Crash by J.G. Ballard
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
I'm pretty sure I've never disliked a book more than I've disliked this one. It's not that I was bothered by the idea of getting your rocks off to car crashes or infidelity or homoerotic thoughts associated with the melding of steel and flesh. Don't be ridiculous. Nothing bothers me. I just found it all so boring and repetitive. How many times do I have to read about erect penises and exposed nipples and vulvas? I mean, good Lord. It gets tiresome enough in a porno flick after awhile. Reading it is just insufferable.
And what annoys me the most about this book is that I was really looking forward to it. I was intrigued by the very real sickness that this book's premise is based upon, and the fact that I hated this book really pisses me off. Cool concept, interesting metaphors, and decent pacing. But my God, it just goes on and on and on with the same sexual imagery and ideas. I get it. Or at least, I think I get it. Back in 1973 when this book was released, the future was bleak (It's still bleak), we were fetishizing over technology and uncomfortably melding with it (Still doing that, too. Even more so actually), and sex was becoming pedestrian after coming off the hippy-dippy free love of the 1960s. We were entering a new age. This one, less about sex and more about the absence of its importance. At least, that's what I get from the book. But I got that in about the first 50 pages. I didn't need another 170 of those same themes again and again and again.
But then again, maybe you'll like it. It's a polarizing novel to be sure. I'm just on the "hated it" side, unfortunately.
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