An old girlfriend once gave me J.G. Ballard’s Crash for my birthday – a sign, perhaps, that all was not well in the kingdom of Denmark. She told me that the cashier put the book in a carrier bag and then said very primly: “You won’t enjoy it.”
Crash is short enough to read in one sitting, but I couldn’t manage it. I was gripped, but had to keep putting it down. I finished Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go, Hemingway’s collected stories and the shortlist for the Orwell Prize, while taking small shots of Ballard’s most disquieting and transgressive book.
Crash is surrounded by legend. Famously, a proof reader at Jonathan Cape described Ballard as ‘beyond psychiatric help’ and advised against publishing the book. The critical response was predominantly one of disgust. Paul Theroux described it as a ‘stylish anatomy of outrage, and full of specious arguments, phony statistics, a disgusted fascination with movie stars and the sexual conceits of American brand names and paraphernalia.’
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