eBook Crash download

by J. G. Ballard

eBook Crash download ISBN: 000728702X
Author: J. G. Ballard
Publisher: Harper Perennial (September 1, 2008)
Language: English
Pages: 256
ePub: 1528 kb
Fb2: 1106 kb
Rating: 4.9
Other formats: txt lrf lit doc
Category: Literature
Subcategory: Deliver toandnbsp;Birmingham 35221andzwnj;

He is there when Ballard has his own accident.

He is there when Ballard has his own accident. A head on crash that kills the driver of the other car putting both Ballard and the wife of the dead man in the hospital for a lengthy recovery. Ballard has always had symphorophilia or car-crashsexual fetishism, but after his crash and meeting Vaughan it becomes more than just an obsession, but a full time addiction.

Crash is a novel by English author J. G. Ballard, first published in 1973. It is a story about symphorophilia; specifically car-crash sexual fetishism: its protagonists become sexually aroused by staging and participating in real car-crashes. In 1996, the novel was made into a film of the same name by David Cronenberg.

Also by j. ballard. All of us who knew Vaughan accept the perverse eroticism of the car-crash, as painful as the drawing of an exposed organ through the aperture of a surgical wound. I. VAUGHAN died yesterday in his last car-crash. During our friendship he had rehearsed his death in many crashes, but this was his only true accident. I have watched copulating couples moving along darkened freeways at night, men and women on the verge of orgasm, their cars speeding in a series of inviting trajectories towards the flashing headlamps of the oncoming traffic stream.

Home J. Ballard Crash. Fifty yards away, the two night attendants sat in their glass cubicle beside the deserted fuel pumps, reading their comic books and playing a transistor radio. I watched the rollers sweeping across the taxi. Hidden inside the cabin as the soapy water sluiced across the windows, the off-duty driver and his wife were invisible and mysterious mannequins. The car ahead advanced a few yards. Its brake-lights illuminated the interior of the Lincoln, covering us with a pink sheen. Through the driving mirror I saw that Catherine was leaning against the rear seat.

FREE shipping on qualifying offers. In this hallucinatory novel, an automobile provides the hellish tableau in which Vaughan, a TV scientist turned nightmare angel of the highways.

James Graham Ballard (15 November 1930 – 19 April 2009) was an English novelist, short story writer, and essayist who first became associated with the New Wave of science fiction for his post-apocalyptic novels such as The Wind from Nowhere (1961) a. .

James Graham Ballard (15 November 1930 – 19 April 2009) was an English novelist, short story writer, and essayist who first became associated with the New Wave of science fiction for his post-apocalyptic novels such as The Wind from Nowhere (1961) and The Drowned World (1962). In the late 1960s, he produced a variety of experimental short stories (or "condensed novels"), such as those collected in the controversial The Atrocity Exhibition (1970).

24. Also by j. Driven on a collision course towards the limousine of the film actress, his car jumped the rails of the London Airport flyover and plunged through the roof of a bus filled with airline passengers. The crushed bodies of package tourists, like a haemorrhage of the sun, still lay across the vinyl seats when I pushed my way through the police engineers an hour later.

G. Ballard Hello America. For Professor Summers, her first impressions of Manhattan were still confused by the Apollo’s mad dash across the wreck-strewn bay and their collision with the submerged statue. What was Steiner playing at, this curious man with his intense, unsettling eyes, forever gazing at her?

The definitive cult, post-modern novel-a shocking blend of violence, transgression and eroticism.

When Ballard, our narrator, smashes his car into another and watches a man die in front of him, his sense of sexual possibilities in the world around him becomes detached. As he begins an affair with the dead man's wife, he finds himself drawn with increasing intensity to the mangled impacts of car crashes. Then he encounters Robert Vaughan, a former TV scientist turned nightmare angel of the expressway, who has gathered around him a collection of alienated crash victims and experiments with a series of auto-erotic atrocities, each more sinister than the last. But Vaughan craves the ultimate crash-a head-on collision of blood, semen, engine coolant and iconic celebrity.

First published in 1973Crashremains one of the most shocking novels of the second half of the twentieth century and was made into an equally controversial film by David Cronenberg.

Ballard's autobiographyMiracles of Lifewas published in 2008 andExtreme Metaphors, a collection of interviews with the author, is due out in 2012.

Comments: (7)
I think both the 5 and 1-star reviews are both off. People either loving or hating this book. The "hate" reviews are especially shallow I think because they seem to be unable to look past the visceral language and "gross" descriptions of sex acts and injuries. Believe me I cringe more than half a dozen times reading Crash, but that in and of itself doesn't make it a bad book.

