes, the merging of time is more indirect, as in ‘News from the Sun’ where Franklin describes himself as having a ‘premonition of the past’ and a ‘nostalgia for the future’, or in this passage from ‘Myths of the Near Future’:

There was a sense of stop-frame about the whole of his past life — his childhood and school–days, McGill and Cambridge, the junior partnership in Vancouver, his courtship of Elaine, together seemed like so many clips run at the wrong speed. The dreams and ambitions of everyday life, the small hopes and failures, were attempts to bring these separated elements into a single whole again. Emotions were the stress lines in this over–stretched web of events.

The essential thesis of these three stories is that the withdrawal or transfiguration of past and future should enable us to live in a more real and rewarding eternal present, and this new mode of being is described as transcending our everyday existence entirely. When Hinton and Anne Mallory step off the Shuttle gantry into empty space, they will continue to exist in an eventless eternity that others will perceive as merely a few seconds as they fall to the ground. As Dr. Mallory reflects,

It was curious that images of heaven or paradise always presented a static world, not the kinetic eternity one would expect, the roller-coaster of a hyperactive funfair, the screaming Luna Parks of LSD and psilocybin. It was a strange paradox that given eternity, an infinity of time, they chose to eliminate the very element offered in such abundance.

One of the underlying attractions of apprehending the simultaneity of all existence is that it will somehow enable us to transcend death. In ‘Myths of the Near Future’, Sheppard is convinced that his wife is still alive even though she has died, and explains: ‘Everything that’s ever happened, all the events that will ever happen, are taking place together. We can die, and yet still live, at the same time. … No one who has ever lived can ever really die.’ And in an interview, Ballard tells us why The Crystal World is one of his favourite novels: ‘the idea that time might condense like ice, that we might somehow escape from that flux of time that sweeps us towards the end … is intriguing’ (interview in SFX, 1996).

If we can put to one side the ecstatic descriptions in Ballard’s fiction, it becomes apparent that an eventless eternity is the predictable result of the emasculation of the past and the future. Without memories, hopes or ideals to give meaning to the events of our lives, we find merely a series of occurrences, and the present starts to blur into an endless procession. But if this is the case, then the nature of such a world-without-time is ambiguous — instead of being a life lived to the full, an endless present can instead be deadening and boring, a major concern in Ballard’s later writings:

Once you move to the suburbs, time stops. People measure their lives by consumer goods, the dreams that money can buy. I think that’s more dangerous. People have no loyalties anymore. … Maybe we’re going to live in an eventless future. In a hundred years, the world might be very, very boring. (interview in ‘The Face’, 1988)

That Ballard holds this two-fold view of an endless present is not surprising, given the ambiguity that runs through all his work. Responding to a comment by Hans Ulrich Obrist that ambiguity is central to his writings, Ballard enthusiastically agrees: ‘I hope everything I have written is ambiguous, reflecting the paradoxical faces that make up human nature.’ Given this ambivalence, it is best to view an eternal present as one of Ballard’s extreme metaphors, or as an example of his predictive mythologies:

which in a sense provide an operating formula by which we can deal with our passage through consciousness — our movements through time and space. … mythologies that you can actually live by (interview in Re/Search #8/9: J G Ballard, 1984).

These predictive mythologies can be utilized via our imagination, and in Ballard’s iconography the imagination is often symbolized by flight:

Deserted runways have a tremendous magnetic pull for me. … The concrete strip just beckons one into new realms. Indeed, any major airport in the world charges me with a powerful sense of inspiration: they offer new points of departure for the imagination (interview in ‘ZG Magazine’, 1988).

Imagination has special significance because our perception of reality is, for Ballard, an artificial construct, and more particularly a type of construct that may have been necessary when mankind was struggling for survival in a dangerous world but which is limiting and restricting in a society where external dangers are largely absent and the need is rather for an exploration of alternative possibilities. Hence it is to imagination that Ballard looks for help in understanding how we are now to live:

Don’t forget that man is, and has been for at least a million years, a hunting species surviving with difficulty in a terribly dangerous world. In order to survive, his brain has been trained to screen out anything but the most essential and the most critical. Watch that hillcrest! Beware of that cave mouth! Kill that bird! Dodge that spear! … But now the world is essentially far less dangerous. (interview in ‘Penthouse’, 1979)

Bearing in mind the difficulties that a wholly rational being would have in coping with a largely hostile environment, there must be enormous evolutionary advantages in possessing a powerful imagination, contrary to what one would assume, or the pressures of natural selection would long since have eliminated anyone handicapped by this confusing ability to invent an imaginary alternative to the world presented to us by our senses. And that, I take it, is the vital function which the imagination performs for the central nervous system and a brilliant stratagem for dealing with crucial limitations in the brain’s picture of reality. … The more we can engage our imaginations, therefore, the better, and the most important task for each of us is to test the imperfections of reality against the perfectibility of the dream. (interview in ‘Impulse: The Magazine of Time and Space’, 1988)

We can now see why symbols of flight — antique planes, gliders, birds — figure throughout these three stories. It is only by using our powers of imagination that we can work out what Ballard’s extreme metaphor might mean for us, how we might live in a manner other than that ordained by a linear time that ‘runs into the future like a narrow-gauge scenic railway’ as Ballard tellingly describes the chronology of our lives.

ABOVE: Artwork by Jeffrey K. Potter for ‘Myths of the Near Future’ (commissioned for the collection Memories of the Space Age).

In fact, at the end of ‘Myths of the Near Future’ the metaphor changes when the characters find that they can merge their past, present and future selves into a single body:

[Martinsen's] body was now dressed in a dozen glimmering images of himself, refractions of past and present seen through the prism of time. … [Sheppard] embraced the helpless doctor, searching for the strong sinews of the young student and the wise bones of the elderly physician. In a sudden moment of recognition, Martinsen found himself, his youth and his age merged in the open geometries of his face, this happy rendezvous of his past and future selves. … they would move on, to the towns and cities of the south, to the sleepwalking children in the parks, to the dreaming mothers and fathers embalmed in their homes, waiting to be woken from the present into the infinite realm of their time-filled selves.

There is no suggestion here of a transcendent and eternal existence within an instant of time. Instead, the present is re-established by incorporating the past and future within itself, and they once again become available to create a meaningful life.

So the continual struggle is to how to relate the present to past and future. If these relations become too rigid, then our understanding of reality becomes conservative and restrictive, a theme that occurs regularly in Ballard’s interview comments:

One needs to break the conventional enamel that encases everything. … All around us, in practically every aspect of our lives, decisions are being made for us to guarantee our safe passage through this world. … There’s a sort of constant struggle on a minute-by-minute basis throughout our lives, throughout every day; one needs to dismantle that smothering conventionalized reality that wraps itself around us. There’s a conspiracy, in which we play our willing part, just to stabilize the world we inhabit, or our small corner of it. One needs at the same time to dismantle that smothering set of conventions that we call everyday reality. (interview in ‘Re/Search #8/9: J G Ballard’, 1984)

The danger is that our memories, hopes and ideals act as conventions that stabilize our lives only too well. In reaction against this, we are driven towards the metaphor of a world without past or future, a world that is depicted in its most extreme form in Ballard’s ‘The Summer Cannibals’, one of the pieces that was included in The Atrocity Exhibition. The story concerns a visit by the protagonist (not named in this story, but I shall call him Travis) and his wife to a Mediterranean resort, the entire action taking place within a brief period of time — perhaps a couple of days. There’s much play on the way in which people’s lives are enervated at this type of resort: ‘exhausted by the sun, the resort was almost deserted’, ‘bodies … as inert as the joints of meat on supermarket counters’, and so on. Time passes, but nothing much happens, rather as in Ballard’s Vermilion Sands stories. This enervation is reflected in Travis’s relationship with his wife: ‘An enormous neutral ground now divided them, across which their emotions signalled like meaningless semaphores.’ And this neutral ground, which the sun opens up by bleaching away meaning, feelings, etc., is something that Travis can utilize — it opens up new vistas for him to explore. As meaning drains out of the resort and out of the lives of the people within it, the normal sense of time disappears. So the past, instead of being a history, becomes something that exists in our imaginations, and Travis can play around with his memories:

He remembered these pleasures: the conjunction of her exposed pubis with the polished contours of the bidet; the white cube of the bathroom quantifying her left breast as she bent over the handbasin; … her right hand touching the finger-smeared panel of the elevator control. Looking at her from the bed, he re-created these situations, conceptualizations of exquisite games.

And just as ‘the past’ disappears, so does ‘the future’, or at least that idea of the future as something that helps tie together our activities and lives. Instead, we have an open plain of endless possibilities — more exquisite games for Travis: ‘Was he playing an elaborate game with her, using their acts of intercourse for some perverse pleasure of his own?’

In a way, the absence of time passing, the lack of change, is reflected in the first and last paragraphs of ‘The Summer Cannibals’, both of which feature Travis’s wife waiting for him in the car as he wanders around on the beach. These two paragraphs, which bookend the story, are very similar — but are they two alternative versions of the same event? … or two different moments between which nothing much has changed? … or is there in no real difference between these two alternatives? And right at the end of the story, the disappearing footprints of the young man walking past Travis’s wife are symbolic of everything that may have happened: ’she looked down at the imprints of his feet in the white pumice. The fine sand poured into the hollows, … [she sat] watching the last of the footprints vanish in the sand.’ The footprints just disappear, as if they were never there, vanishing to leave no trace. They have been erased just as surely as the events of the story. The past isn’t in the story at all, except in the memories that Travis plays with. And there’s no future referred to — the end paragraph is virtually identical to the first. So the short period of time in which the events of ‘The Summer Cannibals’ takes place is entirely self-contained — it only means as much or as little as Travis makes it mean.

‘The Summer Cannibals’ is one of Ballard’s extreme metaphors. However, if we turn from the fiction to reality, we see that we might be able to escape the conventionalizing effect of the past and future and live in a more congenial type of endless present, as Ballard did when bringing up his young children, such that one’s everyday life somehow ’sits right’ with one’s memories and hopes without being determined by them. But (pace Ballard) time does not stand still — memories and hopes can always turn into constraints or into hollow catechisms, and the endless present can resolve into a mere series of events so that time stretches out in front like ‘the plains of Kansas’. This seems to me to be the sort of position that Ballard may have found himself in when he returned to the subject of time and wrote ‘News’, ‘Memories’, and ‘Myths’.

Ballard’s own resolution to these vicissitudes of time is hinted at in a contemporaneous vignette, ‘The Secret Autobiography of J. G. B******’ (1984), in which ‘B’ wakes up to a world totally deserted except for himself and the birds. After wandering around for some months and ascertaining that no-one else remains, he stocks up for the winter:

But his only visitors were the birds, and he scattered handfuls of rice and seeds on the lawn of his garden and on those of his former neighbours. Already he had begun to forget them, and Shepperton soon became an extraordinary aviary, filled with birds of every species. Thus the year ended peacefully, and B was ready to begin his true work.

ABOVE: Artwork from Ambit for ‘The Secret Autobiography of J. G. B******’. Illustration by Mark Foreman.

+ ‘News from the Sun’, first published in Ambit #87, Autumn 1981.
+ ‘Memories of the Space Age’, first published in Interzone #2, 1982.
+ ‘Myths of the Near Future’, first published in F & SF, Oct. 1982.
+ ‘The Secret Autobiography of J. G. B******’, first published in Ambit #96, 1984.

Translation by Dan O’Hara.

JGB in 1985: photo by Bleddyn Butcher.

The following interview was conducted in Shepperton at some point during the autumn of 1982, shortly before the publication of Myths of the Near Future, and published in 1985 in a German collection of essays on Ballard called J. G. Ballard: Der Visionär des Phantastischen, edited by Joachim Körber. Ballard’s next book would be Empire of the Sun, in 1984, but his concerns here seem far from his own past.

