The Master Builder by Henrik Ibsen (1892)

Act 1

The Master Builder in question is Halvard Solness. For years he worked for Knut Brovik but then the tables were turned, Brovik went bankrupt while Solness struck out on his own and established his own thriving business, hiring Brovik, and his son Ragnar, to come and work for him. So Solness is now a vigorous successful man of 40 or so while Brovik is now old and ill and bitter. The play opens with Knut and Ragnar working in Solness’s office and grumblingly revealing all this backstory. Off to one side works pretty young Kaja Fosli, who is Knut’s niece and engaged to Ragnar.

The play opens with Solness returning to the office and confronting Knut who is unhappy. In particular he wants to see his son, Ragnar, get a commission of his own and prove his worth as an architect while Solness is reluctant to let him leave. The crux of the argument is that a young couple have come to Solness asking him to build them a home. Solness in front of Knut and Ragnar dismisses the commission but when Knut then asks if his son can take it up, and mentions that Ragnar has already shown the couple some sketches, Solness reverses his position and says Ragnar can’t do it, he’ll do it.

In the middle of the argument Solness broaches the theme which is to become central to the play, namely his anxiety that a new, younger generation is knocking on the door. Solness worries that he will be forced to get out of the way, make way for younger men (p.272).

Kaja

Back in the main office Knut says he feels ill so Ragnar helps his ailing dad go home. Left by themselves Solness and Kaja reveal that they are in love. Or more precisely, young Kaja is absolutely besotted with the older man. Through slips in his dialogue, Ibsen conveys the sense that Solness is going along with her infatuation, playing up to it (‘I can’t do without you’), but chiefly because he wants Ragnar to stay in his office, and where Kaja is, there Ragnar (her official fiancé) will remain (p.276).

Like most older literature, it’s impossible to imagine modern people behaving like this. The manipulation, yes, but the idea that Ragnar and Kaja have been engaged for five years and Ragnar hasn’t noticed that his beloved is besotted with another man – and that other man is his boss – is implausible.

Anyway, three more characters have to be introduced before we have the full set and the game can begin. First to enter is Solness’s wife, a faded beauty, a tired woman named Aline. We quickly realise that she is alert to whatever’s going on between her husband and his pretty secretary, and that – after she’s popped into the room briefly to say that Dr Herder has called round then leaves – we learn that Kaja, with that woman’s sense, knows that Aline knows and is tortured with anxiety and shame. Solness tries to reassure her and packs her off home.

Dr Herder

Dr Herder is introduced and the women leave the two men alone. In a tactful way Herder tells Solness his wife suspects he’s having an affair and asks if she is justified. Solness replies that his wife’s jealousy is not unjustified but not in the way she thinks. Yes Solness is playing up to Kaja but (our suspicions are confirmed) he’s only doing so to keep Ragnar in his practice, for the young man is extremely talented and useful.

But Solness goes beyond this simple piece of manipulation to tell the doctor something more. When Kaja first presented herself at the practice wanting something or other, as soon as she explained her relationship with Ragnar, Solness saw his opportunity and wished very strongly that she would apply for a job. But he didn’t say it out loud, just wished hard. The funny thing is that she turned up the next morning ready to start work as if he’d offered her the job and yet he never had. Solness himself is puzzled. It’s as if his unspoken wishes made it happen…

Dr Herder is a rational soul and thinks all this is poppycock. Returning to the main point he asks Solness why he hasn’t explained all this to his wife. Once it was explained she’d understand. And again, Solness gives an unexpectedly perverse or spiritual answer. He doesn’t explain the real situation to his wife because he enjoys her being suspicious and jealous of him. He enjoys ‘the mortification of letting Aline do him an injustice’ (p.282).

Again the doctor doesn’t understand him but Solness sweeps on, anyway, to declare that the real problem isn’t that his wife thinks he’s unfaithful, it’s that she thinks he’s mad. And sometimes Solness agrees. Everyone (including the doctor) thinks he’s rich and successful and yet inside he’s consumed with anxiety amounting to fear. he is terrified of being swept away in the deluge of the rising generation.

SOLNESS: The turn is coming. I sense it. I can feel it getting nearer. Somebody or other is going to demand: Make way for me! And then all the others will come storming up, threatening and shouting: Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Yes, just you watch, doctor! One of these days youth is going to come here beating on the door… (p.285)

Hilde

At the height of this slightly unhinged soliloquy there’s a knock on the door and the final character enters, Hilde Wangel. She’s dressed in hiking clothes and 23 and full of life and confidence. Herder remembers that he and Solness met her amid a group of hiking ladies earlier in the summer. Now she’s come back to town on her own, with nothing but the clothes she’s standing in and a hiking pack. Rather presumptuously she asks if she can stay the night and Solness, impressed by her forthrightness, says yes and calls his wife to fix up one of the spare rooms (in fact they have three unused nursery rooms) for her.

The doctor leaves Hilde and Solness alone. First she captivates him with her insouciance – she doesn’t have any money or any plans but laughs at his offer that she come and work for him (‘not likely!’). But then she reminds him that ten years earlier, when he was in his 30s and she was just 13, he had supervised the repair of the church tower in her home town of Lysanger. Once it was completed they held a ceremony, the whole town turned out in formal dress for speeches and so on, Hilde and the other schoolgirls were wearing white dresses, and at the peak Solness climbed to the top of the scaffolding and placed a wreath on the weathercock.

Then there was a big dinner at the town club and then Solness was invited round to Hilde’s father’s house for drinks. And how when he arrived she was the only one in the reception room. And now, she reminds him, he was very kind and said that she looked like a little princess, and how she said your princess, and how Solness played along and said, yes, in ten years time he would return and sweep her off to some exciting foreign land like Spain, carry her off like a troll and make her his princess. And then, Solness claims to have completely forgotten but Hilde now reminds him, that he kissed her. Took her in his arms and bent her backwards and kissed her, several times.

At first Solness angrily denies it while Hilde stands sullenly still and silent but then, in a strange way, he talks himself into believing it, and then asserting it. And what happened next…? Nothing happened next. All the other guests came rushing into the room and that was that, Hilde says grumpily.

But now she reminds him of something else he’s forgotten. The date all this happened was 19 September and today is 19 September. It’s exactly ten years to the day since he made his promise to return and carry her off to an exotic land (p.295). Playfully she raps the table and says, Time’s up! She’s here and she expects to be carried away to a magic kingdom!

A little more realistically she asks whether he’s built any more church towers recently and when he replies no, mostly people’s homes, she asks surely everyone should have towers on their houses and Solness admits that he’s most recently building a house for himself and, yes, it is going to have a tower, and they both rhapsodise for a moment about towers stretching up to the skies.

And we realise we’re not in an exactly realistic kind of play or fiction but in something which has crossed over, somehow, into a fairy tale.

And now, unrealistically, having established this memory-fairy bond between them, Solness shares with Hilde the deep fear he also shared with the doctor, his fear about Youth coming rampaging in and sweeping him away (p.299). This he explains, is why he’s locked himself away and barred the door (he must mean metaphorically, spiritually, because we’ve seen him freely coming and going).

All this is interrupted by first the doctor then Solness’s wife, Aline, entering to say she’s fixed up one of the bedrooms. Both the doctor and Aline are surprised at how intimate Solness and Hilde have become in their absence, signalled by the fact that Solness refers to her as the familiar Hilde, not the formal Miss Wangel which he ought to use seeing as they’ve only met half an hour ago.

But Solness explains to both that he met and knew her a few years ago. ‘Did you now?’ says Aline, raising her eyebrows. It’s clear that she sees Hilde as the latest in a succession of young women attracted to her husband. But Hilde in their last moments alone had asked Solness if she could find some use for her (presumably in his business) and when Solness enthusiastically replied Yes, she clapped her hands with delight. Some kind of pact or agreement has been signed between the anxious middle-aged man and this vivacious symbol of youth.

