Ballard, J G - Crash

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J. G. Ballard

CRASH

VINTAGE

Published by Vintage 1995

First published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape Ltd, 1973

ISBN 0 09 933491 7

INTRODUCTION

The marriage of reason and nightmare that has dominated the 20th century has given birth to an ever more

ambiguous world. Across the communications landscape move the spectres of sinister technologies and the

dreams that money can buy. Thermo-nuclear weapons systems and soft-drink commercials coexist in an

overlit realm ruled by advertising and pseudo-events, science and pornography. Over our lives preside the

great twin leitmotifs of the 20th century – sex and paranoia.

Increasingly, our concepts of past, present and future are being forced to revise themselves. Just as the

past, in social and psychological terms, became a casualty of Hiroshima and the nuclear age, so in its turn the

future is ceasing to exist, devoured by the all-voracious present. We have annexed the future into the present,

as merely one of those manifold alternatives open to us. Options multiply around us, and we live in an

almost infantile world where any demand, any possibility, whether for life-styles, travel, sexual roles and

identities, can be satisfied instantly.

In addition, I feel that the balance between fiction and reality has changed significantly in the past

decades. Increasingly their roles are reversed. We live in a world ruled by fictions of every kind – mass-

merchandizing, advertising, politics conducted as a branch of advertising, the pre-empting of any original

response to experience by the television screen. We live inside an enormous novel. It is now less and less

necessary for the writer to invent the fictional content of his novel. The fiction is already there. The writer's

task is to invent the reality.

In the past we have always assumed that the external world around us has represented reality, however

confusing or uncertain, and that the inner world of our minds, its dreams, hopes, ambitions, represented the

realm of fantasy and the imagination. These roles, it seems to me, have been reversed. The most prudent and

effective method of dealing with the world around us is to assume that it is a complete fiction – conversely,

the one small node of reality left to us is inside our own heads. Freud's classic distinction between the latent

and manifest content of the dream, between the apparent and the real, now needs to be applied to the external

world of so-called reality.

Given these transformations, what is the main task facing the writer? Can he, any longer, make use of the

techniques and perspectives of the traditional 19th century novel, with its linear narrative, its measured

chronology, its consular characters grandly inhabiting their domains within an ample time and space? Is his

subject matter the sources of character and personality sunk deep in the past, the unhurried inspection of

roots, the examination of the most subtle nuances of social behaviour and personal relationships? Has the

writer still the moral authority to invent a self-sufficient and self-enclosed world, to preside over his

characters like an examiner, knowing all the questions in advance? Can he leave out anything he prefers not

to understand, including his own motives, prejudices and psychopathology?

I feel myself that the writer's role, his authority and licence to act, have changed radically. I feel that, in a

sense, the writer knows nothing any longer. He has no moral stance. He offers the reader the contents of his

own head, a set of options and imaginative alternatives. His role is that of the scientist, whether on safari or

in his laboratory, faced with an unknown terrain or subject. All he can do is to devise various hypotheses and

test them against the facts.

Crash is such a book, an extreme metaphor for an extreme situation, a kit of desperate measures only for

use in an extreme crisis. Crash, of course, is not concerned with an imaginary disaster, however imminent,

but with a pandemic cataclysm that kills hundreds of thousands of people each year and injures millions. Do

we see, in the car crash, a sinister portent of a nightmare marriage between sex and technology? Will modern

technology provide us with hitherto undreamed-of means for tapping our own psychopathologies? Is this

harnessing of our innate perversity conceivably of benefit to us? Is there some deviant logic unfolding more

powerful than that provided by reason?

Throughout Crash I have used the car not only as a sexual image, but as a total metaphor for man's life in

today's society. As such the novel has a political role quite apart from its sexual content, but I would still like

to think that Crash is the first pornographic novel based on technology. In a sense, pornography. is the most

political form of fiction, dealing with how we use and exploit each other, in the most urgent and ruthless

way.

Needless to say, the ultimate role of Crash is cautionary, a warning against that brutal, erotic and overlit

realm that beckons more and more persuasively to us from the margins of the technological landscape.

