Philip K. Dick without the psychosis. That's how I would describe the work of J.G. Ballard. This novel, his newest, is about a middle-class suburb of London which decided to revolt against the structure of modern England's economy, and simply withdrew from its consume/earn/work/spend cycle. The result was violence and a stirring of unease as the government, sensing a meme that could well spread, exerted maximum effort and force to crush the rebellion.
Yet, it's about much more than that. It features the usual cast of Ballard characters, sexed-up, half-demented, seemingly randomly directed, yet suggests that such a scenario could well surge up out of nowhere, anywhere, anytime. From the book:
- It's a fluke we're alive at all. The chances of your parents meeting were millions to one against. We're tickets in a lottery.
But a lottery isn't meaningless. Someone has to win.
A vicious boredom ruled the world, for the first time in human history, interrupted by meaningless acts of violence.
The funeral director was a suave figure in morning dress with the air of a senior concierge who could always supply tickets to the most sought-after shows, in this world or the next.
Protest movements, sane and insane, sensible and absurd, touched almost every aspect of life in London, a vast web of demonstrations that tapped a desperate need for a more meaningful world.
Tourism is the great soporific. It's a huge confidence trick, and gives people the dangerous idea that there's something interesting in their lives. It's a complete con - today's tourist goes nowhere.
I always tell the truth. It's a new way of lying. If you tell the truth people don't know whether to believe you.
The twentieth century lingers on. It shapes everything we do, the way we think. There's scarcely a good thing you can say for it. Genocidal wars, half the world destitute, the other half sleepwalking through its own brain-death. We bought its trashy dreams and now we can't wake up.
People who find the world meaningless find meaning in pointless violence.
Psychiatry was at its best when dealing with failure, but had never coped with success.
We're all bored, desperately bored. We're like children left for too long in a playroom. After a while we have to start breaking up the toys, even the ones we like. There's nothing we believe in.
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