Much of the interview concerns influences, and Ballard is particularly strident in his rejection of Burroughs’ influence, whom he appears to see as a modernist after the fact. He stresses the distinction between the modernists’ exploration of subjective consciousness and his own method, which affirms the outer world as a reality to be comprehended by consciousness, rather than created by it. Rarely has he stated his materialism so explicitly. In this context, his assertion that The Atrocity Exhibition is like a machine working to analyse the concrete relations of the outer world seems hardly a metaphor.

Dan O’Hara.

LEFT: ‘Die Stimmen der Zeit’ (‘The Voices of Time’), the German title for part 1 of Ballard’s Complete Short Stories collection (German edition published 2007).

FUCHS & KÖRBER: Even today quite a few critics are still of the opinion that Science Fiction concerns itself with the future. Yet you yourself have said repeatedly that it is with the present that SF must concern itself. The present in England is surely interesting enough to deal with. How do you see it and its possible consequences for the future?

BALLARD: Now, we have here at present a situation such as has never arisen before. We find ourselves in a process of drastic social transformation. I can’t say what the world will look like if these upheavals take effect, but they will in any event be significant. Youth rebellion, violence in the street, such things have never yet occurred in Great Britain, and the middle classes and moneyed upper classes particularly are faced with a problem, as they lack any experience of it. Of course there have been social revolutions that only took place through violence in all eras, for example in the Twenties, when fascism was strong, but I scarcely believe that these developments can be compared to each other. Nowadays there are fewer poor, and the revolt issues less from need and much more from weariness.

Violence in the streets is something one knows rather better from continental Europe, but not in England where such things are quite unheard of. I can’t imagine a larger proportion of the working classes in this country being drawn towards the right wing, especially since it was precisely the Conservative administration which is at least in part responsible for the current state of affairs. But I also don’t see any danger of class war coming here, that might change some aspect of the British system. England is an expressly conservative country, it was always so, and that’s as true as ever today. The unrest is not as bad as the media and particularly television would have us believe. It is in fact true that many of the young are in revolt, skinheads, punks and so on, but their number is smaller than one would suspect – which naturally should not be taken to mean that their cause or their concerns are any less serious or important on that account.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: That you yourself have mentioned punk directly offers us an excellent opportunity to re-direct things to another subject. The modern punk revolution, especially in music, seems to be comparable with the mood of literary upheaval in the Sixties, which in the end led to SF’s ‘New Wave’. This is also the view of Michael Moorcock, then the principal writer. What’s your view of this?

BALLARD: Now, one can certainly draw some parallels. Punk is a movement of rebellion against outdated and overbearing values. But there, the parallels are in my view already exhausted, as the New Wave was a cultural affair in the first place, a quest for a literary breakaway, whereas punk goes much further. Punks often aren’t looking for any new direction, but only to denounce the old. And the New Wave orientated itself towards the future, whereas punk rock, as much as I pick up from listening to the radio, is really reliant on older musical traditions.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: Let’s stick closer to literature. Even when you published your first stories there was, in certain ways, a dominant atmosphere of upheaval, even if it was entirely different. Or can one not see it that way?

BALLARD: Certainly one can! My first story appeared in 1957, and that was the year of Sputnik. I still remember it all exactly today: we sat in front of the radios and listened to the signals from this first artificial satellite – nothing more than bleep, bleep, bleep. And that really was a break such as one dramatically, emphatically cannot understand. This event seemed to change everything at a stroke. On the radio it was as if it was a celebration of the beginning of a new world, and it was also actually the beginning of the space age. It was unimaginable: one heard messages from other planets!

1957 was the real beginning of the space era, and it seemed to confirm everything that the old guard of SF authors had dreamed of and written together up to then. In those days it was like an intoxication; Campbell’s prophecies seemed to be really becoming true. (Laughs). And yet I was already back then of the view that outer space was not the right environment for science fiction. SF concerned itself with the gigantic proportions of outer space, and as a result the psychological component was forgotten completely – and naturally the literary aspect, too. I knew the way couldn’t lead outwards, because the space programme had already taken off. There was nothing really interesting to explore. The way had to lead inwards, in my view. That was natural for me, as I’d always been greatly interested in psychology. For me, SF was and is the only legitimate literature of the space age, but back then it took a wrong turn in a direction which never interested me personally because it wasn’t based on a psychological component, at least, not in a clear and deliberate way. The Fifties were an interesting time in various ways (as it seems the Eighties will also be), and one didn’t need a literature dealing with imaginary worlds when the most fascinating was the current-day on our own planet.

In my opinion, it’s important for a science fiction author to pay attention to and describe the present, the modern landscape of communications, technological and scientific developments, and so forth. Even in the Fifties so many changes had begun, the media landscape expanded, TV, high-circulation magazines, tourism gradually grew, pop music, all these developments had a direct influence upon human life, and in fact a much more direct influence than the space programme and the like – and no-one dealt with it in a proper way. The first computers were developed, the automation of modern industry began, technology also gained an ever greater influence over the lives of people who had nothing at all to do with it directly. And then naturally there was always the nuclear threat in the background, which hadn’t been there to such an extent before. And if one thinks of all these fascinating facts, it really is just too laughable that a literature such as science fiction, with such great opportunities, concerned itself with what was taking place on… pah, Proxima Centauri, or with invasions of giant dragons and such trivialities. The future began back then, in the present, and we were all witness to it!

LEFT: ‘Vom Leben und Tod Gottes’ (‘The Life and Death of God’), the German title for part 2 of Ballard’s Complete Short Stories collection (German edition published 2007).

FUCHS & KÖRBER: And your view found nothing to mirror it in American science fiction?

BALLARD: I believe a little of it rubbed off there, too, at least they still talk of a New Wave over there even now, in connexion with authors like Harlan Ellison or Roger Zelazny. But I don’t believe one can compare that with the actual New Wave in England. Authors like Zelazny or Harlan Ellison represent the world without reflecting on the times in which they live or write, they chiefly plunder ancient myths and dress them up in new clothes. That may be new and fascinating for American SF, but it isn’t original. At present, the big market for science fiction in America is the cinema, with films like Star Wars and so on. And hence SF is reduced to the level of comic strips, and from that a view all too easily arises that the whole of science fiction is worthless rubbish.

Science fiction is very popular today, and it was in those days too, but what differs from then is that today, the whole machinery is more geared towards commercial exploitation. Back then there were magazines like Galaxy, F&SF and New Worlds, in which one could publish original and unusual material. I find it rather hard to believe that a magazine like for example the very popular Omni would today publish one of the really innovative and ground-breaking stories of the Fifties, like something by Pohl and Kornbluth. Of course they’d be published there today, but only because they’re now known.

We live today in an era in which the sci-fi game is becoming ever more popular, and naturally that’s bad news for the serious science fiction writer. To outline things from my point of view: when I began SF had just had a terrifically big boom; in the USA there were 35 different magazines on the market, and even in this country there were six. That offered the serious interested writer a great opportunity to express himself. Writers like Philip K. Dick were popular back then.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: How did the New Wave proceed, anyway? In the Sixties there existed a brigade of interesting authors who were relatively quiet in the Seventies. And just now, at the beginning of the Eighties, many are coming late to fame and honour. One could perhaps here mention John Sladek as one of the best examples. What was the matter with the New Wave in the Seventies? And why have many authors become popular only now? Do you think that the time is ripe for the kind of literature which they wrote back then, and which largely met with disconcertment on the part of the readership?

BALLARD: Now first of all, the magazine New Worlds was suspended, which had been a common forum for many of us for a long time. That was a hard blow. Also many simply lost interest in SF, and went into other fields. Most simply didn’t manage to break into the American market, since there were no more opportunities to publish in England, at least no magazines that were sold under the label ‘Science Fiction’.

As far as I myself am concerned, I also distanced myself a little from SF at the beginning of the Seventies. After the stories in The Atrocity Exhibition appeared in book form, I worked very intensively on the novel Crash… and that’s how it went. I think I also somehow lost interest in the American magazine market. The USA was not nearly as interesting as in the Fifties and Sixties, and I think back then that applied to the whole of Western Europe. The USA had lost its supremacy in every respect, nothing really original and new came out of it anymore. Europe in the Seventies was (and still is today) far more interesting. Nowhere in the world can one follow such a clash of opposing political ideologies as in Western Europe. In this respect, there must surely also follow a cultural rapprochement with the Soviet Union at the least, in the long term the Soviet Union has to open itself to Europe – but Europe must also reciprocate. And the USA is an obstacle to this process. I think that Europe is a far more fascinating place, because the United States has simply lost the flair it had in the Fifties, it no longer has a monopoly on the future, the unlimited possibilities it once had. I said at the beginning that I expect interesting developments in this country. I think one can confidently extend that comment to the whole of Europe. Europe is a bubbling cauldron of constant psychological and political change, whereas in the USA there isn’t anything at all like politics in our sense. In the USA we have something to do not with opposed political ideologies, but at best a power struggle between men neither of whom is any better than each other, who are at most perhaps more power-hungry. Look at how mediocre American politicians are! Or the trade unions – in the United States the unions are completely apolitical, something unthinkable in Europe. Men like Reagan for example… or let’s take Ted Kennedy, who is already regarded as a left-leaning liberal in his country. Here – I don’t mean just in Germany – but here one would undoubtedly put him at best in the liberal wing of the conservative party.

LEFT: German compilation containing Crash, Concrete Island and High-Rise (2004).

Many writers here lost interest completely in the USA and instead concerned themselves more with Europe. I can say that for myself, at the least. At the beginning of the Seventies I wrote Crash, The Concrete Island [sic] and High Rise, and none of these books is strictly speaking science fiction – they are all concerned rather with certain social trends that were becoming apparent in Europe, and I tried to realize them novelistically. Accordingly these books did very poorly in the USA.

The same is true of Moorcock. In the Fifties we all looked to the USA, because SF there produced original achievements in those days. But no longer, in the Seventies. Take Moorcock’s Jerry Cornelius novels – they’re very typically European, inspired by London and the so-called pop-culture of ‘Swinging London’, a radical departure from the American model.

For me the gap between European and American science fiction opened up in the Sixties, because the public there simply couldn’t understand the New Wave experiment – still less the editors and publishers. And if for once one of the New Wave books did stray over to America, it was mostly by mistake, because publishers bought in an author without seeing the work. That happened to me with The Atrocity Exhibition, and I recall a very nice story about that, one which in many respects demonstrates the exact situation. The Atrocity Exhibition was bought by a US press, and shortly before the distribution of the book, this respectable publisher glanced over the contents and saw to his horror that it contained stories such as ‘Why I Want To Fuck Ronald Reagan’ and the like. Consequently he had the whole print-run pulped, all but my author’s specimen copies. Unbelievable! And afterwards I permitted myself the pleasure of sending a copy to Ronald Reagan, complaining about whichever respectable US publisher dared to publish this smut and filth. Of course I never got any reply, but it was worth it, for me.

Back to the topic. If a movement such as the New Wave forms, it always takes a while until new borderlines are defined and the whole thing takes shape. In the Sixties there arrived many new authors who were published in the genre, and who afterwards seemingly abandoned it. The only reason for that is that the complete shape of the innovations of the New Wave still wasn’t fully defined throughout. I myself never set out with the conscious intent: ‘And now you write science fiction.’ I always only wrote what was important to me at a particular moment, and then realized it was science fiction in retrospect. In the Sixties the situation was different again. In those days I wrote much that wasn’t strictly speaking science fiction, but that was published in related magazines and anthologies. The anthologies grew particularly in the Seventies, when the great dying-off of the magazines began. For me that was a shame in all sorts of respects. I like anthologies, I like to read original anthologies, but still they lack the freshness of a monthly magazine. Anthologies get created in publishing house offices, and by and large they’re conceived by the publishers as being in the same mould as a magazine. Also one can usually publish more quickly in magazines, get in touch with the public more quickly. Original anthologies are entirely different, there it can sometimes take years before something gets published, and that’s no good because by the time of publication the writer may very well find himself in an entirely new phase of creativity.