Act 2

Solness and Alvine alone together in the family home, revealing – no surprise – that they are both bitterly unhappy. We learned in an aside in Act 1 that her parents’ family home burned down 13 or so years ago and this turns out to have devastated Aline. I also think (it’s very elliptical) that either they had children who died young or were unable to have children, either way something about children is a sore point between them. With the result that they live in a house full of secrets and repressed unhappiness (‘The emptiness is dreadful.’)

Solness tries to persuade her that everything will be better once they move into the new house but Aline’s not having it. Nothing will change.

ALINE: Build as much as you will, Halvard – you can never build another home for me! (p.303)

In quick succession Solness reveals two things: he keeps harping on about being mad; but deeper than that, he is oppressed by a crushing sense of guilt towards Aline, even though he’s never knowingly done her any wrong.

Hilde

Into this miserable conversation walks Hilde who stayed last night. Aline is happy to break off the conversation in order to offer to go and buy for Hilde bits and bobs she’ll need. There’s just enough of an exchange between them for Aline to make it quite clear she’s sceptical about Solness’s claim that Hilde is a friend from way (back), using the same dry tone she uses when addressing Kaja. Plainly she thinks he likes to surround himself with adoring young women.

Left alone Hilde and Solness’s conversation is a strange mix of artless chat and intense confession. Hilde looks over the plans recently made by Ragnar which Solness has been reviewing but this leads into her intense declaration that only he, the Master Builder, should be allowed to build anything and, unexpectedly, Solness agrees and admits this is an opinion he has secretly nurtured.

To change the subject he points out the building in scaffolding across the way and Hilde notes the big tower. That’s the new house he’s built for them. And now he’s in confessional mode he tell Hilde (and the audience) the story of his children. Aline bore twin boys. But they were only three weeks old when the house burned down. Nobody was hurt in the fire but the shock and the cold air when she was rescued from the burning house gave Aline a fever. But she insisted on carrying on breast feeding the babies because it was her duty. And so she gave them the fever and they died…

And he points out to her the terrible paradox that, although the fire was the making of him – it allowed him to design and new buildings on the large plot of land freed up by the destruction of the old house and these homes made his reputation – the paradox is that his entire career is built on creating safe, secure homes for families when he, himself, can never again have a family, will never have children, will never know a child’s love.

And he is tortured by an immense guilt, the sense that the more successful he is an architect, the more he builds lovely homes for families, the more he and those around him, somehow, have to pay a price, the terrible thought:

SOLNESS: That all this I somehow have to make up for. Pay for. Not in money, but in human happiness. And not with my own happiness alone but with other people’s too. Don’t you see that, Hilde? That’s the price my status as an artist has cost me — and others. And every single day I have to stand by and watch this price being paid for me anew. Over and over again — endlessly! (p.316)

By now we can see why Solness has repeatedly described himself as mad; this terrible anxiety and guilt are a form of mental illness. And not only that, but he feels guilty that the loss of the boys deprived Aline if her vocation, which was to raise children.

Ragnar

All this angst is interrupted by Ragnar knocking and entering to tell Solness that his father, Knut, is very ill. Ragnar asks him if he can take the message back to his Dad that Solness rates and compliments his drawings. But Solness obstinately refuses to praise them and gets cross when Ragnar persists. Why doesn’t Solness just praise them and tell Ragnar to take the praise to his dying Father? Because he is blocked and obstinate.

Ragnar reluctantly leaves and Hilde tells Solness that was mean and cruel. Their conversation resumes its strange mood. Solness shares a secret, a kind of confession, he says the whole thing came down to a crack in one of the chimneys. He noticed it and meant to do something about it for ages but something held him back. Then he goes into a kind of visionary state to explain that he saw his house being burned down, he imagined it would happen one cold day while he and Aline were out for a ride and the others had banked up the fires ready for their return. He describes it so vividly that Hilde (and the audience) are led to believe this is the route of his guilt, that the fire which led to the death of his children and the ruin of his wife was somehow his fault.

And yet at the last minute he switches tack and says it wasn’t that at all. Turns out the fire started in a cupboard somewhere else, was in no way caused by the leak he didn’t fix. And yet so intensely had he wished for the fire that he is haunted by a sense of guilt he can’t assuage.

But he still hasn’t finished. He goes on to explain his conviction that in order to achieve anything a man needs helpers and servants and, moreover, they must come to him of their own volition. This is what he was trying to explain to Dr Herder who didn’t understand at all but Hilde does understand. She tells him that she felt some strange force or compulsion to come and see him (p.323). Yes, says Solness, we both have the troll inside us.

Floating just above the realm of realism, in the realm of poetic drama, Solness tells Hilde she is like a bird of the forest and she takes the metaphor and sees herself as a powerful bird of prey. Then he switches the image and says, no, she is like the dawn, she is the quality of Youth to which he is endlessly drawn (p.325).

This leads back to the drawings by Ragnar on the table and Solness confesses some more. He admits that Ragnar is a very talented architect and that, given half a chance, he will do to Solness what Solness did to h is father, namely smash him and leave him in the dust. Nonetheless, Hilde makes him come over and sit at the desk with the drawings on and insists that they write some nice comments for Ragnar to show his dying father.

But Solness can’t concentrate and asks Hilde why, if she was obsessed with him she never wrote to him. And why she never visited sooner. And what does she want from him? And she replies, simply, she wants the kingdom which he promised her.

Aline

Mrs Solness enters with various parcels saying she’s done the shopping for Hilde, who thanks her. but she asks her to call in Kaja from the office. Kaja enters very young and intimidated. Hilde gives her Ragnar’s architect’s drawings with Solness’s comments scribbled on them and tells her to run back to Ragnar’s house and give them to him to show his father in his dying hours…

But Kaja’s joy is brutally cut short, when in front of his wife and Hilde, Solness also tells Kaja to tell the Broviks that he has no further use for them, and that goes for her too. She is appalled. He has just fired all three of them. She creeps timidly out. Aline reprimands her husband for being so brutal but goes on, with her usual pointed manner, to say Solness will probably be able to replace her pretty easily…looking at Hilde.

Hilde is not intimidated and larkily says she’d be no use behind a desk, that’s not her style. Solness tells his wife to hurry up and pack their things ready to move into the new house. This very evening they’ll have the topping-off ceremony. And Hilde butts in to ask whether Solness will climb to the top of the tower to place a wreath at the top like he did with the church in her home town. Solness is inspired by the vision and wants to but Aline is horrified and reminds him he gets terrible vertigo, he can’t even bear to go out onto their first floor balcony, he gets dizzy, it would be an accident waiting to happen.

But so bewitched is Solness by Hilde that he says he’ll do it, regardless, anything for his Princess Hilde.

And so on to Act 3 with the audience totally expecting Solness to climb the tower and fall to his death. Will he, won’t he?

Act 3

The third and final act is set outside, on a verandah of their current home but with a view over to the new one, partly swathed in scaffolding. Aline is sunning herself. Hilde comes up onto the verandah bearing flowers from the garden. They get chatting with Hilde obviously buttering Aline up and gaining her confidence enough to talk about the famous fire which burned her family home. She makes the point that it’s the little things whose loss hurts the most, like the nine dollies she’d kept since her childhood.

Enter Dr Herdal, paying a visit. With the three of them there Hilde asks if he’ll be around that evening to watch Solness climb the tower, first the doctor’s heard of it. This triggers panic fear in Aline who begs Hilde to talk her husband out of it. Impulsively Hilde throws her arms round Aline’s neck in the way nobody now does (did they ever or is this a convention from a certain era?) Aline tells the doctor she’d like to talk to him about her husband and they exit.

