The Long, Hard Road to J.G. Ballard

A couple of months ago a conversation started online. Spurred on by Nick Hornby's comments on whether we should feel obliged to finish a book, the discussion quickly became a literary confessional. All those classics we'd given up on, all the bestsellers we'd left half-read on a beach somewhere - it all came pouring out, as if we'd simply been waiting for the opportunity to confess our failure as readers. In my case, my sin came in the form of J.G. Ballard. I'd attempted Ballard's books several times during my adolescence, my interest sparked by the British author's connection with William Burroughs, one of my literary heroes. I was certain that I'd love them the way that I'd loved Naked Lunch and Junkie , so my reaction came as a surprise, and a disappointment. I tried Crash (inspired in part by the Cronenberg film), The Atrocity Exhibition , High-Rise . Each time I'd get a few pages in and be swamped by the density of the language, the