Magazines are more flexible in this respect. All my early stories appeared in Carnell’s magazine, I think I wrote something like fifty for him. Maybe more, but there were certainly fifty in the period from 1957 to 1964. And he never turned even a single one down. Everything I wrote got published, because he needed the material. He had a magazine to fill, some twelve issues a year appeared, and that’s not uninteresting to an author in any case, if he has a stable and reliable market. I’m extremely sorry about the end of New Worlds, it was a shame the magazine had to be closed down.

It would be my greatest wish for a new magazine to come out right now, as these times resemble the Fifties, and we could urgently do with one about them. I think that drastic changes in our lifestyle will come directly from new technologies. The video revolution, for example, will change everything. In the Fifties TV came along, which changed everything, the whole world, and video will also change the world, lastingly, in fact. Everyone can experiment with video, everyone can be his own artist. With video, everyone can transform his living room into a TV studio. It will have serious consequences, the extent of which is not yet at all quantifiable. We absolutely need a new magazine, the Eighties deserve to be examined more closely. With these continuous upheavals, the Eighties are really much more like the Fifties than were the Sixties or Seventies. I would rather it were a small format magazine like Carnell’s New Worlds, as with a large illustrated magazine there’s always the danger of it ending as so many such ventures do, that is, with the illustrations spreading and starting to displace the stories.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: And what do your plans for the Eighties look like? How will J. G. Ballard deal with the dawning of this new era in his work?

BALLARD: I’ve already written some new short stories and novellas emerging from the end of the Seventies and beginning of the Eighties, and they will also appear shortly in a collection. In all sorts of ways they’re a return to ‘pure’ science fiction, and a re-envisioning of what I wrote in the Fifties.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: What are the actual influences forming you yourself, and your work? Several of the stories in the Sixties were influenced by the new French literature, and if one takes a look around right here, one sees books about the Surrealists everywhere. Have they had an influence upon your style of writing, and if so, which ones?

BALLARD: Yes, naturally, it’s true that I’m a great admirer of all the Surrealist painters, and their works certainly continue to be not without influence on my work, and if I hadn’t become a writer – and hence a painter with words, in a way – I would surely have had a go at painting Surrealist pictures. I can’t say with such certitude what influenced my work in the Fifties. My early books are stuffed full of allusions to the Surrealists, that’s also true, but that was more of an expression of the admiration I felt for them. I don’t believe that the literature I’ve written would have developed differently had I never heard anything of the Surrealists. I do want to say, not once have I consciously taken Surrealist paintings as a model for my short stories or novels, even though naturally stories like ‘The Voices of Time’ or the Vermilion Sands stories do display certain parallels. It was more of a homage on my part, rather than a direct influence on their part. Moreover, in practice it’s impossible to recast sculpture or painting in a narrative form because it’s a question of fundamentally different forms of art. It is simply impossible to capture the mood expressed in a Dalí painting in the right words.

If painters have influenced me at all, it was the Pop-Art artists, initially much later, when I wrote the Atrocity Exhibition stories. Writing had already become an important business to me when I was at the beginning of my twenties, and in those days the great French symbolists of the nineteenth century may have exercised an unconscious influence upon me.

ABOVE: JGB at home in Shepperton, 1985: photo by Bleddyn Butcher.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: Your influences lie in any case outside Science Fiction to a considerable extent?

BALLARD: Most certainly. I first came across SF when I was in Canada with the Air Force, it must have been 1953 or 1954. Before then I’d read no science fiction at all, but in the base there they kept SF magazines to sell in the canteen, everything possible from pulps to the better digest magazines. I realized that a lot of the magazines back then contained really interesting, colourful stories that in various respects were better suited to the times than so-called ‘contemporary literature’. It’s true that they were hideous in design, with these ghastly covers – one knows them quite well enough – but the content was sometimes genuinely interesting. Sheckley, Pohl, Kornbluth, Jack Vance – those were the authors I liked to read back then. Kornbluth was an intelligent author, and I thought to myself, my god, here are really vital and interesting stories! But they were nonetheless still stories that were published in popular and commercial magazines, and that meant that the authors were quite freely subject to certain laws of the mass market, and so furthermore, they only went just as far as they could and no further. They employed no idea solely of their own accord. And suddenly it was all clear to me: here you have exactly the right environment for the kind of literature you really want to write, a literature of limitless possibilities. I had a head full of ideas and stories, and here was a medium that offered me the chance of expressing them adequately. I knew one could push open the window of commercial science fiction and let a little fresh air stream in. Outside there was a whole new world waiting for the literati to comment on it. And shortly after I’d got to know science fiction, I left off reading it again, because I made up my mind to write it myself.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: Let’s stay with your career for a moment. You published as you said something like fifty stories in Carnell’s magazine, some in the US also, and then came the point when time started to play an important role, when the stories became freer and more experimental. They lost the linear narrative of a story and brought in different events taking place simultaneously. That was the starting shot for the later ‘condensed novels’. For science fiction it was new and revolutionary.

BALLARD: That may be, but as with much that was ‘new’ in the New Wave, it was rather an aspect of that which was already recognized in literature generally. That goes for the New Wave in general, and for my collection The Atrocity Exhibition especially. That too was not new in modern literature. There were already experiments taking place even in very early modernist literature, for example in the novels of Virginia Woolf. The sole meaning of the more experimental literature of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries lay in an exploration of different subjective states of consciousness. The big difference in the New Wave and my own ‘condensed novels’ was that it wasn’t exactly very important to me to investigate different subjective conditions of consciousness, at least not in the first place. What concerned me primarily was to take the traditional themes and view them through subjective eyes, through the eye of science and the changes introduced by it, if one will.

If one takes a look at The Atrocity Exhibition one will realize that, naturally the book has a hero of a much more subjective type, who has possibly been driven from a nervous breakdown into madness, but actually he isn’t the ‘hero’ of the book at all: that’s much more the experimental landscape of the world in the Sixties. That’s the subject of the book: the communications landscape, the intersecting mirages of fiction and reality with which we all live, they’re the real heroes. It’s not important to me to investigate an internal sensibility, as the great modernist writers did. In this context I actually don’t like hearing the phrase ‘experimental literature’, exactly, as when it’s used here in this country, it appears mostly in a critical sense, because unfortunately ‘experimental’ literature is mostly really nothing more than the ego-trips of different people into their own psyches, which hardly anyone can follow and which are ultimately only of interest to themselves. That’s the case with much of what’s generally considered ‘High Literature’. Unfortunately.

With The Atrocity Exhibition, on the contrary, that’s not the case. Here, the outer world is omnipresent, whereas in such books as those I’ve just mentioned, it has no relevance whatsoever. Consequently the book isn’t just a daydream, but consists of concrete relations throughout.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: What actual influence did the works of William S. Burroughs have on The Atrocity Exhibition? Do you appreciate him only as an author, or has he also made a lasting impression upon you?

BALLARD: He’s had no influence on me at all. I like several of his works. I often hear that Burroughs must have been a great influence on me and that it’s particularly noticeable in The Atrocity Exhibition. But it’s untrue. If one looks at Burroughs’ books, one can see that they’re entirely unstructured stylistically, that they consist almost completely of a ’stream of consciousness’ in the Joycean sense, and are hence of a fully subjective world, and his works are improvised, frayed at every point, without a clear aim. His narrative structure is without architecture, written straight out of the feelings, without planning. And I’ve never used the so-called cut-up technique. I’ve been acquainted with Burroughs for several years, and he is quite of the opinion that his cut-up and fold-out techniques are very helpful in representing the world around us as it really is. He is of the opinion that the true nature of the world will be revealed by his random associations. My stories in The Atrocity Exhibition are entirely in opposition to that, they have a very precisely designed structure; the ‘condensed novels’ are like a machine working towards a clearly defined goal.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: On to the Seventies. Your first novel to be published in this new decade was Crash.

BALLARD: Right. It developed directly out of The Atrocity Exhibition; there was even one of the ‘condensed novels’ with that title. The automobile accident has always interested me, and Crash is actually a model of the fictionalization of reality in the Sixties. In the ‘condensed novels’ there appears at one point a protagonist who puts together an exhibition of crashed cars, that was before I’d yet written Crash, the theme already held an extraordinary fascination for me. I wanted to have this exhibition as a sort of test for my theories, and I held this art exhibition as a psychological experiment as it were. What interested me particularly was how the visitors to this exhibition would react. So, we exhibited these automobiles that were heavily crash-damaged in a gallery in London, a gallery that was otherwise completely bare, only white walls, nothing else, no posters, no other exhibited items, just the junked cars. And naturally no explanation of what it was all supposed to mean, just the three cars displayed as sculpture. And then I had an internal monitor system, as well as a topless girl who went about interviewing the audience, and this would be recorded on the monitors. At the opening I gave a party for the press and so forth, and you can believe me when I say that although I’ve been invited to a lot of publisher’s parties and the like, I’ve never yet seen one where people got drunk so quickly as on that evening. And also, when the exhibition opened, people would react with shock and nervous laughter. One of the cars was a Pontiac that had had a frontal collision. The cars were intact up to the forward part and the front seats, where the motor had been impressed into them, as it were; or better, the other way round. Especially these cars with their emblematic American appearance and the psychological contouring embodied in American cars, these cars had a very particular fascination for people. People were stunned. And the girl who conducted the interviews was actually supposed to do it entirely naked, but when she saw the cars she decided to refuse. And when she conducted the interviews and people saw themselves on the monitors being interviewed in the cars, they would shift into the back seats at the drop of a hat.

And also the cars got in worse condition the longer they were on display, the remaining windows smashed in with bottles and so on. The result of this test was in any case extraordinarily odd, and quite evidently I touched people’s nerve, a psychological nerve. Many people came to the exhibition several times, just to attack the cars and destroy them further. Ultimately, this exhibition convinced me that I ought to write Crash. I’m still of the firm conviction that everything I wanted to express in Crash is true.

And something fascinated people, as the book went through two hardback editions here, which is unusual, and it was a big success especially in France. It’s a pity that it never appeared in Germany. Incidentally, the book was a flop in America, despite great expense on publicity. But that might be because Europeans are mostly faced with uncompromising subjects more frequently, particularly in France where there’s a very long literary tradition of pornographic texts. In France pornography was always recognized as a serious literary stylistic movement, their tradition stretches back as far as people like Sade. And also all the principals in the French revolution wrote pornographic or erotic literature. In France it’s recognized, whereas people in this country or in America maintain a very strict distinction between it and other literature, because it’s only just started to be published during the last fifteen years, and most of that is of dubious character.

FUCHS & KÖRBER: After Crash, Concrete Island and High Rise, the two other novels which both essentially take issue with modern technology, there was another short story collection published, Low-Flying Aircraft, which when set against the stories from the Sixties also contain new material that proceeds more from your earlier stories…

BALLARD: Oh, I’ve always only written basically a certain type of literature. People always think that in the middle of the Sixties I only wrote The Atrocity Exhibition, but that’s not the case. In actual fact I also wrote a great number of entirely conventional short stories during that time. People tend to think that I left off writing ‘condensed novels’ in 1970 because they weren’t accepted by the public, just as they’re of the opinion that I left off writing conventional stories after 1965, because they were no longer accepted. One also often reads that, but it’s not true. In 1965 I wrote my fifty-fourth short story, and that was ‘The Assassination of JFK’, and story number fifty-five was ‘You and Me and the Continuum’. Then in 1970 I wrote my eighty-sixth short story. That’s thirty-two stories all told, and of those, twenty were certainly entirely conventional stories. I’ve therefore never turned my back on them.

I admit that in a certain way 1975 was the end of a period. I’d written four books all tending in one particular direction, if one counts The Atrocity Exhibition, all dealing with the communications landscape and modern technology. Afterwards I’d simply had enough of it and I went off towards other themes. That will also be apparent in the new collection, which I’ve just finished. It will have the title Myths of the Near Future, and many of the stories it contains are pure imagination, so they range about in the zone of free, fantastic literature, like both of my last novels, The Unlimited Dream Company and Hello America.