J. G. Ballard

1995

Chapter 1

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. 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. Holding the arm of

her chauffeur, the film actress Elizabeth Taylor, with whom Vaughan had dreamed of dying for so many

months, stood alone under the revolving ambulance lights. As I knelt over Vaughan's body she placed a

gloved hand to her throat.

Could she see, in Vaughan's posture, the formula of the death which he had devised for her? During the

last weeks of his life Vaughan thought of nothing else but her death, a coronation of wounds he had staged

with the devotion of an Earl Marshal. The walls of his apartment near the film studios at Shepperton were

covered with the photographs he had taken through his zoom lens each morning as she left her hotel in

London, from the pedestrian bridges above the westbound motorways, and from the roof of the multi-storey

car-park at the studios. The magnified details of her knees and hands, of the inner surface of her thighs and

the left apex of her mouth, I uneasily prepared for Vaughan on the copying machine in my office, handing

him the packages of prints as if they were the instalments of a death warrant. At his apartment I watched him

matching the details of her body with the photographs of grotesque wounds in a textbook of plastic surgery.

In his vision of a car-crash with the actress, Vaughan was obsessed by many wounds and impacts – by the

dying chromium and collapsing bulkheads of their two cars meeting head-on in complex collisions endlessly

repeated in slow-motion films, by the identical wounds inflicted on their bodies, by the image of windshield

glass frosting around her face as she broke its tinted surface like a death-born Aphrodite, by the compound

fractures of their thighs impacted against their handbrake mountings, and above all by the wounds to their

genitalia, her uterus pierced by the heraldic beak of the manufacturer's medallion, his semen emptying across

the luminescent dials that registered for ever the last temperature and fuel levels of the engine.

It was only at these times, as he described this last crash to me, that Vaughan was calm. He talked of these

wounds and collisions with the erotic tenderness of a long-separated lover. Searching through the

photographs in his apartment, he half turned towards me, so that his heavy groin quietened me with its

profile of an almost erect penis. He knew that as long as he provoked me with his own sex, which he used

casually as if he might discard it for ever at any moment, I would never leave him.

Ten days ago, as he stole my car from the garage of my apartment house, Vaughan hurtled up the concrete

ramp, an ugly machine sprung from a trap. Yesterday his body lay under the police arc-lights at the foot of

the flyover, veiled by a delicate lacework of blood. The broken postures of his legs and arms, the bloody

geometry of his face, seemed to parody the photographs of crash injuries that covered the walls of his

apartment. I looked down for the last time at his huge groin, engorged with blood. Twenty yards away,

illuminated by the revolving lamps, the actress hovered on the arm of her chauffeur. Vaughan had dreamed

of dying at the moment of her orgasm.

Before his death Vaughan had taken part in many crashes. As I think of Vaughan I see him in the stolen

cars he drove and damaged, the surfaces of deformed metal and plastic that for ever embraced him. Two

months earlier I found him on the lower deck of the airport flyover after the first rehearsal of his own death.

A taxi driver helped two shaken air hostesses from a small car into which Vaughan had collided as he

lurched from the mouth of a concealed access road. As I ran across to Vaughan I saw him through the

fractured windshield of the white convertible he had taken from the car-park of the Oceanic Terminal. His

exhausted face, with its scarred mouth, was lit by broken rainbows. I pulled the dented passenger door from

its frame. Vaughan sat on the glass-covered seat, studying his own posture with a complacent gaze. His

hands, palms upwards at his sides, were covered with blood from his injured knee-caps. He examined the

vomit staining the lapels of his leather jacket, and reached forward to touch the globes of semen clinging to

the instrument binnacle. I tried to lift him from the car, but his tight buttocks were clamped together as if

they had seized while forcing the last drops of fluid from his seminal vesicles. On the seat beside him were

the torn photographs of the film actress which I had reproduced for him that morning at my office.

Magnified sections of lip and eyebrow, elbow and cleavage formed a broken mosaic.