Followed promptly by Solness entering. Hilde tells him point blank that she wants to leave. She talks openly about them having an affair which hadn’t been explicit before. She says it’s one thing taking the man from someone you don’t know but she’s come to know and like Mrs Solness (in the matter of about 2 days!) and so, no, can’t have an affair with him and wants to leave.

Surprisingly (or maybe not, given Ibsen’s track record of hysterical characters telling each other they can’t live without the other) Solness is devastated: ‘What will happen to me after you’re gone? What will I have left to live for?’ He says Aline is dead inside ‘And here I am, chained alive to this dead woman’ (p.338)

Hilde suddenly outbursts that this life is so stupid, their not daring to reach out and lay hands upon happiness just because someone is standing in the way (i.e. Mrs Solness). But just as quickly they start joking around. Hilde says again that she is like a great forest bird, and (Solness adds) swooping down on her prey, and then Hilde declares she knows what he will build next, it will be a castle! He promised her a kingdom and all kingdoms have castles, don’t they? And they push on further into this fantasy, she telling him he’ll build her the biggest tallest mightiest castle ever, high on a hill and with a ginormous tower. Caught up in her vision, Solness asks for more and she says he will go further, her Master Builder will build her castles in the air.

Ragnar

Enter Ragnar to puncture this vision. He’s brought the wreath, the workmen gave it to him to bring over. Solness says he’ll take charge of the wreath prompting Ragnar to mockingly ask whether he is going to climb to the top of the building. Angrily Solness tells him to go home to tend his father. Too late for that, Ragnar replies, he’s had a stroke and is unconscious. Kaja is tending him. Solness tells him, nonetheless, to push off and go be with his father, and exits, walking off the balcony and over to the other building, holding the wreath.

This gives Ragnar an opportunity to tell Hilde how bitterly angry he is with Solness, for ruining his father’s life, for holding him back and all of this just to…Hilde prompts him … just to be close to Kaja. Hilde’s suspicions that Solness was in a relationship with Kaja are confirmed but she refuses to believe it. Ragnar says Kaja has just recently admitted it, that the Master Builder owns her body and soul, that he controls her thoughts, that she can never be separated from him.

Hilde refuses to believe it and now tells Ragnar her interpretation, which is that Solness only kept Kaja on because doing so kept Ragnar tied to him, stuck in his office. Ragnar admits that has a certain logic and reveals just how much Solness is afraid of him. Hilde demurs. Ragnar says she doesn’t realise yet that the Master Builder’s entire character is based on fear.

Hilde demurs and says her Master Builder is fearless, and repeats her girlhood memory of watching him climb up the tower, brave and fearless. Yes, but that’s the one and only time he ever did it, Ragnar ripostes, he’ll never do it again…

Aline

Enter Aline who asks where Solness is and when the others tell her he’s gone off with the wreath she has a panic attack. She begs Ragnar to go and fetch him back, tell him they have important visitors and so Ragnar trots off.

At which point enter the doctor to tell her that she actually does have some visitors come to see her and also to ask after Solness. Aline and Hilde have a brief exchange wondering whether Solness actually is mad as he keeps telling everyone. Aline and the doctor exit and Solness reappears.

It’s just Solness and Hilde and he confesses something to her (something more, on top of all the other confessions the play’s been full of). This is that when the fire burned down the old house and led to the death of his children, he thought God was calling him to become a master of his craft, to deprive him of all distractions so he could dedicate his life to building churches to His glory.

But then he, Solness, did something impossible. A man terrified of heights and overcome by vertigo, he nonetheless managed to climb to the top of the church tower he’d built (as seen by Hilde, as described half a dozen times already) and when he was up there, he had a word with God. He told God that he intended to be free, to do as he pleased, that never again would he build churches for God but homes for people (p.349). Defiance! Resolution!

But…but then…but now he thinks it was all for nothing. The people he built for didn’t really value their homes, he doesn’t value his achievement. So will he give up building altogether? No, there is one more thing he plans to build and he revisits what they were talking about earlier – castles in the air and tells her he can only do it with her.

Not with anyone else, she asks waspishly. Not with a certain Kaja. Solness is annoyed and, instead of flat out denying it, or explaining he only buttered up Kaja to keep Ragnar, foolishly he makes it a point of principle. He says Hilde must just trust him on this, she must believe in him. She replies she’ll believe in him when she sees him at the top of the tower.

And so Ibsen has manipulated his material round to make this climbing-of-the-tower become a great test his young would-be lover forces Solness to carry out. The tower has become a symbol within the play, symbolising Solness’s determination and something to do with his commitment to Hilde and starting a new life. But towers are also a very ancient symbol, freighted with numerous meanings to do with height and power and achievement, not forgetting the close to God element Solness made explicit in his colloquy with the Creator.

Solness pledges that he will not only climb to the top of the tower but, once there, he will have another conversation with God and this time he will assert his totalm freedom and independence:

SOLNESS: I shall say to him: Hear me, Great and Mighty Lord! Judge me as you will. But henceforth I shall build one thing only, quite the loveliest thing in the whole world…
HILDE: Yes…yes…yes!
SOLNESS: …Build it together with the princess I love…
HILDE: Yes, tell Him that! Tell Him that!
SOLNESS: Yes. And then I shall say to Him: And now I go down to take her in my arms and kiss her…
HILDE:…Many times! Say that!

Long story short: Solness dies. There’s a grand build-up, all the other characters arrive on the balcony (Mrs Solness, Hilde, Ragnar, Dr Heldar) plus some miscellaneous ladies while the set is arranged in such a way that we can see some of the crowd gathering in front of the house.

Mrs Solness is terrified and tells Solness not to do it but he reassures her that he’s just going down among his workmen. There’s an exchange between Ragnar and Hilde where he gives full vent to his frustration. Mrs Solness said how pleased she was that so many of her husband’s old apprentices had turned out to watch, but Ragnar explains it’s because Solness kept them all down, controlled them, cramped their careers, and so they all want to see him fail.

Although lots of other people ooh and aah, the core of the scene is the effect on Hilde. She watches, as in a trance, in a vision, her Master Builder clambers his way to the top of the scaffold where he does, indeed, place the wreath. And then there’s a pause which, as she explains to Ragnar, is Solness talking to God. At last, at last, she sees him ‘great and free‘. She hears a song in the air.

Then they all see Solness plummet to his death amid a wreck of scaffold and planking. But even after someone’s shouted up from the crowd that he’s definitely dead, Hilde still hears and sees the afterwaves of her vision.

HILDE: [with a kind of quiet, bewildered triumph]: But he got right to the top. And I heard harps in the air. [Waves the shawl upwards and shouts with a wild intensity.] My…my…master builder! (p.355)

Comments

Old literature is strange, that’s why I like it. It follows the rules of genres we no longer know, is influenced by the works of colleagues and contemporaries who we’ve forgotten, but most importantly, shows people behaving (we think) according to the social conventions and values of their day, many of which are so remote from us as to come from another planet. The text, the plot, the dialogue veer in and out of comprehension like someone looking through a microscope and fiddling with the focus. Sometimes it’s small details of social convention or behaviour which we find odd but often it’s major plot developments and sometimes the entire conception.

So my response to all the Ibsen plays has been very varied, thrilled, appalled, galvanised, puzzled, disappointed.

To start with the disappointment, it’s striking that three of these four plays end with the dramatic death (or mental collapse) of the protagonist: I associate this kind of melodrama with Chekhov and not in a good way.

Critics refer to the symbolism of the plays. Having just written a note about symbolism I don’t think this is quite the right concept; it’s more that the plays start with strictly plausible realism but then slowly transcend it in order to show us the characters’ psyches; and that these psyches are complex and over-wrought.