LEFT: Kristallwelt (The Crystal World; Phantasia Science Fiction Series, 2005).

FUCHS & KÖRBER: In the newer novels there’s somewhat of an absence of the forceful hallucinatory images that your earlier books like The Crystal World contained. Did those descriptions back then have their origins in drugs, and have you yourself ever experimented with drugs or written under the influence of drugs, as many have supposed of The Crystal World?

BALLARD: Now, I wrote The Crystal World in 1964, and ‘The Illuminated Man’, the short story upon which the novel was based, must have come into being in about 1961. In those days LSD had certainly not yet become an issue, and I myself first tried it in 1967. Back then it was the great fashion, and everyone tried it once, psychedelic culture came directly out of it. Naturally there are states of affairs described in The Crystal World – the prismatic world, the static elements, the complete absence of time and so on, even experiences – that bear a marked resemblance to an LSD trip. Yet the novel didn’t emerge from a drug experience, and that to me is further evidence that nothing comes even close to human imagination, it can do it all. The ending of ‘The Voices of Time’ is also very strongly evocative of a drug experience, when the protagonist with his increasing perceptions can suddenly perceive every most minute particle of the world, loses all sense of time, and sinks completely under a storm of impressions. This story also came about without drugs, and that, I believe, confirms what I’ve just said, that the human imagination is incapable of nothing, it doesn’t have to fall back on artificial stimulants, on chemicals, to release something that the brain can do even on its own. A fertile imagination is better than any drug.

Originally published in German as Werner Fuchs/Joachim Körber, ‘Ein Interview mit J. G. Ballard’ in Joachim Körber, ed., J. G. Ballard: Der Visionär des Phantastischen (Meitingen: Corian-Verlag, 1985).

..:: Previously on Ballardian:
+ Munich Round Up: An Interview with J.G. Ballard
+ ‘It would be a mistake to write about the future’: J.G. Ballard in Conversation with Jörg Krichbaum and Rein A. Zondergeld

HOUSTON, we’ve had a problem” was the famous understatement by astronaut James Lovell after an explosion on board Apollo 13 that might have doomed its crew to die in space. Now a team led by Jennifer Boyd of the University of California, San Francisco, has found that the way astronauts react to stress varies between cultures. They analysed weekly mood questionnaires completed by eight US astronauts and nine Russian cosmonauts on board the International Space Station. While the Russians tended to experience depression in combination with fatigue, US astronauts experienced depression linked to anxiety.

Understanding different cultural responses to stress is crucial, the authors write, “because they have the potential to seriously disrupt future international space missions.

[ via TimC ]

Previously on Ballardian: the mad astronaut meme in Ballard’s work.

Ridgewell WWII Airfield: ‘Now little more than a collection of old huts, the area is haunted by the sounds of crashing WWII aeroplanes, shouting airmen, and other noises.’ (from paranormaldatabase.com).

Heuristic England is an interesting new blog exploring dreams, parapsychology, spectral presence, Freud, Jung … and Ballard. In a couple of recent posts, the blog’s convenor, Dr. Champagne, voiced something that has long intrigued me, too: paranormal symbolism in Ballard’s work.

According to the good doctor:

I am always struck by the fact the JG Ballard refutes the significance of the paranormal while his stories are replete with the spectral presence of dead airmen and military personnel (most explicitly perhaps in a piece like “One Afternoon at Utah Beach”).

The post then goes on to detail a ‘strange database of aviation ghosts which reads like a rather Ballardian catalogue of dead airmen’, found at paranormaldatabase.com, which includes these chilling apparitions:

Headless Airman Wanting Lift
Location: Hadstock – The B1052 leading into Hadstock
Type: Haunting Manifestation
Date / Time: Unknown

Further Comments: After losing his head in a flying accident, the apparition of an American pilot has been seen thumbing a lift on the roadside.

Hitchhiker
Location: Felixstowe – Crossroads controlled by lights
Type: Haunting Manifestation
Date / Time: Unknown

Further Comments: For several days, a car driver found himself giving a lift to a World War 2 pilot, who would suddenly appear in the back seat of his car when he reached a certain point of his journey. This stopped once the driver started taking a different route.

Dr. Champagne compares the database with a passage from “You and Me and the Continuum”, one of Ballard’s Atrocity chapters, stating that “my feeling is that this excerpt would fit seemlessly into the aviation ghosts database”.

Here’s the Atrocity excerpt:

Lieutenant 70. An isolated incident at the Strategic Air Command base at Omaha, Nebraska, December 25th, 197-,when a landing H-bomber was found to have an extra pilot on board. The subject carried no identification tags and was apparently suffering from severe retrograde amnesia. He subsequently disappeared while being X-rayed at the base hospital for any bio-implants or transmitters, leaving behind a set of plates of a human foetus evidently taken some thirty years previously. It was assumed that this was in the nature of a hoax and that the subject was a junior officer who had become fatigued while playing Santa Claus on an interbase visiting party.

Of course, there’s plenty more of the same in Ballard, along with a rich catalogue of dead, dying and ghostly astronauts, plus explicit communion with the dead in the short stories ‘The Terminal Beach’ and ‘The Dead Time’. Then there’s The Unlimited Dream Company, which on one level can be read as the dying-brain fantasy of the crashed airman, Blake, and on another level as his spiritual rebirth.

The doctor’s assertion that JGB ‘always refutes the significance of the paranormal’ also intrigues me. Is this strictly true? I can’t recall an interview in which either Ballard or the interviewer mentions such concerns, but if anyone knows of anything please do let me know. Having said that, I do recall that Ballard touched upon ‘the occult’ in the interview I conducted with him last year:

The earliest horror films I saw were Dracula movies — never liked those. The whole idea of horror, particularly wrapped up in touches of the occult — ugh. They’re saturated with the fear of death and displaced sexual anxieties. No, thank you. Not for me.

But back to Dr. Champagne: I really hope s/he goes on with this line of enquiry, as it is yielding intriguing cross-chatter, such as this latest post:

It’s interesting to note in Ballard’s condensed chapter “Lieutenant 70″, that the isolated incident at the strategic air command takes place on December 25th, 197-. Of course the allusion is that the mysterious figure is Christ, “with the set of plates of a human fetus evidently taken some thirty years previously”. But also are there not some neat correspondences with the Rendlesham incident, which took place on December 25th 1980… another example of JGBs precognitive powers. Further, the human fetus could also relate to the ufo abductee experience. Michael Persinger has suggested that the fetal like appearance of aliens in ufo encounters might be as a result of the neurophysiological phenomenon of self proprioception of memories of the womb. Further doesn’t LAM also exhibit fetal like qualities. Finally, JGB just misses the Qabalistic figure of LAM by 1, LAM being 71 and his lieutenant being 70, though no doubt with a little bit of creative qabalistic accounting we could make sense of that too…

More than four-and-a half thousand people have applied to take part in a joint Russian-European venture in which six people will be locked inside a mock spacecraft for 520 days to simulate an expedition to Mars.
…
Mark Belakovsky, head of the Mars 500 project, said yesterday: “We want applicants who are healthy and professional. They have to be intellectually tough.”
…
The crew will spend most of their time in a 150 cubic metre living module, which has personal cabins, as well as a common room and kitchen. Volunteers will be paid for taking part in the study.

All food and water will be taken on board before the trip. Alcohol and smoking will be forbidden, and sex frowned upon. “It’s not a reality show — it is a serious pioneering research experiment,” Dr Belakovsky told Associated Press, adding that there would be moments of tension.

“If you and your girlfriend were to shut yourselves in a room for three days, five days, a month – believe me, you would have a million problems. Either she would strangle you or you would strangle her. Anything can happen,” he said.”

[thanks, Ben]

America’s space programme suffered unexpected turbulence yesterday when a revelation that astronauts were allowed to fly on the shuttle while drunk was followed by news of sabotage to the cargo of a forthcoming mission. Nasa officials are expected to confirm today that there have been at least two occasions when crew members were so intoxicated before their launch that they were deemed a flight safety risk.
…
The drinking claims come in a report commissioned by the space agency to investigate the behaviour of its astronauts in the wake of the arrest of shuttle crew member Lisa Nowak in February for allegedly stalking and attacking a love rival.

The panel discovered “heavy use of alcohol” by unspecified astronauts in the 12-hour period before a shuttle launch, according to Aviation Week and Space Technology magazine, which says it obtained an advance copy of the report.

The agency’s “bottle-to-throttle” rule prohibits any Nasa employee from drinking alcohol in the hours before a lift-off, yet at least two astronauts were apparently allowed to fly despite warnings from flight surgeons and colleagues that they were too intoxicated.”

[again -- thanks, Ben!]

If you compare this news item with the ’strangle her before she strangles you’ entry, the question is begged: why can’t you be drunk on a simulated space flight? Surely, for realism’s sake, this would be A-OK.

‘Thirteen to Centaurus’, directed by Peter Potter, is an adaptation of J.G. Ballard’s 1962 short story of that name, produced as part of the BBC’s Out of the Unknown series of science-fiction dramatisations. But at that time film and television was just not capable of delivering the frisson that the best SF literature provided (it would be arguably six years into the future before that could occur, with the dawn of Kubrick’s 2001), and Ballard’s suave imagination was clearly leaps and bounds ahead — as this adaptation demonstrates.

In Ballard’s story, we are introduced to a space station with a crew of thirteen, including the 16-year-old wunderkind, Abel, a boy given to questioning every facet of his existence. Abel is aware that there’s something beyond the limits of his perception, some vital key of knowledge that will explode the received worldview controlling life on the station. Yet every time he’s on the verge of a cognitive breakthrough, his logic blurs and fades, held back by the ‘conditioning’ that each crew member must undergo. This involves being subjected to ’subsonic’ instruction — brainwashing — as the crew are kept in stasis, their minds preoccupied purely with the present and the working ritual of maintaining the station. Their conditioning ensures that the past, and indeed the future, is forever out of reach.

Yet Abel perseveres, conducting various experiments. He tells the onboard psychologist, Dr Francis, that he’s worked out the station is actually revolving, but he just can’t make that final mental leap to determine what that actually means as ‘his mind always fogged at a question like that, as the conditioning blocks fell like bulkheads across his thought trains (logic was a dangerous tool at the Station).’

Donald Houston as Dr Francis (still from Thirteen to Centaurus; dir. Peter Potter, 1965).

At this stage Dr Francis has no choice but to reveal to Abel the ‘truth’: the Station is actually a ‘multi-generation space vehicle’ on its way to Alpha Centauri. He tells him that generations have lived and died aboard the ship on a voyage that will take hundreds of years to complete, with only the remnants of the last generation living to see their destination. The coverup, that the space ship is in the guise of a space station, is presented to Abel as a necessary psychological safeguard to ensure the crew does not go mad with the knowledge that they will never live to see Alpha Centauri.

Ballard then introduces a rather clever double twist, a further layer to be unpeeled: we come to understand that the ’space ship’ is actually a self-contained dome on Earth, an experiment conducted to test the psychological effects of space travel before an actual mission to Alpha Centauri is sent. The ‘conditioned’ crew of course are blissfully unaware of this, simply believing that they are on a ’station’ of some kind out in space, with their sole purpose simply being to maintain it. This is not really a spoiler: it’s a necessary detail revealed at the beginning of the story, as the narrative switches to the government nabobs outside the ’ship’. As they endlessly discuss the merits of the experiment, which has been going on for 50 years, and whether it should be discontinued, Dr Francis comes in and out of the ’ship’ as he pleases, unbeknownst to the crew. He’s in on the experiment, which is being followed closely by the public, who, Ballard writes, are beginning to ‘feel that there’s something obscene about this human zoo’. There are further twists in the tale, which I won’t spoil for those who want to watch the adaptation or read the story for the first time. However, it should be clear that the notion of a group of people living and working together under the public glare is remarkably prescient with regards to the current reality TV/Big Brother phenomenon.