For Vaughan the car-crash and his own sexuality had made their final marriage. I remember him at night

with nervous young women in the crushed rear compartments of abandoned cars in breakers' yards, and their

photographs in the postures of uneasy sex acts. Their tight faces and strained thighs were lit by his polaroid

flash, like startled survivors of a submarine disaster. These aspiring whores, whom Vaughan met in the

all-night cafés and supermarkets of London Airport, were the first cousins of the patients illustrated in his

surgical textbooks. During his studied courtship of injured women, Vaughan was obsessed with the buboes

of gas bacillus infections, by facial injuries and genital wounds.

Through Vaughan I discovered the true significance of the automobile crash, the meaning of whiplash

injuries and roll-over, the ecstasies of head-on collisions. Together we visited the Road Research Laboratory

twenty miles to the west of London, and watched the calibrated vehicles crashing into the concrete target

blocks. Later, in his apartment, Vaughan screened slow-motion films of test collisions that he had

photographed with his cinecamera. Sitting in the darkness on the floor cushions, we watched the silent

impacts flicker on the wall above our heads. The repeated sequences of crashing cars first calmed and then

aroused me. Cruising alone on the motorway under the yellow glare of the sodium lights, I thought of myself

at the controls of these impacting vehicles.

During the months that followed, Vaughan and I spent many hours driving along the express highways on

the northern perimeter of the airport. On the calm summer evenings these fast boulevards became a zone of

nightmare collisions. Listening to the police broadcasts on Vaughan's radio, we moved from one accident to

the next. Often we stopped under arc-lights that flared over the sites of major collisions, watching while

firemen and police engineers worked with acetylene torches and lifting tackle to free unconscious wives

trapped beside their dead husbands, or waited as a passing doctor fumbled with a dying man pinned below

an inverted truck. Sometimes Vaughan was pulled back by the other spectators, and fought for his cameras

with the ambulance attendants. Above all, Vaughan waited for head-on collisions with the concrete pillars of

the motorway overpasses, the melancholy conjunction formed by a crushed vehicle abandoned on the grass

verge and the serene motion sculpture of the concrete.

Once we were the first to reach the crashed car of an injured woman driver. A middle-aged cashier at the

airport duty-free liquor store, she sat unsteadily in the crushed compartment, fragments of the tinted wind-

shield set in her forehead like jewels. As a police car approached, its emergency beacon pulsing along the

overhead motorway, Vaughan ran back for his camera and flash equipment. Taking off my tie, I searched

helplessly for the woman's wounds. She stared at me without speaking, and lay on her side across the seat. I

watched the blood irrigate her white blouse. When Vaughan had taken the last of his pictures he knelt down

inside the car and held her face carefully in his hands, whispering into her ear. Together we helped to lift her

on to the ambulance trolley.

On our way to Vaughan's apartment he recognized an airport whore waiting in the forecourt of a

motorway restaurant, a part-time cinema usherette for ever worrying about her small son's defective

hearing-aid. As they sat behind me she complained to Vaughan about my nervous driving, but he was

watching her movements with an abstracted gaze, almost encouraging her to gesture with her hands and

knees. On the deserted roof of a Northolt multi-storey car-park I waited by the balustrade. In the rear seat of

the car Vaughan arranged her limbs in the posture of the dying cashier. His strong body, crouched across her

in the reflected light of passing headlamps, assumed a series of stylized positions.

Vaughan unfolded for me all his obsessions with the mysterious eroticism of wounds: the perverse logic

of blood-soaked instrument panels, seat-belts smeared with excrement, sun-visors lined with brain tissue.

For Vaughan each crashed car set off a tremor of excitement, in the complex geometries of a dented fender,

in the unexpected variations of crushed radiator grilles, in the grotesque overhang of an instrument panel

forced on to a driver's crotch as if in some calibrated act of machine fellatio. The intimate time and space of

a single human being had been fossilized for ever in this web of chromium knives and frosted glass.