But reading these seven Ibsen plays I found the power of the conception, and the power of the conception of the central characters, steamrollers through doubts about verisimilitude, overwhelms quibbles about plausibility. They appear realistic in every detail and yet Ibsen’s plays feel like they take you to the heart of the burning furnace of human nature.


Related links

Ibsen reviews

Drama reviews

  • Play reviews

War Fever by J.G. Ballard (1990)

This is Ballard’s last collection of short stories, some very short indeed but some among his most experimental and enjoyable.

  1. War Fever
  2. The Secret History of World War 3
  3. Dream Cargoes
  4. The Object of the Attack
  5. Love in a Colder Climate
  6. The Largest Theme Park in the World
  7. Answers to a Questionnaire
  8. The Air Disaster
  9. Report on an Unidentified Space Station
  10. The Man Who Walked on the Moon
  11. The Enormous Space
  12. Memories of the Space Age
  13. Notes Towards a Mental Breakdown
  14. The Index

1. War Fever (1989)

Through the eyes of young Ryan we learn about the endless war in Beirut between small numbers of warriors divided into four factions, the Nationalists, Christians, Fundamentalists and Royalists. Ryan lives with his Aunt Vera and sister in a tiny apartment in a ruined tower block overlooking the wartorn city.

He is helped out by the kindly Dr Edwards, a United Nations medical observer (if I had a pound for every Ballard character who is a doctor). The story describes Ryan’s slow, faltering steps to bring about an end to the unending conflict, by asking everyone to adopt the blue hats of the UN peacekeepers, who man the main checkpoints but are forbidden from stepping in to stop the fighting for fear that outside powers will intervene.

Ryan’s scheme works surprisingly well and soon peace has broken out among a number of the factions. Ryan is just nervously approaching the formidable woman fighter Lieutenant Valentina when a series of colossal explosion occur across the ruined city. Ryan hares back to his apartment and discovers that Aunt Vera and his sister have been kidnapped!

Dr Edwards watches his face closely as he asks Ryan whether he’s going to rush back to his militia and resume the fighting. However, Ryan decides he is going to renew his determination to being about a truce. At which point Dr Edwards ties Ryan’s wrists together, pushes him into a jeep and drives him through umpteen checkpoints and right out of the ruined, smoke-filled city altogether.

Here, in a well-organised, clean depot and admin area packed with new guns and munitions, Dr Edwards explains to Ryan that Beirut is a huge scientific experiment. The whole of the rest of the world lives in complete peace: but they pay to support endless fighting in Beirut, supplying gun and ammo and orphans resulting from tragic accidents. Thus new generations of fighters are continually refreshing the depleted ranks of the four factions.

Why? In the same way that a handful of labs around the world keep supplies of smallpox which is otherwise eradicated: to study the war virus, to study what makes people fight, why they are motivated, how they organise and how far they will go.

It’s a version of The Truman Show with rocket grenades. Except that the exploding and the fighting gets perilously close. Dr Edwards rallies with the other UN behind the scenes staff and head back into the war zone. They drive to the wrecked sports stadium where Aunt Vera and his sister had been taken and should have been looked after. But Royalists managed to fight through the UN defences and kill everyone, the UN defenders, Aunt Vera and Ryan’s sister.

And it is then from the deep well of bitterness and anger at how and all of them have been played, that Ryan conceives his next Big Plan. He will unite the warring factions of Beirut. They will fight and overcome the UN forces. And then they will unleash the dormant virus of war and violence on an unsuspecting world!

2. The Secret History of World War 3 (1988)

A slight misnomer because this short squib is mostly a satire on American politics and the presidency of Ronald Reagan.

The narrator is a physician (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who is a doctor) based in Washington DC, and this short story depicts a fictional future in which Reagan is replaced as president in 1989, but his successor is so lamentable that the American Constitution is amended so Ronnie can stand for president a third time and is, indeed, elected, at the ripe old age of 82. He’s so old that the media take to publishing regular updates on his health, the TV news starts having a President’s Health segment, and one day an ECG-type readout appears along the bottom of the screen. It’s Ronnie’s heartbeat. Soon half the TV screen is full of a panoply of readouts recording all aspects of the President’s health, and Ballard satirises the breathless commentary of TV hosts – the stereotypical craggy old guy and the glamourpuss blonde – and the way everyone in the country, including the narrator’s own wife, become more and more addicted to the second-by-second commentary which covers every burp and fart and bowel motion.

It is in the middle of this satirical vision of a celebrity president-addicted population, that mounting tensions between the superpowers (which have, satirically, only gotten the briefest of mentions on the news in between the analysis of what the President had for lunch) erupts into a sudden exchange of nuclear weapons which takes place on 27 January 1997 between 6.47 and 6.51pm. The Russians launch a handful of nukes which explode in Alaska, the Yanks launch a handful of nukes which explode in Siberia, then both sides come to their senses, end the war, and de-escalate the various tensions around the globe.

So the story isn’t really about World War Three in any way you might expect: it is a satire on the mediatisation of American politics, and the hopeless addiction to screens and an endless diet of celebrity news, bulletins and updates among the American public.

Thoughts

This story was published in 1988. Modern commentators think there is something new and unprecedented about twitter and so on, and of course smart phones and social media are new, in one sense: and yet here’s Ballard satirising a zombie president and the American public’s addiction to screens over thirty years ago. That’s why Trump and twitter just don’t seem that new to some of us: or are just the latest iteration of a very long-running issue.

3. Dream Cargoes (1990)

Johnson is thirty years old but comes across in this story as very simple minded. He’s the dogsbody on a decrepit cargo steamer named the Prospero. In the Far East its alcoholic captain, Galloway, lets himself be bribed into taking on board an extremely hazardous cargo of toxic chemicals and the steamer then chugs round South America and up the coast towards the Caribbean. But here a series of port authorities and customs officials forbid the Prospero from docking with a cargo which has slowly started leaking and discharging toxic fumes all over the ship as well as corroding its cargo hold and then the hull.

As the ship starts to list to one side and becomes wreathed in toxic fumes, Captain Galloway and the handful of crew decide to abandon the ship but Johnson stays on, deluded by dreams of being a ‘captain’. A day or so later he spots a small island somewhere off Puerto Rico and beaches the ship there.

Over the ensuing days the toxic waste spills everywhere and has a drastic effect on the local vegetation, which starts growing at a breakneck speed, while Johnson himself descends into the kind of malnourished-sick-fever-dream which is so familiar in Ballard’s fiction.

As new types of tropical plant burgeon all around him, Johnson realises the island is visited by a biologist, Dr Chambers (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who is a doctor). She becomes involved in his dreams of becoming one with the island, of becoming one of the hyper-evolved giant birds and flying towards the sun (as in so many other Ballard stories) and (as in so many other Ballard stories) the way time is slowing down for him, as he goes into more and more trance or fugue states, so that his perceptions superimpose multiple images of the same object, creating a fragmented or crystal effect.

He stared at Christine, aware that the colours were separating themselves from her skin and hair. Superimposed images of herself, each divided from the others by a fraction of a second, blurred the air around her, an exotic plumage that sprang from her arms and shoulders. The staid reality that had trapped them all was beginning to dissolve. Time had stopped and Christine was ready to rise into the air…. He would teach Christine and the child to fly.

On the final page an American ship arrives and the US Navy lieutenant who comes ashore finds them both in quite a state – finds also that the giant flora seems to have overgrown itself and is now dying off. As he helps them leave the island Johnson reflects that he has gotten Dr Chambers pregnant and that their child might well be the first of a new species of human, and how they would fight to protect it from ‘those who feared it might replace them.’