The story also puts me in mind of Philip K Dick. The very idea of an artificial world presided over by god-like technicians and featuring a protagonist slowly becoming aware that his perception is a construct — all of it beamed to the world at large — is of course a feature of Dick’s novel Time Out of Joint (1959) and the film that ripped it off, The Truman Show (1998). But more than that, a spaceship crew immersed in artificial stimuli is the conceit of one of Dick’s most corrosive, darkest visions, the 1970 novel A Maze of Death. In all of these sources, potent philosophical debates — free will; the illusion of choice — are always whirling around the narrative core.

‘Centaurus’ is a curious entry in Ballard’s career because on one level it seems generic; then when further layers are unpeeled, its narrative texture feels a little derivative, in a Phildickian manner of speaking. Yet like a fragment of a hologram, encoded within this seemingly minor entry in the Ballardian canon is the data that would inform Ballard’s entire career right through to the present day. Ultimately it is unmistakably, undeniably Ballardian.

Ballard has often spoken of how his childhood in Shanghai was ripped asunder by the advent of war and his family’s incarceration under the Japanese, an experience that taught him that ‘reality is little more than a stage set, whose cast and scenery can be swept aside and replaced overnight, and that our belief in the permanence of appearances is an illusion’. This faith in illusion — or rather, this willingness to accept the logic of illusion — is the subject matter of ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’. Another thing: when Abel chooses to write an essay on the station, entitled ‘The Closed Community’, the resonances with the gated communities of Cocaine Nights and Super-Cannes echo throughout the decades.

James Hunter as Abel (still from Thirteen to Centaurus; dir. Peter Potter, 1965).

But the kicker is when Dr Francis willingly becomes an astronaut of inner space. Defying his superiors’ orders, he re-enters the ’spaceship’, having made the decision to live and work with the crew for ever more (he won’t be able to leave again, as the penalty for unauthorised entry into the station is 20 years in jail). When Colonel Chalmers tells Francis he’ll be ‘deliberately withdrawing into a nightmare, sending yourself off on a non-stop journey to nowhere’, Francis replies, ‘Not nowhere, Colonel: Alpha Centauri’. Francis, therefore, is the classic Ballardian protagonist, deliberately immersing himself into the realm of the mind, casting off the restraints of reality and authority, in order to see what brand of human emerges on the other side. However, he discovers there’s far more to Abel than he ever thought…

‘Thirteen to Centaurus’ was published in the same year as Ballard’s classic novel The Drowned World. They are very different in subject matter, of course, but there is one startling similarity: both Kerans in The Drowned World and Abel are haunted by dreams of a beating, burning, amniotic sun that threatens to overwhelm their senses and, indeed, reality.

We’ll come back to that burning sun, but now let’s move on to the TV adaptation. Scriptwise, it’s a very faithful translation of the story, although the sets have about as much imagination as a caravan site. Still, there are some campy thrills to be had from the slightly spooky scene in the recreation room, where the crew relax and work out on ‘futuristic’ gym equipment while a spooky authorial voice intones maxims like ‘There is no other world than this. There are no other creatures but the Chosen Ones’. It seems a conscious Orwellian reference that wasn’t there in the original (the brainwashing occurs on a subsonic, subliminal level in Ballard’s story).

‘There are no other creatures but the Chosen Ones…’ (still from Thirteen to Centaurus; dir. Peter Potter, 1965).

James Hunter, who plays Abel, looks good — he’s so pretty as to be unearthly — but over eggs the pudding with his stiff facial expressions and wooden bodily movements. I would have thought a little more subtlety would have been required to play such a complex creature as Abel. Plus he flubs his lines on occasion, prompting me to wonder whether the show was shot live — does anyone know? Meanwhile, Donald Houston plays Dr Francis with a drunken, shouty bluster, whereas the Francis of Ballard’s story is more thoughtful and low key. There are also some funny moments where you can just tell an actor is waiting around the corner to walk on and speak their line; at one stage Hunter blunders into a scene a second or two before cue.

There’s also some heavy-handed religious symbolism glued onto the dialogue that wasn’t there in the short story. At one stage, Abel refers to himself in the third person, saying the burning disc of his dreams is ‘the Eye of God and Abel is his servant’. In actual fact there’s a good deal of secular weirdness in Ballard’s slow-burn original, and it’s tempting to imagine what contemporary American science-fiction series like The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits might have done with the story in terms of lighting, set design and even acting.

All the same there’s some very effective ambient sound design throughout, and an abstract-jazz score by Norman Kay over the striking pop-art credit sequences — the music is redolent of Krzysztof Komeda’s scores for the early Polanski films and that’s high praise indeed. There are also a few narrative nips and tucks in Stanley Miller’s script that actually improve on Ballard’s story. In the source material, Francis lets slip that there are 14 on their ‘way’ to Centauri, prompting Chalmers to wonder aloud if Francis is adding himself to the original crew of 13. In the adaptation there are 12 crew members, with Francis’s slip of the tongue making it 13; this of course adds far more gravitas, more ambiguity, to the story’s title, ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’. There’s also more material linking Abel’s first incarnation as the questioning, naive innocent to his metamorphosis as the driving force behind the virtual world of the ship; in the story Ballard jumped from one to the other with little regard for continuity (but maybe this was the literary equivalent of the Godard jump-cut, and thus forgiven…). Abel is much more messianic in the TV version, and in this regard James Hunter’s acting is far more effective as his Abel gleefully turns the tables on Dr Francis than it is portraying the young innocent.

Staring at the sun: scene from Sunshine (dir. Danny Boyle, 2006).

There are some hyper-current resonances in both adaptation and source that are worth noting. I was struck for example by the scenes in Danny Boyle’s 2006 film Sunshine, where a couple of crew members are haunted by dreams of the sun. This seems more than a coincidence and more like a homage to Ballard, especially since elements of Sunshine have been lifted and stitched together, Frankenstein style, from various SF influences (Solaris, Dark Star, Alien, 2001). And especially since the screenwriter is Alex Garland, an avowed Ballard acolyte. Garland has said that the idea for his previous script — for Boyle’s 28 Days Later (2002) — came from Ballard, while his 1998 novel The Beach is virtually a rewrite of Ballard’s Rushing to Paradise. You’d think, given the sun dreams, that the obvious reference point would be the more well-known source — The Drowned World. But what I want to know is this: since Sunshine is set on a spaceship peopled with a psychologically damaged crew, haunted by dreams of the sun, is it actually a homage to ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’? If so that’s the most obscure Ballard nod I’ve ever seen. Kudos to Mr Garland!

Finally, let’s make like Dr Francis and step back into the real world, where we learn that:

The European Space Agency (Esa) is after volunteers for a simulated human trip to Mars, in which six crewmembers spend 17 months in an isolation tank. They will live and work in a series of interlocked modules at a research institute in Moscow. Once the hatches are closed, the crew’s only contact with the outside world is a radio link to “Earth” with a realistic delay of 40 minutes.

But, while Esa says it will do nothing that puts the lives of the simulation crew at unnecessary risk, officials running the experiment have made it clear they would need a convincing reason to let someone out of the modules once the experiment had begun.

“The idea behind this experiment is simply to put six people in a very close environment and see how they behave,” Bruno Gardini, project manager for Esa’s Aurora space exploration programme, told BBC News.”

That sounds awfully familiar, doesn’t it? Might I suggest that Mr Gardini reads ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’ (not to mention the mind-blowing A Maze of Death) before the project gets underway?

It might just come in handy when things go pear-shaped.

Simon Sellars

———————————————————————————————————
..:: MORE INFO
+ ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’ — BBC site.
———————————————————————————————————

The European Space Agency (Esa) is after volunteers for a simulated human trip to Mars, in which six crewmembers spend 17 months in an isolation tank. They will live and work in a series of interlocked modules at a research institute in Moscow.

Once the hatches are closed, the crew’s only contact with the outside world is a radio link to “Earth” with a realistic delay of 40 minutes.”

Sounds like the perfect opportunity for an enterprising Ballard fan to take the plunge and find out first-hand what it’s like to be one of JGB’s damaged astronauts.

Especially since the psychological effects will be closely monitored:

But, while Esa says it will do nothing that puts the lives of the simulation crew at unnecessary risk, officials running the experiment have made it clear they would need a convincing reason to let someone out of the modules once the experiment had begun.

“The idea behind this experiment is simply to put six people in a very close environment and see how they behave,” Bruno Gardini, project manager for Esa’s Aurora space exploration programme, told BBC News. “

The simulated behavioural experiment disguised as a working spaceship is also the theme of Ballard’s short-story ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’, in which a scientist chooses to remain inside the mock environment, rather than ‘return’ to Earth.

I’ll be posting something on ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’ and its 1960s TV adaptation sometime over the next few days, if you’re at all interested.

Read recently…

+ Via Fanny Magnate, David Chandler’s essay on the work of photographer Stephen Hughes:

Over the last five years Hughes has worked all over Europe, developing an interest in what might be called ‘peripheral places’, sometimes places literally on the edge — of cities perhaps, or by the sea — but also pockets of space that seem self-contained, primed with their own sense of purpose yet often empty, unnoticed, in between. They may be the by-product of urban development, they may be border areas or roadside wastelands, or simply off-centre, marginal to the flows of human existence … re-sited in South-East England, J.G. Ballard seemed more than content to exist in this future, in a ‘peripheral’ landscape now more rational and systematic.
…
Like the travel writer Charles Prentice in [Ballard's Cocaine Nights], Stephen Hughes would confess to being a ‘professional tourist’ in this world, funding his own work by operating as a travel photographer. In Prentice’s appraisal of the Costa del Sol as a place of ‘willed limbo’, the images of Ballard and Hughes come into even closer proximity…”

——————————————————————————–

+ Via Futurismic, ‘R.P.M.’, the latest short story from Chris Nakashima-Brown. Now I fully understand Chris’s long-standing paparazzi death-drive obsession, as codified in his recent analysis of Operation Paget, ‘eight-hundred-plus pages of pure clinical Ballardian detail remixed with Spectacular Baudrillardian celebrity media fireworks’. That piece ended with a meditation on real-life incidents involving Reece Witherspoon, Justin Timberlake, Cameron Diaz and bone-snap-happy photographers — raw fodder for ‘R.P.M’, as it turns out:

The doors blow open and Jessica Astart, 21-year-old phenom, basks in the flash bulbs of the paparazzi. Teen Titan, a pop cultural icon manufactured overnight, with a likely half-life measurable in months. Star of the new War-on-Terror dramedy Homeland Insecurity…

The starter hacks like a geezer trying to kick a four-pack a day habit. 0z0 pumps the gas pedal… Cardwheel clicker of Percy’s Super-8 as she starts burning her reel. I check my seat belt and adjust the focus on my Nikon… Jessica’s driver pulls the Navigator into traffic, white metal tuna ready for the kill.

KKKKKKEEEERRRRUUUUUUUUUUNCHH.

The windshield fills with white as the Monte Carlo punctures the left drivers’ side door and rear quarter panel… Tinted windows shatter and blow, exposing Jessica as she screams, the secret sphincters of her facial muscles contorting her pampered dermis into a horrifying rictus a hundred times over, once for each of the dilating shutters excitedly popping off in her face—our half-dozen cameras and those of the true paparazzi excitedly seizing upon the sudden scene.”

It’s a long time since I’ve read fiction written in the present tense (the horrible Mad Max novelisations put me off PT for life), but it really works in this instance. Given the immediacy of Chris’s concerns, I doubt it could be told any other way. Also, I wonder, is Mr N-B a Jack Womack fan?

——————————————————————————–

+ Via Johnny Strike, more on the mad astronaut meme. According to this article:

What would happen if an astronaut came unglued in space and, say, destroyed the ship’s oxygen system or tried to open the hatch and kill everyone aboard? … It turns out NASA has a detailed set of written procedures for dealing with a suicidal or psychotic astronaut in space. The documents, obtained this week by The Associated Press, say the astronaut’s crewmates should bind his wrists and ankles with duct tape, tie him down with a bungee cord and inject him with tranquilizers if necessary.