The redundancy became distracting after a while, around the halfway point. The same exact words used over and over again to describe the sex acts. It seemed to me pretty obvious that these scenes weren't meant to turn us on. We're supposed to be confused, disgusted, and alienated from these people. We aren't supposed to join in their erotic love for technology fusing with people.

It's also so presumptuous from Ballard's point of view. At no point does he ever point out how messed up his relationship with Catherine is, or how insane the car-lovers are. It's all just...normal. As we gawk and scratch our heads. They've all become so alienated from humanity that the desperate search for feeling and eroticism through extra-marital affairs, mutilation and technology is a matter-of-fact for them. They are already so far gone down the rabbit hole.

That being said, at 3/4's through the book I started wondering where exactly Ballard had this thing going. I felt like he was hammering his point home over and over again. Probably could have been half the length it was in my opinion.
This is a case of a derivative work being superior to the original, IMO. I came to the novel because I found the film so compelling. True, the two share a fascinating take on the relation of man and technology in their exploration of the eroticism of one of the more iconic pieces of machinery ever created: the automobile. But this isn't just doing-it-in-the-back-seat-of-the-Chevy sex, this is kinky, body-modification-by-violent-means sex.
Ballard's characters are obsessed with car crashes and the way in which the human body and mind are forever altered by the experience. There is an obsession with scarring, with wounds, with broken bones and torn flesh, with body fluids and the way violent impact can force them from us. This is ground-breaking stuff, thought-provoking and troubling in ways that aren't pleasant to think about. Unfortunately, whether it's that Ballard's style isn't conducive to conveying the eroticism in any visceral way or whether the sheer length of this story works against it, the novel never really grabbed hold of my imagination.
I had a sense, as I slogged through the latter half of the book, that I was reading a short story in novel's clothing. It feels padded to me, and highly repetitive. The erotic frisson of engine coolant as a kind of sexual musk lost its charm after the first dozen times it was evoked. Ballard's sexual vocabulary here is clinical in the extreme which may work in terms of distancing the reader from sex on wholly human terms, but it works too well. Held at a distance by the words he chooses, it's hard to get a feel for the implied eroticism of the subject matter. It's all too cerebral, too cold and mechanical. The machine is all, and humans might as well be made of metal, too.
I give points for the chances he took, but subtract them for the unnecessarily sterile way in which he took them.
A harsh story of sex and car crashes, which I found most of the time repelling, but ultimately morphs into a tale of self destruction. The characters are crude, severely impaired and yet all seek relief from trauma caused by some car accident in their past, through elaborate sex acts involving cars and crashes. In the end, the whole book is original and erotic, despite being also repulsive and, at times, disgusting
I would love to say that this was a fascinating warning against our ever growing dependence on technology and how it has changed us to were we are more connected to the inanimate than the animate. I would love to say that this book was an extraordinary work of provocative literary fiction and how it made me think and challenged my views on sexuality and the world around me.... But I can't. Because this book was an amazing, hard to put down, unbelieveably graphic, in depth, fantasized look at people with car-crash-fetishes.

James Ballard a director (I think) of commercials gets into a serious car accident that kills the driver of the other vehicle involved and forever changes James and the victim's wife. Through the strange and sometimes dangerous eyes of a deranged man, Dr. Robert Vaughn, who also had long ago been in a life altering crash, they discover the sexuality of the pairing of their bodies with automobiles and the eroticism of car crashes. (I'm pretty sure others who are die-hard fans of this book will scoff at my paultry description of the book, but that's basically what this book is about.)

I enjoyed the book because it was different-- definitely an alternative in eroticism-- and gave me a glimpse of how people react differently to tragedies or the unthinkable. I can't say I walked away from the book with a more enlightened view of anything, but I can say I walked away with satisfaction.

The only complaint I have is the tone of the book: It was monotone. There were so many instances in the book were I knew I needed to feel something-- astonishment, horror, grief, lust-- but they were lost in the one page long, overly detailed, paragraphs. I have read 100 Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera so I am familiar with this type of style but I think for this book empahsis-- ie. shorter paragraphs-- were needed to punctuate the scenes. And his switches in scenes and times of day and character actions completely threw me off because they were not actually stated. It was more of an aftethought. The author's main focus was telling the story and making sure the reader understood that there was semen *everywhere* and vulvas being penetrated constantly. Sounds a bit much for a review, right? Read the book and you'll see that what I said was practically G-Rated.

All in all... good book.