A week after the funeral of the woman cashier, as we drove at night along the western perimeter of the

airport, Vaughan swerved on to the verge and struck a large mongrel dog. The impact of its body, like a

padded hammer, and the shower of glass as the animal was carried over the roof, convinced me that we were

about to die in a crash. Vaughan never stopped. I watched him accelerate away, his scarred face held close to

the punctured windshield, angrily brushing the beads of frosted glass from his cheeks. Already his acts of

violence had become so random that I was no more than a captive spectator. Yet the next morning, on the

roof of the airport car-park where we abandoned the car, Vaughan calmly pointed out to me the deep dents in

the bonnet and roof. He stared at an airliner filled with tourists lifting into the western sky, his sallow face

puckering like a wistful child's. The long triangular grooves on the car had been formed within the death of

an unknown creature, its vanished identity abstracted in terms of the geometry of this vehicle. How much

more mysterious would be our own deaths, and those of the famous and powerful?

Even this first death seemed timid compared with the others in which Vaughan took part, and with those

imaginary deaths that filled his mind. Trying to exhaust himself, Vaughan devised a terrifying almanac of

imaginary automobile disasters and insane wounds - the lungs of elderly men punctured by door handles, the

chests of young women impaled by steering-columns, the cheeks of handsome youths pierced by the

chromium latches of quarter-lights. For him these wounds were the keys to a new sexuality born from a

perverse technology. The images of these wounds hung in the gallery of his mind like exhibits in the

museum of a slaughterhouse.

Thinking of Vaughan now, drowning in his own blood under the police arc-lights, I remember the

countless imaginary disasters he described as we cruised together along the airport expressways. He dreamed

of ambassadorial limousines crashing into jack-knifing butane tankers, of taxis filled with celebrating

children colliding head-on below the bright display windows of deserted supermarkets. He dreamed of

alienated brothers and sisters, by chance meeting each other on collision courses on the access roads of

petrochemical plants, their unconscious incest made explicit in this colliding metal, in the haemorrhages of

their brain tissue flowering beneath the aluminized compression chambers and reaction vessels. Vaughan

devised the massive rear-end collisions of sworn enemies, hate-deaths celebrated in the engine fuel burning

in wayside ditches, paintwork boiling through the dull afternoon sunlight of provincial towns. He visualized

the specialized crashes of escaping criminals, of off-duty hotel receptionists trapped between their steering

wheels and the laps of their lovers whom they were masturbating. He thought of the crashes of honeymoon

couples, seated together after their impacts with the rear suspension units of runaway sugar-tankers. He

thought of the crashes of automobile stylists, the most abstract of all possible deaths, wounded in their cars

with promiscuous laboratory technicians.

Vaughan elaborated endless variations on these collisions, thinking first of a repetition of head-on colli-

sions: a child-molester and an overworked doctor reenacting their deaths first in head-on collision and then

in roll-over; the retired prostitute crashing into a concrete motorway parapet, her overweight body propelled

through the fractured windshield, menopausal loins torn on the chromium bonnet mascot. Her blood would

cross the over-white concrete of the evening embankment, haunting for ever the mind of a police mechanic

who carried the pieces of her body in a yellow plastic shroud. Alternatively, Vaughan saw her hit by a

reversing truck in a motorway fuelling area, crushed against the nearside door of her car as she bent down to

loosen her right shoe, the contours of her body buried within the bloody mould of the door panel. He saw her

hurtling through the rails of the flyover and dying as Vaughan himself would later die, plunging through the

roof of an airline coach, its cargo of complacent destinations multiplied by the death of this myopic

middle-aged woman. He saw her hit by a speeding taxi as she stepped out of her car to relieve herself in a

wayside latrine, her body whirled a hundred feet away in a spray of urine and blood.

I think now of the other crashes we visualized, absurd deaths of the wounded, maimed and distraught. I

think of the crashes of psychopaths, implausible accidents carried out with venom and self-disgust, vicious

multiple collisions contrived in stolen cars on evening freeways among tired office-workers. I think of the

absurd crashes of neurasthenic housewives returning from their VD clinics, hitting parked cars in suburban

high streets. I think of the crashes of excited schizophrenics colliding head-on into stalled laundry vans in

one-way streets; of manic-depressives crushed while making pointless U-turns on motorway access roads; of

luckless paranoids driving at full speed into the brick walls at the ends of known culs-de-sac; of sadistic

charge nurses decapitated in inverted crashes on complex interchanges; of lesbian supermarket manageresses

burning to death in the collapsed frames of their midget cars before the stoical eyes of middle-aged firemen;

of autistic children crushed in rear-end collisions, their eyes less wounded in death; of buses filled with

mental defectives drowning together stoically in roadside industrial canals.