The instructions do not spell out what happens after that. But NASA spokesman James Hartsfield said the space agency, a flight surgeon on the ground and the commander in space would decide on a case-by-case basis whether to abort the flight, in the case of the shuttle, or send the unhinged astronaut home, if the episode took place on the international space station.

The crew members might have to rely in large part on brute strength to subdue an out-of-control astronaut, since there are no weapons on the space station or the shuttle. A gun would be out of the question; a bullet could pierce a spaceship and could kill everyone. There are no stun guns on hand either.
…
Depression, feelings of isolation and stress are not unheard of during long stays in space in tight quarters.
…
During missions in 1985 and 1995, shuttle commanders put padlocks on the spaceships’ hatches as a precaution since they didn’t know the scientists aboard very well. Some crew members, called payload specialists, are picked to fly for specific scientific or commercial tasks and do not train as extensively with the other astronauts.

The article admits that NASA does not really know what would happen to the mad astronaut who needs to be restrained and shot back to Earth. But Ballard, in his short story, ‘My Dream of Flying to Wake Island’ (1974), does:

As if watching a film, [Melville] remembered his … single abortive mission as an astronaut. By some grotesque turn of fate, he had become the first astronaut to suffer a mental breakdown in space. His nightmare ramblings had disturbed millions of television viewers around the world, as if the terrifying image of a man going mad in space had triggered off some long-buried innate releasing mechanism.
…
These illustrations of the Pacific atoll, with its vast concrete runways, he had collected over the previous months. Melville’s real interest had been in the island itself, a World War II airbase and now refuelling point for trans-Pacific passenger jets. The combination of scuffed sand and concrete, metal shacks rusting by the runways, the total psychological reduction of this man-made landscape, seized his mind in a powerful but ambiguous way.
…
Melville prowled along the mantelpiece of the beach-house, slapping the line of photographs. ‘Look at those runways, everything is there. A big airport like the Wake field is a zone of tremendous possibility — a place of beginnings, by the way, not ends’.
…
He resolved to make his world-wide journey, externally to Wake Island, and internally across the planets of his mind”.

Regarding Lisa Nowak, the damaged astronaut who was all over the news last week, davecat at posthuman synth-blog Shouting to Hear the Echoes writes:

There’s a footnote in The Atrocity Exhibition, one of my favourite books of J.G. Ballard’s, that sprung to mind when I’d read this report:

“Little information has been released about the psychological effects of space travel, both on the astronauts and the the public at large. Over the years NASA spokesmen have even denied that the astronauts dream at all during their space flights. But it is clear from the subsequently troubled careers of many of the astronauts (Armstrong, probably the only man for whom the 20th century will be remembered 50,000 years from now, refuses to discuss the moon-landing) that they suffered severe psychological damage.”

Perhaps this is partially why Dave Bowman went mad?”

Good point. As former NASA psychiatrist Dr. Patricia Santy remarked when the Nowak story broke: “I really believe that NASA goes overboard in promoting how heroic and super all these people are. They themselves have forgotten these are ordinary people and in that kind of celebrity culture, there’s a sense of entitlement.”

Ms Santy could be describing any of Ballard’s so-called “Cape Canaveral” fictions, and while Ballard’s anti-NASA work is a little-discussed portal into his themes and obsessions, it’s one that I’m betting will be activated as more and more astronauts publicly “fall to earth”. For anyone interested in applying a Ballardian blowtorch to the Lisa Nowak story, JGB’s short-story collection Memories of the Space Age (1988) is essential (If you can’t find it, buy The Complete Short Stories of J.G. Ballard, which, of course, has everything.) Following is the list of contents for Memories, accompanied by quotes and criticism. At the end of this list are some further thoughts and some links to essays, audio files and posts exploring these themes in greater detail.

..:: MEMORIES OF THE SPACE AGE: CONTENTS

“The Cage of Sand” (1962)

“[Ballard's] first short masterpiece … codified his distinctive prose style: a disciplined, hypnotic rhythm; the accumulation of surgically described detail; the sweeping, free associative similes; and humor so dark that most readers are never able to see it.”

Jeremy Adam Smith. Evolution of a Moralist: J.G. Ballard in the 21st Century.

“A Question of Re-entry” (1963)

“The [story] follows its Conradian opening with [a] boat journey up the Amazon … in pursuit of information about a lost space capsule; the UN officer in charge of the search is being taken to meet a Kurz-figure, a Westerner who has gone native, and who holds an Indian tribe around him through the sheer force of his personality — and something more. Although often intense, Ballard is seldom humourless, as the irony of the title’s pun eventually reveals.”

Iain Rowan. The Terminal Beach.

“The Dead Astronaut” (1968)

“Ballard opened [this] story with the eerie words “Cape Kennedy has gone now” (67) … Florida has been long since abandoned by NASA and Cape Kennedy has become a crash-zone, a place where the orbiting satellites home-in on their return to earth and literally crash. In addition to the unmanned satellites in orbit, “a dozen astronauts had died in orbital accidents, their capsules left to revolve through the night sky like the stars of a new constellation” (69).

Melanie Rosen Brown. Dead Astronauts, Cyborgs, and the Cape Canaveral Fiction of J.G. Ballard: A Posthuman Analysis.

+ See Playboy magazine for ‘The Dead Astronaut’ in full.

“My Dream of Flying to Wake Island” (1974)

A deeply melancholic, deeply mysterious story about Melville, a former astronaut who flew a solitary mission in space, suffering a mental breakdown that was broadcast live to millions of viewers on Earth. A shell of his former self, Melville resolves to fly to remote Wake Island, in the Pacific Ocean. He’s fascinated by Wake’s geographical isolation and its “psychological reduction” deriving from its former role as an American WWII airbase — much like his own. I visited the North Pacific in 2005 and wrote a piece about the journey, using Ballard’s story as a type of mental travel guide.

Simon.

“News from the Sun” (1981)

“In “News from the Sun” … Ballard introduces the idea of space/time sickness, fugues brought on by humanity’s ill-guided exploration of space: “the year-long flights … had set off the whole time-plague, cracked the cosmic hourglass” (105). This cracking of the “cosmic hourglass” and resulting madness reflects many of the concepts of the posthuman, including the limitations of the human body and desire for eternal life.”

Melanie Rosen Brown. Dead Astronauts, Cyborgs, and the Cape Canaveral Fiction of J.G. Ballard: A Posthuman Analysis.

“Memories of the Space Age” (1982)

“In a sense, we’ve arrived in the future foretold … in … “Memories of the Space Age.” The protagonist’s sense of time becomes increasingly attenuated until he ends up embalmed in a “small installment of forever,” having accelerated into “a world beyond time”: the utopia of the frozen moment. It’s Blake’s mystical vision of “eternity in an hour,” updated for the age of “Doc” Edgerton’s strobe flash. Ballard imagined the moment — our moment — when the headlong hurtle of the modern age finally reached terminal velocity. The image of speed — “blistering speed” — in the first year of the 21st century, is a human being in a chair, staring at a screen, going nowhere at a billion bits an hour.”

Mark Dery. Killing Time.

“Myths of the Near Future” (1982)

“The sinuous musical setting of [Bryan Ferry's] ”Windswept” works like a photo enlarger on the lyric’s highly charged erotic imagery, blowing up pictures of a curved arm or a single droplet of sweat to near-billboard size, as in the similarly lush and surreal ”Myths of the Near Future” by the British novelist J. G. Ballard. And there is a connection here. Mr. Ballard is a chronicler of obsessions, a man who finds himself spellbound by a handful of images, many of them quite ordinary by themselves, and then examines and distorts these images in every conceivable way.”

Robert Palmer. The Pop Life.

“The Man Who Walked on the Moon” (1985)

This strange tale of identity transference concerns the unnamed narrator, a jaded journalist (with an interest in science-fiction films), and his friendship with Scranton, a beggar who scams tourists for money on Copacabana Beach by pretending to be an ex-astronaut who had walked on the moon years ago. When Scranton’s health declines, the journalist begins to see through Scranton’s eyes, thereby beginning his own “career in space”. Wandering the streets, his colleagues call to him, but he’s “barely aware of them, as if they were planetary visitors hailing [him] from the edge of a remote crater.” Pedestrians become “remote and fleeting figures, little more than tricks of the sun.” When the journalist’s wife leaves him, he moves into Scranton’s place, only for Scranton to die. Finally, when he takes Scranton’s spot on the beach, begging for money in exchange for his “tales from space”, we fully accept the story’s theme: alienation and withdrawal in the face of an increasingly pointless and banal postmodern world.

Simon.

..:: CRITICISM

+ For:

Melanie Rosen Brown’s Dead Astronauts, Cyborgs, and the Cape Canaveral Fiction of J.G. Ballard: A Posthuman Analysis takes an unusual — posthumanist — approach: “Ballard characterizes our departure from our planet to explore space as a crime against our very humanity. While in his stories both NASA and its astronauts fare poorly, those who suffer the most are in actuality those left behind to deal with the remains of what falls back to Earth … Only through the merging of technology and humanity — a hybrid of posthuman and human — does the world continue to spin for the astronauts of Ballard’s world.”

+ Against:

Evelyn C. Leeper’s review of the book takes a conservative, “hard science fiction” approach. She writes, “Ballard really likes the image of dead astronauts circling the globe in their capsules, especially when he can have them achieve flaming re-entries as needed for the plot — always landing at the Cape, of course. It’s not clear how this is accomplished, though one story mentions radio beacons in passing. Right — the whole Cape is deserted and covered by sand, but the beacons still work … Ballard’s total disregard for science or scientific law makes it difficult to discuss the issues raised logically.”

However, she then goes on to praise the “cover by Max Ernst … much better than a lot of the artwork one sees on … books these days.” The irony, of course, is that Leeper completely misses the key this cover (a reproduction of Ernst’s “Europe After the Rain”) provides to unlocking the psychological meaning of these stories. Ballard has stated his admiration for “the classic Surrealist paintings of Max Ernst, Salvador Dali, Giorgio de Chirico and Paul Delvaux, where the laws of time and space are constantly being suspended, and where reality is decoded in an attempt to discover the superreality that lies behind the facade of everyday life.” (quoted in Rolling Stone, 1987). Elsewhere, he has stated that “the classic landscapes of Ernst … confirmed my own .. interior landscape.” (quoted in Friends, 1970).

Leeper labours away with the wrong box of tools and gets nowhere. Imagine if she was an art critic, discussing “Europe After the Rain” with the same bag of tricks. “Ernst really likes the image of life emerging from rock in the middle of a blasted landscape,” I can hear her say. “Of course, it’s not clear how this is accomplished. Right — the whole landscape has been bombed and destroyed, but flora somehow thrives and sprouts from twisted metal. Ernst’s total disregard for the laws of nature makes it difficult to discuss the issues raised logically.”

Ernst escapes such debasement, though, for the simple reason that Leeper believes that superreality — a radical exploration of the subconscious — must be confined to art, whereas literature — and Ballard — must conform to realist modes that haven’t changed shape or form since the 19th century.

..:: MUSIC

As is typical of Ballard’s reach and influence, a number of musicians have been influenced by the astronaut stories. Australia’s Steve Law (Zen Paradox) based an album around ‘News from the Sun’, while Dutch band Sputnik fuses the melancholy of the decaying Cosmonaut program with the utter helplessness of Ballard’s astronauts on their 1998 album Favourite Songs of the Soviet Cosmonauts. More latterly, in a blow for Klaxons fans, we can confirm that the German/Icelandic duo, Mo Boma, were the first to base an album around “Myths of the Near Future” — in not one, but three volumes.

