Crash by J.G. Ballard

Lately, environmentalists have been making a big deal out of the notion of a "human footprint" on Earth. Indeed, as a society, we've marked our landscape with varieties of our technology, everything from cars to ships to buildings to oil rigs. We've pockmarked and scarred our planet, if you want to think of it that way. It wouldn't be a stretch for me to convince you that these creations of ours have moved, in turn, to make a footprint on us. That is, our society progresses (or doesn't progress) in ways that are hemmed in by what we have created in the past. We must operate within the framework that we've built up around us, and in this way we are affected by inanimate objects.

Ballard, bless his heart, takes this relatively simple abstract notion and brings it as close to home as possible. In this novel, he doesn't focus on the effect that cars have on human society as a mass, but the effect they have on individuals. And, oh no, not individual psyches, individual bodies.

The vehicle, so to speak, for this kind of exploration is the car crash. It is through car crashes that our main characters experience, as intimately as possible, how the human body changes when it is acted upon by a machine. Not only is there new flesh within scars, there are also bruises and limps, body parts that are slightly misaligned during reattachment. In extreme cases, a car crash causes a melding between human flesh and machinery - false limbs, leg braces, and so forth.

As if this notion of human flesh interacting with metal was not enough, Ballard uses Crash to explore this new metallic-physicality through the all-purpose lens of sex. Basically, if you are squeamish, do not read this book.

Ballard's writing style is flush with abstractions - his narrator is lost in a dream world of symbolism, and projects that world onto the behaviors of the people around him. This is an interesting way to approach the topic of pure physicality, perhaps the only way to do so in print. There are chapters of psychology that I failed to grasp - it appears our protagonist (also named Ballard) has sexualized his traumatic car crash, but there is no direct treatment of that psychological reaction. Ballard (the protagonist) and his wife have a deviant, hyper-sexualized relationship, and if the reader is unable to connect with their pre-car crash sexuality, then the post-car crash sexuality is only more bizarre.

The turning point in the novel, after wading through abstract chapters and wincing through disgusting injury descriptions, comes when Ballard (the protagonist) and a crippled woman named Gabrielle finally make love. Guess where they do it? Just take a wild fucking guess. In a car! By the airport! It's as though the only two locations in this entire book are either "inside a car" or "near the airport." Often, both.

As they progress in their sexual encounter, both Gabrielle and Ballard realize that the body parts commonly associated with sexual arousal are not providing stimulation. Once they begin inspecting each other's scars - with fingers and tongues, they become aroused. Ballard tells us that over the next few sessions, he always orgasms onto her scars (he's particularly fond of one in her left armpit).

There is almost too much information in this book to process. The commentary is overwhelming, and teasing it all out would result in an essay as long as the book itself. I am tempted to write such an essay, nonetheless. Just the fact that the author uses the most clinical terms for the human body (vaginal mucus? anus? rectum? semen?) is a complex statement about the human body as trumped up machinery, and thus machinery as a stripped-down body. I mean, damn, this book is loaded.

I feel as though I must say something about Cronenberg's film, Crash, in relation to this book. Approaching this subject through visuals is very very effective, as much of the book is description of visuals that may not resonate with a reader who is unfamiliar with British vehicular terminology. Cronenberg maintains the rhythm and dreamlike quality of the book, but the addition of visuals makes the leap to sexuality easier to accept.

In short, I absolutely loved this book, but I think its real quality lays in the discussions it provokes, not what's actually on the page. I feel that perhaps the greatest justice it's received is its molding into a beautiful film by a man who has never compromised vision to maintain "good taste." I would have to recommend the movie over the book, and then recommend the book for people who are interested in further exploring the topic.