Source Image © Leo Newball on Flickr.
So said JG Ballard – a true prophet for our time and an author I covet beyond most others. If you are familiar with Ballard’s oeuvre and the motifs that endlessly repeat – the quote is so very him.
Ballard is, of course, the author of Crash which is an incredible piece of literature.
The volumes of Helen’s thighs pressing against my hips, her left fist buried in my shoulder, her mouth grasping at my own, the shape and moisture of her anus as I stroked it with my ring finger, were each overlaid by the inventories of a benevolent technology – the moulded binnacle of the instrument dials, the jutting carapace of the steering column shroud, the extravagant pistol grip of the handbrake. I felt the warm vinyl of the seat beside me, and then stroked the damp aisle of Helen’s perineum. Her hand pressed against my right testicle. The plastic laminates around me, the colour of washed anthracite, were the same tones as her pubic hairs parted at the vestibule of her vulva. The passenger compartment enclosed us like a machine generating from our sexual act an homunculus of blood, semen and engine coolant.
Crash, by JG Ballard.