4. The Object of the Attack (1984)

Cast in the format of diary entries by Dr Richard Greville (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who is a doctor), Chief Psychiatric Adviser to the Home Office.

His diary entries concern a young psychotic who built and flew a glider over Windsor Castle during a state visit by President Ronald Reagan. But he got tangled up in some aerials, fell to earth and the police found he had loads of gelignite strapped to his body, wired to a detonator. Thinking he planned to assassinate the president and his entourage, the Boy, as everyone refers to him, is locked up in a series of mental institutes, where Dr Griffiths visits him.

Griffiths gives us a profile of this boy, Matthew Young, a devoted psychopath, who’s suffered from epilepsy all his life. He’s been through a whole raft of careers including trainee pilot and video game designer. What is common to them all is a pathological obsession with space flight, with the Apollo missions and the Space Shuttle.

This becomes entangled with the concept of an Ames Room. An Ames room is a space in which furniture and other elements have been carefully arranged so that, from one chosen perspective, likely a peephole, it creates a completely convincing optical illusion. The concept was invented by American scientist Adelbert Ames, Jr. in 1946.

Anyway, Young escapes from a mental institute in Daventry by insisting on going to the chapel and being left alone. being a psychotic genius, he creates an Ames Room optical illusion by arranging all the furniture in the room to look as if he’s kneeling at the altar praying, when in fact he had arranged the pews in a ladder up to the ceiling and was crouched forward undoing the screws of the ventilator.

So Young escapes and disappears, going underground. Here the content of this short story gets quite clotted. Because Griffiths has figured out, from meeting the Boy himself and reading his journals, that it was never Ronald Reagan he wanted to assassinate, it’s a figure called Colonel Stamford, one of the last Apollo astronauts, who went on to have a successful career in business, and has now turned into a major campaigner against the evils of Communism. That’s why he was accompanying Reagan on the state visit.

And now Colonel Stamford is due to return to the UK, to address big Billy Graham-style public meetings, hailed by Newsweek as ‘a space-age messiah’, the ‘founder of the first space-based religion’. So the story contains quite a lot of speculating about how the space programme has morphed into a popular religion!

Griffiths turns investigator and decides to revisit the locked-up garage in Highbury where Young had been living when he was arrested. There’s a policeman on guard who lets him through and Griffiths pokes through Young’s belongings, finding more evidence of the deranged young man’s obsession with space flight.

Then he remembers that behind the lockup is a disused Baptist chapel and goes through into this. Here he discovers a bizarre scene, for Young is not only here (just yards from the protecting policeman – how did he get past?) but has been hard at work creating another Ames room, using props and posters from Star Wars and Dr Who to create a bizarre illusionistic installation of an astronaut on the moon.

Except that it looks like the Boy had an epileptic fit while at the top of the ladder and has fallen to the ground, bruising his face, cracking some teeth. Around him are the disassembled parts of a stockless rifle which he had been oiling when the attack kicked in.

And here’s the thing: Griffiths leaves him be. He frees Young’s tongue and windpipe, then tiptoes out and strolls nonchalantly past the police guard. Cut to a few weeks later as Stamford arrives in the UK, addressing both Houses of Parliament calling for a crusade against the evil empire of the non-Christian world, for the creation of orbital nuclear bomb platforms, for the launching of laser weapons which can be targeted on Tehran, Moscow and Peking. the story ends with Griffiths quietly confident that Young will have recovered from his grand mal seizure, completed his preparations and will be attending that evening’s grand assembly at Earl’s Court where Colonel Stamford will be addressing a cheering audience and will, God willing, be shot down by his psychotic assassin.

Thoughts

As so often in a Ballard story, not just the subject but the construction, the shape of the narrative itself, seems slightly askew, off-kilter. What starts out as a fairly limited study of one epileptic psychopath morphs before our eyes into an increasingly garish fantasia about an ex-NASA astronaut who’s founded a New Age religion and is frothing at the mouth about destroying Communism and Islam. It’s quite an extreme trajectory in just ten or so pages and, as with so many Ballard stories, I couldn’t figure out whether it was brilliant or – as I was more inclined to think – ludicrous.

When he writes narratives about individuals – like the protagonists of Crash, Concrete Island or High Rise – Ballard well conveys a delirious sense of psychological dislocation or alienation, and attaches it very effectively indeed to the imagery of late-twentieth century life, mainly the brutalist architecture of concrete motorways, flyovers, multi-story car parks, airports and vertiginous high-rise blocks.

But as soon as he starts making generalisations about society at large, and going on about NATO and NASA and the Third World War and Ronald Reagan and the Queen… something ineluctably cartoonish enters the stories; they become silly and superficial.

5. Love in a Colder Climate (1988)

A sort of sci-fi spoof or satire.

It is 2010 and the spread of AIDS and related viruses has put everyone off sex or physical contact of any kind. Younger people have become celibate with the result that the population plummets. By the date of the story, 2010, the government has introduced national service although, as Ballard would put it, of a very particular kind.

It is national procreation service. When they turn 21 young people are assigned partners by computer and have to report to the other person’s apartment – ideally dressed in one of the procreation-encouraging outfits – an Elvis Presley ‘Prince Valiant’ suit for men, a bunny girl, cheerleader or Miss America outfit for women – and are compelled to copulate. Satire. (Note how all these outfits are American. Born in 1930, America, American cars and movies and cigarettes and technology, represented The Future for Ballard from his boyhood on, as both volumes of his fictional autobiography – Empire of the Sun and The Kindness of Women – powerfully convey.)

Ballard lays on the satire with a trowel with the suggestion that each young person is monitored by a personal supervisor who is a priest – the religious thought to have the mentoring skills and moral subtlety required – while young women are mentored as to how to have sex, lots of sex, by nuns. Satire. Anyone who refuses to have sex goes through stages of rehabilitation, which starts with being forced to watch porn videos and progresses to chemotherapy.

Anyway, the protagonist, David Bradley, is himself super-reluctant and when he is sent round to the flat of a young woman, Lucille McCabe, discovers she doesn’t want to either. They fall in love on the spot, and during the following months Bradley makes elaborate precautions to become her protector, swapping shifts, hacking computers to remove appointments with other men, even faking her pregnancy with the help of a friendly lab technician.

All to no avail. Their ruse is discovered when another lover is sent round by the computer and Bradley can’t stand watching Lucille being bundled towards the bedroom, they fight, Bradley is arrested and brought before a tribunal.

Here he is convicted of believing ‘the Romantic fallacy’ and of having ‘an exalted and idealised view of women’ and sentenced to three years additional national service. The only way out of it is to refuse and force the authorities to implement the ultimate sanction, and castrate him. This he happily submits to if it means he can be with the woman he loves.

Thoughts

As a child of the 60s, well a widower who lived through the 60s and took full advantage of the Sexual Revolution, Ballard is clearly satirising the rightward and puritanical shift caused by Mrs Thatcher and AIDS. Is it a good story, or heavy-handed satire? It’s certainly not weird hard-core Ballard and can be categorised along with his other relatively ‘straight’ satirical stories.

6. The Largest Theme Park in the World (1989)

Another satire.

Set in the near future when Europe’s last remaining countries give in and join a United Federation of Europe. In that summer (of 1995) millions and millions of students, middle managers and workers go for their annual holidays on the 3,000-mile-long strip of beach which is the Mediterranean shore from the Costa Brava to Glyfada.

But this time they refuse to come back. They become full-time sun worshippers, they take to beach exercises and martial arts. They become trim and lean and fit. When the police of the Mediterranean nations come to turf them off the beach, there are pitched battles and the sun-worshippers win. The heady summer of 1996 rolls into the spring of 1997 and there is now an army of 30 million strong living on camps along this huge narrow territory, in effect a new nation.