Long before Vaughan died I had begun to think of my own death. With whom would I die, and in what

role – psychopath, neurasthenic, absconding criminal? Vaughan dreamed endlessly of the deaths of the

famous, inventing imaginary crashes for them. Around the deaths of James Dean and Albert Camus, Jayne

Mansfield and John Kennedy he had woven elaborate fantasies. His imagination was a target gallery of

screen actresses, politicians, business tycoons and television executives. Vaughan followed them everywhere

with his camera, zoom lens watching from the observation platform of the Oceanic Terminal at the airport,

from hotel mezzanine balconies and studio car-parks. For each of them Vaughan devised an optimum

auto-death. Onassis and his wife would die in a recreation of the Dealey Plaza assassination. He saw Reagan

in a complex rear-end collision, dying a stylized death that expressed Vaughan's obsession with Reagan's

genital organs, like his obsession with the exquisite transits of the screen actress's pubis across the vinyl seat

covers of hired limousines.

After his last attempt to kill my wife Catherine, I knew that Vaughan had retired finally into his own

skull. In this overlit realm ruled by violence and technology he was now driving for ever at a hundred miles

an hour along an empty motorway, past deserted filling stations on the edges of wide fields, waiting for a

single oncoming car. In his mind Vaughan saw the whole world dying in a simultaneous automobile disaster,

millions of vehicles hurled together in a terminal congress of spurting loins and engine coolant.

I remember my first minor collision in a deserted hotel car-park. Disturbed by a police patrol, we had

forced ourselves through a hurried sex-act. Reversing out of the park, I struck an unmarked tree. Catherine

vomited over my seat. This pool of vomit with its clots of blood like liquid rubies, as viscous and discreet as

everything produced by Catherine, still contains for me the essence of the erotic delirium of the car-crash,

more exciting than her own rectal and vaginal mucus, as refined as the excrement of a fairy queen, or the

minuscule globes of liquid that formed beside the bubbles of her contact lenses. In this magic pool, lifting

from her throat like a rare discharge of fluid from the mouth of a remote and mysterious shrine, I saw my

own reflection, a mirror of blood, semen and vomit, distilled from a mouth whose contours only a few

minutes before had drawn steadily against my penis.

Now that,Vaughan has died, we will leave with the others who gathered around him, like a crowd drawn

to an injured cripple whose deformed postures reveal the secret formulas of their minds and lives. 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 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. Young men alone behind the

wheels of their first cars, near-wrecks, picked up in scrap-yards, masturbate as they move on worn tyres to

aimless destinations. After a near collision at a traffic intersection semen jolts across a cracked speedometer

dial. Later, the dried residues of that same semen are brushed by the lacquered hair of the first young woman

who lies across his lap with her mouth over his penis, one hand on the wheel hurtling the car through the

darkness towards a multi-level interchange, the swerving brakes drawing the semen from him as he grazes

the tailgate of an articulated truck loaded with colour television sets, his left hand vibrating her clitoris

towards orgasm as the headlamps of the truck flare warningly in his rear-view mirror. Later still, he watches

as a friend takes a teenage girl in the rear seat. Greasy mechanic's hands expose her buttocks to the

advertisement hoardings that hurl past them. The wet highways flash by in the glare of headlamps and the

scream of brake-pads. The shaft of his penis glistens above the girl as he strikes at the frayed plastic roof of

the car, marking the yellow fabric with his smegma.

