J. G. Ballard, The Art of Fiction No. 85 (1984)

I read Super-cannes a very long time ago; I remember enjoying it but have mostly forgotten.

His autobiography "Miracles of Life: Shanghai to Shepperton" was a joy to read. His read like life well lived.

I remember getting on a run of Ballard novels going back quite a few years and read The Attrocity Exhibition on a Kindle. The digital transcription process must have been flawed as there were many spelling mistakes and other oddities (incidentally, not the only time I've found this with Kindle editions). But it was one of the only novels (maybe "books" is a better word) where this actually contributed to the atmosphere. I feel like he would have approved, or at least appreciated it, and all the more amusing given the last part of the interview:

> INTERVIEWER

> Now, that old chestnut: Do you have any advice for young writers?

> BALLARD

> A lifetime’s experience urges me to utter a warning cry: do anything else, take someone’s golden retriever for a walk, run away with a saxophone player. Perhaps what’s wrong with being a writer is that one can’t even say “good luck”—luck plays no part in the writing of a novel. No happy accidents as with the paint pot or chisel.

Little did he know that decades later a flawed optical to digital process (I assume?) to sell his work to a global megacorporation, which is destroying the high street and employs thousands in drab warehouses and vans, so that I could consume content wirelessly without leaving my home, would lead to a happy accident. Dystopian modernity indeed.

"Crash," his 1973 novel, is excellent, as is the 1996 movie adaptation directed by David Cronenberg starring James Spader.