So far, so like a vision of the social collapse envisioned in High Rise but applied to beach culture. Beaches have always fascinated Ballard. The Terminal Beach is one of his most famous stories, but the story in which the world’s population suddenly has some profound primal urge in our primitive minds activated by waves from outer space, and walks, as one man, into the sea, is the most haunting variation on the theme.

This story is much shallower story than that one and its satirical climax – which feels pretty forced – is that the armies of the beaches eventually arms up and marches back north into the so-called United Europe, determined to restore a Europe of nations, each jealous of its borders and customs and traditions.

So it turns into an oddly wonky satire on the EU.

7. Answers to a Questionnaire (1985)

A short and interesting format, this text consists of 100 answers to a questionnaire – in fact more like some kind of police interview – where we don’t see the questions, just the answers in a numbered list.

It’s surprising how much you can pack into a brief format like this. Without any of the questions, and just via the clipped answers, quite a complicated narrative emerges – in fragments and cryptic references – in which the narrator appears to have befriended a Middle-Eastern-looking down-and-out with severe injuries to his hands, who is obsessed with DNA and ice-skating, who is a whizz at hacking into cash machines and extracting large sums, which they seem to have spent on organising group sex sessions.

They spend some of the money setting up radio antennae on top of the Post Office Tower pointing towards the constellation Orion and the narrator appears to have heard the figure’s voice as transmitted from the star Betelgeuse some 2,000 years ago, and appears to know the secret of Eternal Life.

This leads to the figure becoming super-famous, selling out Wembley Stadium and attracting visits from all sorts of luminaries such as the Archbishop of Canterbury, with his claim to know the secret of Eternal Life by injecting new DNA into the human germplasm, extending life up to a million years!

The pound rises on exchange markets, a serum is created and millions of people queue up to be injected, in fact the injections became compulsory for everyone over the age of 11. The side effects were impotence and loss of libido, but this hardly mattered if everyone was going to live forever.

But the very intensive bond between the Christ figure and the ‘accused’, the man answering the questions, seems to have turned sour. The accused seems to have bought a handgun and shot him, from seven feet, with three shots.

It ends with a boom-boom punchline. Literally reading between the lines of the fragmented answers, it seems as if the injections which promised eternal life have not worked, that the ‘accused’, because he was in prison during the time of the mass vaccinations wasn’t given one – and so he is the only man in the UK, possibly the world, who still has functioning sex organs and so ‘the restoration of the birthrate is now his sole responsibility.’

A smart story and a snazzy format. My favourite answer was to question 71, where the accused reveals that the mystery figure ‘wanted me to become the warhead of a cruise missile’. Very Ballard.

8. The Air Disaster (1974)

One of the new 1,000-passenger jet airliners is reported as having crashed somewhere just off the coast of Mexico near Acapulco. The narrator is a not very successful journalist who’s covering a fashionable film festival. His editor, like everyone else’s editors, sends him off to cover the disaster, but there’s a chance encounter in the petrol station where he fills up with gas. Two other journalists are talking to the pump attendant and through the language barrier he appears to be telling them the plane didn’t crash out at sea at all but up in the nearby mountains. The other two hacks don’t believe him and head off for the coast, but the narrator is suddenly seized by an intuition that he’s right. It would only have taken a fractional difference of height and speed for it to have hit the mountains.

So he fills up with gas and heads in the opposite direction up into the hills. He passes through a series of peasant villages, each one more impoverished that the last, until the final one where he enters Ballard-land and becomes genuinely scared for his safety as he watches the dirt-poor illiterate peasants eyeing him, his car, his cameras and everything else about him which they could steal. Trying to impress the narrator addresses several of these toothless old men, waving a wad of cash about and asking if there’s been a crash BOOM in the mountains, and are there bodies, corpses, cadavers?

The primitive old men nod and smile and point up to the last peak, so the narrator clambers up to the final small canyon between the snowy mountain peaks and discovers… the thirty-year-old wreckage of some military jet which crashed up here a generation earlier and is thoroughly derelict and rusted, ‘a tattered deity over this barren mountain’.

The wrecked airplane is, of course, a central symbol in Ballard’s weird imaginarium, recalling the Cessna Sheppard crash lands Myths of the Near Future, the excavated Second World War planes in My Dream of Flying to Wake Island, the abandoned Japanese fighters Jim sits in in Empire of the Sun, or the still-going but decaying planes in Memories of the Space Age…

Anyway, we can imagine his disappointment and chagrin at having gone on this long wild goose chase. But the kicker is in the last page. As he returns down the hillside he goes through the last village he passed, the one where he had brandished wads of money and asked for cadavers. Only to realise that the villagers have dug up their dead relatives and lined their earth-covered, half-rotted corpses along the wall by the road, in the hope that they will pay them. Gruesome. Macabre.

9. Report on an Unidentified Space Station (1982)

A nice little brain teaser told in nine short snippets described as ‘surveys’.

A spaceship arrives at what its crew initially take to be a small space station, happy to find it as their ship needs repairs. They enter the station to find it contains concourses full of tables and chairs like a giant waiting space at an airport terminal. They walk along one of these concourses and slowly realise it goes on for some distance, giving out left and right onto further mezzanines and waiting spaces with tables and chairs. When they force open the doors of one of the lifts they can’t see a top or bottom to the shaft. They drop furniture down one of the lift shafts and hear no sound: there doesn’t appear to be a bottom.

Each of the reports updates us as they discover the larger and larger extent of the station. Then they notice the floor and ceiling has a slight curvature, lifting their hopes and making them think it might be circular and they might eventually circle round on themselves. But even this is an illusion. The station appears to curve very slowly, indefinitely, in all directions, as if it is expanding.

By the point of the final ‘survey’ the author has come to the conclusion that the space station is as big as the universe; in fact it might be bigger. The distance they travelled in their spaceship from the solar system might easily be incorporated within the confines of the space station. By the end of the text the author has gone reliably mad.

Our instruments confirm what we have long suspected, that the empty space across which we traveled from our own solar system in fact lies within the interior of the station, one of many vast lacunae set in its endlessly curving walls. Our solar system and its planets, the millions of other solar systems that constitute our galaxy, and the island universes themselves all lie within the boundaries of the station. The station is coeval with the cosmos, and constitutes the cosmos. Our duty is to travel across it on a journey whose departure point we have already begun to forget, and whose destination is the station itself, every floor and concourse within it. So we move on, sustained by our faith in the station, aware that every step we take thereby allows us to reach a small part of that destination. By its existence the station sustains us, and gives our lives their only meaning. We are so glad that in return we have begun to worship the station.

10. The Man Who Walked on the Moon (1985)

An eerie story. Part of what’s eerie is how totally Ballard thought the Space Age was over and done by the 1980s. There were six crewed U.S. Apollo landings on the moon between 1969 and 1972, and then that was it. I’m inclined to agree.

This story is set in Brazil. It’s a first person narrative. The narrator is a failed journalist, kicked off a succession of ever-smaller papers and forced into giving foreign language tuition. His wife and his mother, who lives with them, despise him, and virtually kick him out the house each morning to go and get a proper job.

Hanging round the cafes he get to learn about a sad, wasted figure, a certain Mr Scranton, who is introduced to tourists as ‘the astronaut’. He isn’t an astronaut and the waiters laugh at him, the American tourists have their photos taken by him in a jokey kind of way. Our narrator does some background research into him and discovers Scranton was a crop-dusting pilot in Miami during the moon landing era, but was never anywhere near NASA.