..:: ON SCREEN

Ballard appeared in an episode of The Late Show, entitled “Whatever happened to the Space Age?”, broadcast on Britain’s BBC2 in 1993. Here are the relevant excerpts from the BFI’s time-coded synopsis:

(2.20). J.G. Ballard (Author – ‘Memories of the Space Age’) explains that 50 years ago transport was getting faster and better. There was a sense of excitement – space would be the next conquered domain (15.25). J.G. Ballard – in the future, the moon landings may be seen as the single most important event of this millenium (36.23). J.G. Ballard – image of huge machines billowing smoke and shooting off to space is now seen in the same ‘antique’ way as steam trains. It is not perceived as the future.

..:: ON RADIO

For time-poor urban professionals who can’t find the head space to read books due to the almost total blurring of work and leisure spheres in the early stages of the 21st century, the following links will take you to mp3s of Canadian radio plays adapted from three of Ballard’s astronaut stories:

+ A Question of Re-Entry
+ The Dead Astronaut
+ News from the Sun

..:: RELATED POSTS ON BALLARDIAN
+ Ballardian World News: Memories of the Space Age
+ Lie Down with the Beast
+ J.G. Ballard in Space
+ Myths of the Space Age: Joe Kittinger
+ Dead Astronaut
+ JGB Meets the Prophet Yahweh
+ Abandoned Spaceships

As GH writes, “This news story, reported in the New York Times, reminded me of several JGB stories, especially those collected in ‘Memories of the Space Age’. The (former) astronauts, the sexual obsession, the abandonment of family, the curious triangle drama; these are familiar motifs. Had one of the people involved been a medical doctor or a psychiatrist, the whole affair would have been downright spooky.”

OK, I’m a few days late with this, but I just wanted to acknowledge my Super Snout, FJ Torres, who alerted me last week to the presence of Peter Lindbergh’s Future of Fashion spread in this month’s Harper’s Bazaar (FJ previously tipped me off about Steven Meisel’s Terror Porn antics).

Ballard once wrote that “sex times technology equals the future”, and this spread builds an entire world using that formula: Lindbergh distils a nostalgia for a retro-future that never was (apparently all the rage right now), sprinkling it like stardust over these photos, forever delaying orgasm in an imminence that never arrives, man, machine and starlet collapsed into the eternal present.

The dream is forever out of reach: to “unlock the door, embrace the flames, lie down with this beast in a world beyond time”…

FJ: “This picture in particular is just TOO much. Like a still from a film version of ‘Memories of the Space Age’…”

She was intent now only on the search for her father, confident that he would soon be returning from the tideways of space. At night the trajectories were ever lower, tracks of charged particles that soared across the forest. She had almost ceased to eat, and Mallory was glad that once her father arrived she would at last give up her flying. Then the two of them would leave together”.

————————————————————————-
J.G. Ballard, ‘Memories of the Space Age’ (1982)
————————————————————————-

…:: LINKS
+ Peter Lindbergh’s Future of Fashion spread

OPENING LINE:
“In his prime the Hollywood screenwriter was one of the tragic figures of our age, evoking the special anguish that arises from feeling sorry for oneself while making large amounts of money”. (from ‘The Sweet Smell of Excess’).

From the 1996 Harper Collins edition:

The first-ever collection of J.G. Ballard’s articles and reviews, published over the last thirty years. In a long and highly-acclaimed career, J.G. Ballard has established himself as one of Britian’s most distinctive and admired writers, the author of such influential novels as Crash, The Drowned World, High-Rise, Empire of the Sun and, most recently, Rushing to Paradise. Throughout his career he has also been a regular contributor to magazines and newspapers. Now, for the first time, he has gathered together the finest of these pieces and grouped them under themes such as film, lives, the visual world, writers, science, autobiography and science fiction.

Marlon Brando, Nancy Reagan, Elvis Presley, Deng Xiaoping, Andy Warhol, Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, William Burroughs and Graham Greene are just some of the people who feature in the ninety articles, together with many of the themes familiar to readers of Ballard’s fiction, includign Shanghai, television, surrealism, cars, motorways and the atom bomb.

The result is an astonishingly varied and fascinating collection — a provocative and entertaining review of the modern world, as seen through the eyes of one of this country’s most original writers.”

I happen to think that some of Ballard’s best writing can be found in the non-fiction realm; in fact, there was a time, when I first chanced upon his work, that I was convinced he was a superior journalist than a novelist. Although it’s not in this collection, I especially savour Ballard’s phrasing in his lovely meditation on Helmut Newton:

A company of beautiful women moves through the palatial corridors or gazes into the opaque depths of ornate mirrors, waiting for a last act that will never unfold. Even those women who are naked seem scarcely aware of themselves, as if their sexuality is defused by the strange bedrooms where they wait for the rich and powerful men stepping from their limousines in the courtyards below.”

J.G. Ballard. ‘The Lucid Dreamer’.

The Edge features a typically acerbic review of User’s Guide, by Gerald Houghton:

In 1977 Ballard wrote one of his most experimental and most brilliant short stories, ‘The Index’. Did the attached book ever actually exist? Was it all a figment of some deranged imagination? All that remains of this autobiography is a collection of names and page numbers; tantalising nudges and winks, like a road-map with the motorways rubbed out. It’s a game we can play with A User’s Guide To The Millenium: Hitler nuzzles up to Mae West, Dali to Nancy Reagan, Derek Jarman with Walt Disney, Lee Harvey Oswald and the young Jim interred in the Japanese camp. What, if anything, do all these and the rest have to do with this rather unpresupposing British author?

Ballard is never less than urbane, but his best dinner party manners mask real teeth. Thus he adores the Surrealists, Henry Miller, Joyce and Genet, but is dismissive towards others (Warhol), occasionally outright scathing (Nancy Reagan). The Ballard in these pages is clearly in awe of Burroughs’ reupholstering of narrative form, while describing himself as an old-fashioned storyteller. (It’s fulsome praise that should be tempered with a reading of his superb interview with Will Self in Self’s recent Junk Mail.) He is mystifyingly rhapsodic over Dali, surely the most overrated artist of the century. (What, one wonders, would Ballard make of the comment that Dali is the ‘kind of artist you think is brilliant when you’re 15′? Are you listening Damien Hirst?).”

..:: CONTENTS

1. FILM
Casablanca, Brando and Mae West, Star Wars and Blue Velvet…

• ‘The Sweet Smell of Excess’ (1990)
• ‘Magical Days at Rick’s’ (1993)
• ‘Hollywood Sex Idols’ (1991)
• ‘Push-button Death’ (1991)
• ‘Hobbits in Space?’ (1977)
• ‘A User’s Guide to the Millennium’ (1987)
• ‘Courting the Cobra’ (1993)
• ‘The Samurai of the Epic’ (1991)
• ‘La Jetee’ (1996)
• ‘Blue Velvet’ (1993)

2. LIVES
Nancy Reagan, Elvis, Howard Hughes and Hirohito…

• ‘The Chain-saw Biographer’ (1991)
• ‘Survival Instincts’ (1992)
• ‘Fallen Idol’ (1991)
• ‘The Killing Time’ (1979)
• ‘Mob Psychology’ (1991)
• ‘Closed Doors’ (1977)
• ‘Last of the Great Royals’ (1989)
• ‘Sinister Spider’ (1992)
• ‘Lipstick and High Heels’ (1993)

More contents to come.

..:: J.G. BALLARD
• Bibliography
• Filmography (coming soon)
• Artography (coming soon)

..:: BUY THE BOOK

OPENING LINE:
“I first met Jane Ciracylides during the Recess, that world slump of boredom, lethargy and high summer which carried us all so blissfully through ten unforgettable years, and I suppose that may have had a lot to do with what went on between us.” (from ‘Prima Belladonna’).

From the 2001 Flamingo edition (originally one volume; reprinted in two volumes in 2006):

For the first time in one volume, the complete collected short stories by the author of Empire of the Sun and Super-Cannes — regarded by many as Britain’s No.1 living fiction writer.

J.G. Ballard is firmly established as one of Britain’s most highly regarded and most influential novelists. Throughout his remarkable career, he has won equal praise for his ground-breaking short stories, which he first started writing during his days as a medical student at Cambridge. In fact, it was winning a short-story competition that gave him the impetus to become a full-time writer.

His first published works, ‘Prima Belladonna’ and ‘Escapement’ appeared in Science Fantasy and New Worlds in 1956. Ever since, he has been a prolific producer of stories, which have been published in numerous magazines and several separate collections, including The Voices of Time, The Terminal Beach, The Disaster Area, The Day of Forever, Vermilion Sands, Low-Flying Aircraft, The Venus Hunters, Myths of the Near Future and War Fever.

Now, for the first time, all of J.G. Ballard’s published stories — including four that have not previously appeared in a collection — have been gathered together and arranged in the order of original publication, providing an unprecedented opportunity tp review the career of one of Britain’s greatest writers”.

Plus the obligatory endorsement:

Ballard is one of the few genuine surrealists this country has produced, the possessor of a terrifying and exhilirating imagination — and a national treasure.”

Nicholas Royle, Guardian.

A large body of opinion says that Ballard’s a better short-form stylist than novelist. On some days, I agree. My first exposure to Ballard, aside from Crash, was his short story ‘The Subliminal Man’. It hung in my imagination like a sharp blade over a heifer’s neck. Absolutely incredible, the imagery of it:

The old cities were surrounded by the vast motion sculptures of the clover-leaves and flyovers, but even so the congestion was unremitting.
…
Then the flicker of lights cleared and steadied, blazing out continuously, and together the crowd looked up at the decks of brilliant letters. The phrases, and every combination of them possible, were entirely familiar, and Franklin knew that he had been reading them for weeks as he passed up and down the expressway.

BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY
NEW CAR NOW NEW CAR NOW NEW CAR NOW NEW CAR NOW
YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES
…
They walked out into the trim drive, the shadows of the signs swinging across the quiet neighbourhood as the day progressed, sweeping over the heads of the people on their way to the supermarket like the blades of enormous scythes.”

J.G. Ballard. ‘The Subliminal Man’ (1963).

All the criticisms that are usually applied to Ballard’s novels — style over substance; lack of characterisation; thin plot — simply don’t apply in this format. In fact, in this realm they become virtues, as the sheer weight of Ballard’s imagination is compressed, and then unpacked, with full force. He didn’t dub the short pieces that make up The Atrocity Exhibition ‘condensed novels’ for nothing. Ballard’s a radical, a man who saw that the 20th-century novel was stifled by 19th-century function and set about stripping it to its very essence. That aesthetic became his body of short stories: quite simply, the man’s a master of the form and it’s a damn shame he doesn’t write them anymore.

I have the hardback, single-volume, supposedly complete version — a fallacy, for it only includes three pieces from The Atrocity Exhibition. I’m not sure if the new two-volume set rectifies that — probably not, considering it would take away sales from Atrocity itself.

It’s a bit of a cheat. If the publisher considers Atrocity to be a novel (as Ballard does), rather than a collection of short stories, then the Complete Short Stories shouldn’t contain any Atrocity pieces at all. According to Ballard expert David Pringle, there are three Ballard shorts that weren’t included, seemingly at the expense of the three Atrocities: ‘Journey Across a Crater’ (1970), ‘The Secret Autobiography of J. G. B——” (1984) and ‘The Dying Fall’ (1994).

I call that a missed opportunity.

Update: reader Mike Holliday contacted me with some further comments on this collection:

Despite its title, the book does not include all of Ballard’s short stories. If we discount those that are shortened versions of Ballard’s novels (Storm-Wind, The Drowned World, Equinox), then the following are missing:

(i) The Violet Noon, an early non-professional story published while Ballard was at university

(ii) most of the stories included in the original edition of The Atrocity Exhibition, namely You and Me and the Continuum, The Assassination Weapon, You: Coma: Marilyn Monroe, The Atrocity Exhibition, Plan for the Assassination of Jacqueline Kennedy, The Death Module, Love and Napalm: Export USA, The Great American Nude, The University of Death, The Generations of America, The Summer Cannibals, Tolerances of the Human Face, Crash!

