Ballard insists upon an alternate set of convergences, of the kind we would rather suppress and ignore. And Ballard was in the business of taking what seems "natural" — what seems normal, familiar and rational — and revealing its psychopathology. It also features an orgasmic car crash: "When I came up — torn, filthy, and stinking — from under the capsized car, I felt the white-hot iron of joy deliciously pass through my heart! In , horrified readers condemned such passages as fantastical pornography. Reservoirs are to Ballard what clouds were to Wordsworth. And so my Ballard encounter — like my encounters, up to that point, with his work — was essentially a missed encounter: ships passing in the night.
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