The story recounts the way our narrator is slowly slowly drawn into this impoverished, thin, wasted man’s weird delusory world. He jokily introduces himself and says he’s writing a piece about sci-fi movies and would like ‘the astronaut’s’ opinion. But slowly, over their next few encounters, he becomes haunted by Scranton’s faraway stare, his gaze through the people and buildings of this world, his other-planetary loneliness.

The narrator asks whether Scranton has proof of his experiences on the moon and Scranton nods slowly. He needs to be helped back to his squalid flat above a fleapit cinema, the Luxor. Here he shows the narrator his ‘photographs’, his ‘evidence’. It consists of pictures torn out of Life and Newsweek magazine (note, American magazines). He’s mad, delusional, and yet…

He has known the loneliness of utter separation from all other people. He has gazed at the empty perspectives of the planets. He sees through pedestrians and traffic as if they were fleeting tricks of the sun.

Sick and ill, Scranton, like so many Ballard figures, wastes away and dies. And hands on his mantle. The narrator takes his place at the seedy café. Without any effort he finds himself slowly erasing the memories of his family life, his wife and mother and failed carer in journalism slowly disappear, to be slowly replaced by an alternative past, one in which he trained hard as an astronaut, in which he remembers the coastline of Florida falling away beneath the giant rocket. A past in which he genuinely did walk on the moon.

11. The Enormous Space (1989)

The first-person narrator is a merchant banker named Geoffrey Ballantyne. His wife has divorced him and run off with her lover, he was recently in a car crash and is still recuperating. (This reminds us of another middle-class narrator who goes mental after recuperating from a car crash, Faulkner in The Overloaded Man).

The story begins as he takes the decision not to go out of his front door. Ever again. To use up all the resources within the house and then live on space and time. In the event, after reducing himself to the familiar Ballardian condition of hallucinating malnutrition, he takes to luring the neighbours’ dogs and cats into his garden, killing and cooking them. He becomes more and more detached from reality and the house appears to grow larger and larger, soon having as many rooms as the Palace of Versailles.

I have embarked on a long internal migration, following a route partly prescribed within my head and partly within this house, which is a far more complex structure than I had realised.

His wife, Margaret, pops in a couple of times, each time noticing the progressive degradation of both the house and the narrator, but each time he manages to bundle her out. His description of the house becoming steadily larger, until he can’t make it up the stairs any more, until he can’t eventually make it out of the kitchen and remains slumped against the powerless fridge, watching the horizons expand to infinity. Until his former secretary, Brenda, pops round worried about him. By this time we have accompanied Ballantyne so far on his trip into psychosis that it’s her who seems the odd one out, and we are utterly convinced of his psychotic point of view as he describes her stepping over him slumped in his kitchen.

She is walking towards me, but so slowly that the immense room seems to carry her away from me in its expanding dimensions. She approaches and recedes from me at the same time, and I am concerned that she will lose herself in the almost planetary vastness of this house. Catching her as she swerves past me, I protect her from the outward rush of time and space.

See, no exotic words or contrived sentences or purple prose. Fairly flat, functional prose which manages to convey a state of complete derangement.

Ballantyne kills her, chops up her body, eats some and puts her head in the freezer, reminding us of the genuinely horrific climax of High Rise. Christ, this is a terrifyingly delirious text.

12. Memories of the Space Age (1982)

To an extraordinary extent this is a rewrite of previous stories such as News From The Sun or an alternate version of the contemporaneous story Myths of the Near Future, from the premise of the story through to the narrative structure right down to the use of the name Anne for key figures in both stories.

Here again we meet a former NASA physician, Dr Edward Mallory (if I had a pound for every Ballard protagonist who is a doctor) who has travelled to the abandoned zone of Cape Kennedy from Canada where he specialised in treated Downs Syndrome and autistic children. He has come with his wife, Anne. They are both afflicted with the ‘space sickness’ which has been slowly spreading out from the old NASA launching centre. The space sickness is a disease of time; the victim experiences fugues or largos when their time completely stops and they’re stuck stationary.

So for the usual obscure reasons, Mallory has come to live amid the abandoned hotels and shopping precincts of the beach resorts opposite the old launch site, squatting in a derelict room on the firth floor of an abandoned hotel, and foraging for food in the dusty abandoned supermarkets.

And of course, as usual, there is an Antagonist – Hinton, a former astronaut and in fact, the first astronaut to commit a murder in space, when he locked his co-pilot Alan Shepley into the docking module and evacuated its air, live, in front of a global viewing audience of one billion viewers.

On landing, Hinton was sent to prison, to Alcatraz to be precise. Some twenty years later, as the space sickness slowly spread across America, Hinton escaped from Alcatraz using a home-made glider. Now Mallory discovers he is restoring and flying the vintage planes from a nearby airplane museum, very much as Olds restores defunct cars in The Ultimate City.

The same obsession with man-powered gliders, in this case a pedal-powered microlight with a huge wingspan is being flown by a woman, Gale (short for Nightingale) Shepley, who swoops over him one day on one of his forays from the hotel room while his wife sleeps.

She lands and introduces herself, a young blonde who is the daughter of the murdered astronaut, Shepley. She has come to the ruined zone because she is expecting her father’s space capsule to finally re-enter orbit and crash down here – just like all those other Ballard women who wait for their dead husbands or fathers to re-enter the atmosphere and crash land beside the ruined gantries e.g. Judith waiting for her dead lover’s capsule to crash back to earth in The Dead Astronaut.

Mallory has even brought a collection of ‘terminal documents’ of the kind so many of these characters cart around, in his case:

  • a tape machine on which to record his steady decline
  • nude Polaroid photos of a woman doctor he had an affair with in Vancouver
  • his student copy of Gray’s Anatomy
  • a selection of Muybridge’s stop-frame photos
  • a psychoanalytic study of Simon Magus

Ballard’s gives a fuller, more explicit explanation of what exactly the space sickness is. It is the result of a crime against evolution. Human evolution has created a psychological aptitude to see Time as a stream with a past, present and future, a defence or coping mechanism which situates us within a dynamic timeframe.

The manned space flights cracked this continuum and now time is leaking away. Our perception of time is returning to its primeval one, an experience of all time in one continuous present, when Time – in the conventional sense – stops.

Mallory has a couple of encounters with Hinton who explains that the birds know about Time, they have never lost the primeval, reptile sense of Time. Which is why he’s trying to teach himself to fly by learning to fly each of the planes in the aviation museum in reverse chronological order, acclimatising his body to flight until, eventually, he can fly without machinery, and without wings.

In this context, Hinton’s ‘murder’ of Shepley was Hinton’s way of ‘freeing’ him from the tyranny of Time (exactly as the lunatic Sheppard in Myths of the Near Future appears to ‘free’ the birds by crushing them to death).

His wife is entering the end stage. Her fugues last nearly all day. In her few waking moments she begs to be taken up to the roof. She wants to see Hinton. She feels close to him because he is close to the secret. Eventually Hinton successfully kidnaps his wife. Mallory sees smoke coming from the old Space Shuttle gantry and takes a motorbike to ride there. He wakes up lying athwart it with his leg burning against the red hot engine. He had a fugue.

Gale arrives in her micro-glider to rescue Mallory and they travel on to the Space Shuttle gantry. Hinton has set fire to all the airplanes gathered at the bottom, and, as Mallory watches, Hinton and Mallory’s wife step off the platform and into thin air over the flames.

Maybe all shamans and primitive rituals, maybe all religions have been an attempt to escape from the prison-house of Time. Maybe the space sickness sheds light on why the Christian image of an afterlife isn’t an action-packed adventure holiday, but an eternal moment, an eternity of worship, stuck in stasis.

