too much to be said, really. when reading this it’s tempting to focus on ballard’s ‘stylization’(in his usage), his bluntly lurid prose, his hypnotic descriptions of angles and ramps and radiator grilles. but what he’s wedged underneath that is the hidden brunt of this story, which is the initial car crash bringing a realization of modern isolation, and the increasingly desperate pursuits not only to find connection but to make sense of a world that has been completely divided from natural construction and landscape.

there’s a thousand pieces of analysis i have in my head but i don’t have the time. it’s just a brilliant book, yes, wrapped in language meant to ‘rub the human face in its own vomit’, and better for it.