The last ambulance had left. An hour earlier the film actress had been steered towards her limousine. In

the evening light the white concrete of the collision corridor below the flyover resembled a secret airstrip

from which mysterious machines would take off into a metallized sky. Vaughan's glass aeroplane flew

somewhere above the heads of the bored spectators moving back to their cars, above the tired policemen

gathering together the crushed suitcases and handbags of the airline tourists. I thought of Vaughan's body,

colder now, its rectal temperature following the same downward gradients as those of the other victims of

the crash. Across the night air these gradients fell like streamers from the office towers and apartment houses

of the city, and from the warm mucosa of the film actress in her hotel suite.

I drove back towards the airport. The lights along Western Avenue illuminated the speeding cars, moving

together towards their celebration of wounds.

Chapter 2

I BEGAN to understand the real excitements of the car-crash after my first meeting with Vaughan.

Propelled on a pair of scarred and uneven legs repeatedly injured in one or other vehicle collision, the harsh

and unsettling figure of this hoodlum scientist came into my life at a time when his obsessions were

self-evidently those of a madman.

As I drove home from the film studios at Shepperton on a rain-swept June evening, my car skidded at the

intersection below the entrance to the Western Avenue flyover. Within seconds I was moving at sixty miles

an hour into the oncoming lane. As the car struck the central reservation the off-side tyre blew out and

whirled off its rim. Out of my control, the car crossed the reservation and turned up the high-speed exit

ramp. Three vehicles were approaching, mass-produced saloon cars whose exact model-year, colour schemes

and external accessories I can still remember with the painful accuracy of a never-to-be-eluded nightmare.

The first two I missed, pumping the brakes and barely managing to steer my car between them. The third,

carrying a young woman doctor and her husband, I struck head-on. The man, a chemical engineer with an

American foodstuffs company, was killed instantly, propelled through his windshield like a mattress from

the barrel of a circus cannon. He died on the bonnet of my car, his blood sprayed through the fractured

windshield across my face and chest. The firemen who later cut me from the crushed cabin of my car

assumed that I was bleeding to death from a massive open-heart wound.

I was barely injured. On my way home after leaving my secretary Renata, who was freeing herself from

an unsettling affair with me, I was still wearing the safety belt I had deliberately fastened to save her from

the embarrassment of embracing me. My chest was severely bruised against the steering wheel, my knees

crushed into the instrument panel as my body moved forwards into its own collision with the interior of the

car, but my only serious injury was a severed nerve in my scalp.

The same mysterious forces that saved me from being impaled on the steering wheel also saved the young

engineer's wife. Apart from a bruised upper jawbone and several loosened teeth, she was unharmed. During

my first hours in Ashford Hospital all I could see in my mind was the image of us locked together face to

face in these two cars, the body of her dying husband lying between us on the bonnet of my car. We looked

at each other through the fractured windshields, neither able to move. Her husband's hand, no more than a

few inches from me, lay palm upwards beside the right windshield wiper. His hand had struck some rigid

object as he was hurled from his seat, and the pattern of a sign formed itself as I sat there, pumped up by his

dying circulation into a huge blood-blister – the triton signature of my radiator emblem.

Supported by her diagonal seat belt, his wife sat behind her steering wheel, staring at me in a curiously

formal way, as if unsure what had brought us together. Her handsome face, topped by a broad, intelligent

forehead, had the blank and unresponsive look of a madonna in an early Renaissance icon, unwilling to

accept the miracle, or nightmare, sprung from her loins. Only once did any emotion cross it, when she

seemed to see me clearly for the first time, and a peculiar rictus twisted the right side of her face, as if the

nerve had been pulled on a string. Did she realize then that the blood covering my face and chest was her

husband's?

Our two cars were surrounded by a circle of spectators, their silent faces watching us with enormous

seriousness. After this brief pause everything broke into manic activity. Tyres singing, half a dozen cars

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J.G.BallardCRASHVINTAGEPublishedbyVintage1995Copyright©J.G.Ballard1973FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyJonathanCapeLtd,1973ISBN0099334917INTRODUCTIONThemarriageofreasonandnightmarethathasdominatedthe20thcenturyhasgivenbirthtoanevermoreambiguousworld.Acrossthecommunicationslandscapemovethespectresofsini...

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Ballard, J G - Crash

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