Gale keeps a menagerie by the swimming pool of the motel she’s camped in. Cheetahs, exotic birds and a tiger. As Mallory’s time winds down he hallucinates the tiger as a wall of flame. Gale is looking after him but, as always, there is a vast distance between Ballard characters and she is growing bored of him. She is only interested in the pending arrival of her father’s corpse as his space capsule finally re-enters earth’s orbit and comes streaming over their heads towards the space centre. One day soon Mallory will open the tiger’s cage and enter his wall of flame.

13. Notes Towards a Mental Breakdown (1967)

This is a really interesting experiment which I think totally works. It is based on one sentence of eighteen words:

A discharged Broadmoor patient compiles ‘Notes towards a Mental Breakdown’, recalling his wife’s murder, his trial and exoneration

and then each one of these words has a numbered note next to it.

A1 discharged2 Broadmoor3 patient4 compiles‘Notes6 towards7 aMental9 Breakdown10, recalling11 his12 wife’s13 murder14, his15 trial16 and17 exoneration18

And each of the numbers refers to a numbered footnote. So the story is in eighteen short sections, each one of which unpacks, analyses, dissects the precise meaning of its word, in the context of psychiatric and criminal case.

Thus you get to discover the narrative, the plot, the series of events, but in a beguilingly chopped-up, fragmented manner. I found it extremely enjoyable. It concerns the psychopath Dr Robert Loughlin (if I had a pound for every Ballard character who is a doctor) who has murdered his wife.

Obsessed with man-powered flight, Loughlin drove round the Suffolk countryside with his lover Leonora Carrington (this name is a straight copy of the Surrealist artist Leonora Carrington, and the story references what appears to be one of Ballard’s favourite works of art, Garden Airplane Traps by Carrington’s lover Max Ernst; maybe at the time Ballard wrote the story she was so unknown he thought only a handful of cognoscenti would get the reference). Anyway he drives her round the Suffolk countryside from one abandoned USAF airbase to another, mesmerised by dreams of World War Three (exactly as Ballard describes his younger self doing in The Kindness of Women). As his psychosis intensifies, Loughlin rearranges furniture in his hotel rooms to create a notional flying machine and, only a few weeks before the muirder, makes a mad attempt to hire runway 2 at Heathrow.

His wife Judith was dying of pancreatic cancer and, tired of Loughlin’s erratic behaviour and alcoholism, absconded with her lover, Dr Douglas (if I had a pound for every Ballard character who is a doctor) to Gatwick airport. Loughlin tracked them down and somehow boarded a jet airliner which he ransacked for her, leading to a fight with a security guard who he shot. Then he made his way to Judith’s hotel room, broke into it, found the lovers out, ripped out the suitcase and proceeded to have a bath fully dressed and fuddled by alcohol and amphetamines.

When Judith returned she found the hotel room trashed and her psychotic husband passed out in the bath so she (presumably) decided to put him out of his misery and pushed his head under the water. But this revived him and psychotics are strong.

Loughlin murdered his wife, then dressed her in a flying suit with helmet and goggles, positioned her in front of him on the bed, as if they were in a plane and he was giving her flying lessons, and arranged all the furniture in the room to create the outline of a plane. Then he set the room on fire. (Just writing this out is making me feel like I’m losing touch with reality.)

14. The Index (1977)

This is a clever and, that rare thing for Ballard, very funny little text. It is what it says it is, the imaginary index to the imaginary biography of an imaginary figure, one Henry Rhodes Hamilton (presumably so named because his initials satirically spell HRH – His Royal Highness), supposedly a ‘physician and philosopher, man of action and patron of the arts, sometime claimant to the English throne and founder of a new religion.

The first page – the only page of ordinary text – briefly explains who he was and, more teasingly, wonders aloud who compiled the index? Has the indexer included himself in the index? Did HRH ever in fact exist? Has the text of the biography, which the index is for, been suppressed because it revealed too many secrets? Or was it never written in the first place? Maybe the entire thing is the figment of some deranged lexicographer? Is the whole thing a hoax?

Reading this one page with its paragraph of teasing questions makes you realise that texts like this were purpose-written to go straight into academic English courses about metafiction and post-modernism and the Lacanian mirror phase and self-deconstructing texts, straight into the matrix of academic jargon without ever having to be read by non-academic readers.

Anyway the index itself is very funny, in Zelig-type way HRH has known anyone who was anyone in the twentieth century and been present at pivotal moments. Karen Blixen proposes to him, Ernest Hemingway dedicates The Old Man and the Sea to him, T.S. Eliot dedicates Four Quartets to him, meets Gandhi, Freud et al, he is with Churchill at Yalta and suggests the famous Iron Curtain speech, he goes ashore on Juno Beach on D-Day (and wins a model), meets the Dalai Lama and Mao Tse-Tung…

And so it goes on, mingling HRH’s preposterous presence at key events and name-dropping key figures with the satirical narrative in which he founds a new religion and tries to set up an anti-papacy at Avignon. When Ballard addresses actual historical events and particularly when he starts making up religions etc, he quickly descends into childish cartoon mode (as described in the story about the American founder of a new religion in The Object of The Attack, but in this novel format it’s all very entertaining.

I laughed out loud when I read the index entry about Hitler:

Hitler, Adolf, invites HRH to Berchtesgarten, 166; divulges Russia invasion plans, 172; impresses HRH, 179; disappoints HRH, 181.

Yes, as he rather did the entire German people. Hitler, Adolf, impresses German people 1939, disappoints German people 1945.

The last entry appears to refer to the indexer himself, and suggests his mysterious disappearance:

Zielinski, Bronislaw, suggests autobiography to HRH, 742; commissioned to prepare index, 748; warns of suppression threats, 752; disappears, 761

Thus, right at the end of the text, the indexer indexes himself out of existence. It was this which prompted the speculation in the one-page introduction that the whole thing might just be the products of ‘the over-wrought imagination of some deranged lexicographer’. Quite.

This may be the only really funny story in Ballard’s entire oeuvre, and it was a brainwave to close this final selection with it, helping to cleanse the reader’s mind, or at least control, many of the deeply disturbed, psychotic images which preceded it.

Commentary

A little exhausted by Ballard-land and Ballardism, I wasn’t sure I had the energy to read this, his final collection of short stories, but I’m really glad I did. It contains good examples of several key types:

  • satire on contemporary society – The Secret History of World War 3, Love in a Colder Climate, The Largest Theme Park in the World
  • classic psychodrama about astronauts – The Man Who Walked on the Moon
  • portraits of psychotics – The Object of the Attack, Memories of the Space Age
  • descriptions of complete mental collapse – The Enormous Space
  • tales of the macabre – The Air Disaster
  • mind-bending science fiction – Report on an Unidentified Space Station

As stories go, the ones in this collection seemed to me as powerfully imagined as almost anything in his earlier career.

But what has obviously gone, long gone, is the extraordinary verbal lushness and purple prose of the earlier works. Somehow the almost Oscar Wilde, fin-de-siecle level of prose pyrotechnics which characterises the early novels and stories got thoroughly washed out of the system by the ‘urban disaster’ novels of the early and mid-70s and from that point onwards his prose becomes a lot more straightforward and serviceable. Instead of lush and exotic sentences, he comes increasingly to rely on the repetition of a handful of key words – overlit, to the sun, calm, over-excited, deranged, time and space.

In later Ballard, repetition takes the place of elaboration.

And arguably the distinctive thing about the collection is the three short stories with experimental formats – Answers to a Questionnaire, Notes Towards a Mental Breakdown, and The Index, each one a clever, one-off idea which I think Ballard executes really well. They’re very short but very effective and, in some ways, the most successful pieces in the collection.


Credit

‘War Fever’ by J.G. Ballard was published by William Collins in 1990. Page references are to the 1991 Paladin paperback edition. All quotations are used for the purpose of criticism and review.

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