(iii) the so-called ’surgical fictions’, Coitus 80, Princess Margaret’s Facelift, Mae West’s Reduction Mamoplasty, Queen Elizabeth’s
Rhinoplasty, Jane Fonda’s Augmentation Mammoplasty

(iv) a few other pieces, namely Journey Across a Crater, The Secret Autobiography of J. G. B******, Neil Armstrong Remembers His Journey to the Moon, and The Dying Fall. It also excludes those items classified as Miscellaneous Media [including Ballard's collages for Ambit magazine].

In 2006, The Complete Short Stories was republished in two paperback volumes, but this edition omits the novella The Ultimate City.”

Disappointingly, there’s not a lot of decent criticism surrounding Ballard’s short-form work. Over at Rick McGrath’s site, however, John Boston has posted a thorough and interesting account of “the four short stories that got [Ballard] back into writing science fiction: Now: Zero (1959), The Waiting Grounds (1959), The Sound-Sweep (1960), and Zone of Terror (1960).”

..:: LINKS
+ J.G. Ballard’s Introduction to the Complete Short Stories

..:: CONTENTS

+ ‘Prima Belladonna’ (1956)
+ ‘Escapement’ (1956)
+ ‘The Concentration City’ (1957)
+ ‘Venus Smiles’ (1957)
+ ‘Manhole 69′ (1957)
+ ‘Track 12′ (1958)
+ ‘The Waiting Grounds’ (1959)
+ ‘Now: Zero’ (1959)
+ ‘The Sound-Sweep’ (1960)
+ ‘Zone of Terror’ (1960)
+ ‘Chronopolis’ (1960)
+ ‘The Voices of Time’ (1960)
+ ‘The Last World of Mr Goddard’ (1960)
+ ‘Studio 5, The Stars’ (1961)
+ ‘Deep End’ (1961)
+ ‘The Overloaded Man’ (1961)
+ ‘Mr F. is Mr F. (1961)
+ ‘Billennium’ (1961)
+ ‘The Gentle Assassin’ (1961)
+ ‘The Insane Ones’ (1962)
+ ‘The Garden of Time’ (1962)
+ ‘The Thousand Dreams of Stellavista’ (1962)
+ ‘Thirteen to Centaurus’ (1962)
+ ‘Passport to Eternity’ (1962)
+ ‘The Cage of Sand’ (1962)
+ ‘The Watch-Towers’ (1962)
+ ‘The Singing Statues’ (1962)
+ ‘The Man on the 99th Floor’ (1962)
+ ‘The Subliminal Man’ 63 (1962)
+ ‘The Reptile Enclosure’ (1962)
+ ‘A Question of Re-Entry’ (1962)
+ ‘The Time-Tombs’ (1962)
+ ‘Now Wakes the Sea’ (1962)
+ ‘The Venus Hunters’ (1962)
+ ‘End-Game’ (1962)
+ ‘Minus One’ (1962)
+ ‘The Sudden Afternoon’ (1962)
+ ‘The Screen Game’ (1962)
+ ‘Time of Passage’ (1964)
+ ‘Prisoner of the Coral Deep’ (1964)
+ ‘The Lost Leonardo’ (1964)
+ ‘The Terminal Beach’ (1964)
+ ‘The Illuminated Man’ (1964)
+ ‘The Delta at Sunset’ (1964)
+ ‘The Drowned Giant’ (1964)
+ ‘The Gioconda of the Twilight Noon’ (1964)
+ ‘The Volcano Dances’ (1964)
+ ‘The Beach Murders’ (1966)
+ ‘The Day of Forever’ (1966)
+ ‘The Impossible Man’ (1966)
+ ‘Storm-Bird, Storm-Dreamer’ (1966)
+ ‘Tomorrow is a Million Years’ (1966)
+ ‘The Assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy Considered as a Downhill Motor Race’ (1966)
+ ‘Cry Hope, Cry Fury!’ (1967)
+ ‘The Recognition’ (1967)
+ ‘The Cloud-Sculptors of Coral D’ (1967)
+ ‘Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan’ (1968)
+ ‘The Dead Astronaut’ (1968)
+ ‘The Comsat Angels’ (1968)
+ ‘The Killing Ground’ (1969)
+ ‘A Place and a Time to Die’ (1969)
+ ‘Say Goodbye to the Wind’ (1970)
+ ‘The Greatest Television Show on Earth’ (1972)
+ ‘My Dream of Flying to Wake Island’ (1974)
+ ‘The Air Disaster’ (1975)
+ ‘Low-Flying Aircraft’ (1975)
+ ‘The Life and Death of God’ (1976)
+ ‘Notes Towards a Mental Breakdown’ (1976)
+ ‘The 60 Minute Zoom’ (1976)
+ ‘The Smile’ (1976)
+ ‘The Ultimate City’ (1976)
+ ‘The Dead Time’ (1977)
+ ‘The Index’ (1977)
+ ‘The Intensive Care Unit’ (1977)
+ ‘Theatre of War’ (1977)
+ ‘Having A Wonderful Time’ (1978)
+ ‘One Afternoon at Utah Beach’ (1978)
+ ‘Zodiac 2000′ (1978)
+ ‘Motel Architecture’ (1978)
+ ‘A Host of Furious Fancies’ (1980)
+ ‘News from the Sun’ (1981)
+ ‘Memories of the Space Age’ (1982)
+ ‘Myths of the Near Future’ (1982)
+ ‘Report on An Unidentified Space Station’ (1982)
+ ‘The Object of the Attack’ (1984)
+ ‘Answers to a Questionnaire’ (1985)
+ ‘The Man Who Walked on the Moon’ (1985)
+ ‘The Secret History of World War 3′ (1988)
+ ‘Love in a Colder Climate’ (1989)
+ ‘The Enormous Space’ (1989)
+ ‘The Largest Theme Park in the World’ (1989)
+ ‘War Fever’ (1989)
+ ‘Dream Cargoes’ (1990)
+ ‘A Guide to Virtual Death’ (1992)
+ ‘The Message from Mars’ (1992)
+ ‘Report from an Obscure Planet’ (1992)

..:: J.G. BALLARD
• Bibliography
• Filmography (coming soon)
• Artography (coming soon)

..:: BUY VOLUME 1

..:: BUY VOLUME 2

Richard Branson: Malzberg to Fly Virgin Galactic Free
Reported by Paoli du Flippi, of Locus Magazine.

“London, April 1, 2006—Billionaire Richard Branson, whose space-tourist venture Virgin Galactic is inching closer to takeoff every month, announced today that he would be offering a limited number of free rides to various deserving individuals who might not be able otherwise to take advantage of his sightseeing service into low orbit.

‘We realize,’ said Branson, speaking from his gold-plated yacht anchored in the Thames, ‘that the $250,000 ticket fee is beyond the means of many seminal figures whose far-sighted efforts have helped us reach this point, where private enterprise is finally prepared to accomplish what NASA and other incompetent governmental agencies have long been unable to achieve. We intend to recognize the ground-breaking accomplishments of these pioneers by granting them a celebratory flight into the final frontier.

‘And the first person to whom we owe such a debt is science fiction writer Barry N. Malzberg.’

Branson went on to partially catalogue the work from Malzberg that earned him such an honor.

‘While writers such as Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, Tsiolkovsky and Bradbury inspired the deadly drones and drudges who went on to create the stifling, cack-handed, short-sighted programs of NASA, the Soviets and the ESA, Malzberg was hewing away with savage glee at the very roots of these agencies. In novels such as Beyond Apollo, Galaxies and The Falling Astronauts, Malzberg revealed the rot and canker and delusions at the roots of governmental space travel.
…
In a very real sense, Barry Malzberg is among the founding fathers of twenty-first-century space travel—such as it is.’

Although Branson was not yet at liberty to confirm further speculations, rumor has it that the second candidate for the program would be British author J. G. Ballard, whose flight would depart from the Martian-sand-swamped ruins of Cape Canaveral.”

There’s more here.

There’s Ballardian imagery there if you want it…the world’s forgotten ‘astronaut’, he was to all intents and purposes the first man in space, only to be completely overshadowed by Yuri Gargarin and Neil Armstrong.

As BLDGBLOG says: “In 1960, U.S. Air Force pilot Joe Kittinger flew 30km straight up into the sky using a pressurized, high-altitude balloon. This very nearly made him the first man in space.

He then jumped.

Kittinger free-fell for over twenty kilometers – at which point he was moving so fast he broke the sound barrier. He had all but left the earth’s atmosphere; the sky around him was pitch black; he could see the outlines of entire continents; and the haiku-like abstraction of his available reference points – earth, balloon, space – made it impossible to tell if he was really falling. Luckily, there’s a film”.

Indeed. Kittinger carried a camera with him, and you can see the film here.

Mind blowing.

from the BBC:

“Spacesuit radio ‘alive’ in orbit

An old spacesuit stuffed with a radio transmitter and old clothes is still emitting a weak signal as it orbits the globe, amateur radio enthusiasts say.

Nasa had reported that the “SuitSat” device had ceased working within hours of its release from the International Space Station (ISS) on Friday.

But a US amateur radio spokesman said weak signals had been picked up. “Death reports were premature,” he said.

The suit is meant to transmit messages in six languages to amateur radio fans.

The makeshift satellite was tossed from the ISS by crew members Bill McArthur and Valery Tokarev as they began a six-hour spacewalk.

Made from a decommissioned Russian spacesuit, the SuitSat contains a radio, transmitter and sensors to monitor temperature and battery power, with old clothes packed in to hold the equipment in place…”

J.G. Ballard used to explain UFO sightings of the ‘Prophet Yahweh’…

So, I’ve seen the video, and this guy stands in a park in a city underneath some major military and commercial air traffic routes, and “summons” UFO’s.

Now, there is a short story by J. G. Ballard (“Empire of the Sun”, “Crash”, etc.) contained in his book of short stories “The Terminal Beach”. (I forget the actual name of the specific story.) In that story, an explorer in the amazon rainforest comes across a white man worshipped as a god or prophet by the natives around him because he has the power to “summon” spirits from the sky.

These explorers, not convinced, secretly search the “prophets” personal belongings and find an almanac detailing projected satellite times for the whole region. The “Prophet” was merely waiting for the correct times a satellite would be visible in the night sky and taking his followers out to the area the almanac indicated and uttering some nonsense.

Now, what exactly is stopping this “Prophet Yahweh” from getting a hold of such a book, or even simpler, a flight schedule for Las Vegas airport, identifying a particular frequent route where the airplane flies at an altitude high enough to make it look like a sliver of light as it reflects the sun? If the flights were frequent enough, which they easily could be, it wouldn’t be too hard to make it look like you were “summoning” them on demand.”

The Ballard story referred to here is of course ‘A Question of Re-entry’.

"For the first time since the 1970s, a NASA spacecraft will get clear pictures of Apollo relics on the Moon.

July 11, 2005: Inside the lunar lander Challenger, a radio loudspeaker crackled.

Houston: "We’ve got you on television now. We have a good picture."

Gene Cernan, Apollo 17 commander: "Glad to see old Rover’s still working."

"Rover," the moon buggy, sat outside with no one in the driver’s seat, its side-mounted TV camera fixed on Challenger. Back in Houston and around the world, millions watched. The date was Dec. 19, 1972, and history was about to be made.

Suddenly, soundlessly, Challenger split in two (movie). The base of the ship, the part with the landing pads, stayed put. The top, the lunar module with Cernan and Jack Schmitt inside, blasted off in a spray of gold foil. It rose, turned, and headed off to rendezvous with the orbiter America, the craft that would take them home again.

Those were the last men on the Moon. After they were gone, the camera panned back and forth. There was no one there, nothing, only the  
rover, the lander and some equipment scattered around the dusty floor of the Taurus-Littrow valley. Eventually, Rover’s battery died and  
the TV transmissions stopped.

That was our last good look at an Apollo landing site…"