Scan barcode
A review by chiaroscuro
Cocaine Nights by J.G. Ballard
3.0
The argument goes: society is falling apart, and the only thing which can rebuild it is crime. Crime wakes people up and ignites community spirit when it's committed against them. When it's committed by them, it binds them together, and communities are solidified for good. "Crime and creativity go together, and always have done. The greater the sense of crime, the greater the civic awareness and richer the civilisation." Examples given are Shakespeare's London and Medici Florence, where unfortunately crime and corruption were indeed rife.
So the experiment is set up and is a roaring success. People's houses get trashed, and in response local gym memberships go through the roof. Then in case you find yourself too seduced by this perfect community, drugs, illicit sex and whatever else flood in.We end with a murder.
I find the easiest thing to do when faced with a terrifying dystopia is to mock it: lighten the mood, remove the load; in other words, to not engage with its logic. I am horrified that I found myself understanding the crime => community argument as it was explained to me. Fallacies, led by correlation is not causation and all the rest of it, do come to light now that I've finished the book. But existing within the world of the book, I can see myself falling into the trap as our earnest and weak-willed narrator and supporting the crime-driven community at any cost. I suppose that's a testament to the imaginative strength of this novel. Or, alternatively, my own susceptibility.
What I mean to say with that casual self-deprecation, other than the fact that I am cool and self-aware, is that this was not exactly a wholly engrossing read. For starters, the young, complicated doctor with whom Charles inevitably has sex with is named the rather unconvincing Paula. The narrative voice in general is a bit dull and possibly high on one of those drugs which make you sleepy and careless. And on the one hand this is seedy, senseless realism (the drug addictions, the frayed relationship with Paula) but on the other, the very neat resolution of the murder produces a rounded off with a sleep effect that chafes against the grittiness so much of the book stands for.
For me, the main takeaway from this book is that I will not be joining the cult of Ballard. Give me nineteenth century omniscient narrators and petty failures by forgivable characters. I don't like this civilisation-is-heading-towards-the-big-sleep pessimism, where all female characters are inevitably described in terms of their sexuality and there's no warmth, only coolness. No one in this book knows how to be happy, and they don't care to learn either. The best criticism they have for being happy is that it's bourgeois — which is stupid. And George Eliot would agree with me.
Two stars seems harsh because of the sheer conviction with which Ballard constructs the whole crime-driven community thing, but neither do I want to imply I liked this. 2.5-3 will have to do.
So the experiment is set up and is a roaring success. People's houses get trashed, and in response local gym memberships go through the roof. Then in case you find yourself too seduced by this perfect community, drugs, illicit sex and whatever else flood in.
I find the easiest thing to do when faced with a terrifying dystopia is to mock it: lighten the mood, remove the load; in other words, to not engage with its logic. I am horrified that I found myself understanding the crime => community argument as it was explained to me. Fallacies, led by correlation is not causation and all the rest of it, do come to light now that I've finished the book. But existing within the world of the book, I can see myself falling into the trap as our earnest and weak-willed narrator and supporting the crime-driven community at any cost. I suppose that's a testament to the imaginative strength of this novel. Or, alternatively, my own susceptibility.
What I mean to say with that casual self-deprecation, other than the fact that I am cool and self-aware, is that this was not exactly a wholly engrossing read. For starters, the young, complicated doctor with whom Charles inevitably has sex with is named the rather unconvincing Paula. The narrative voice in general is a bit dull and possibly high on one of those drugs which make you sleepy and careless. And on the one hand this is seedy, senseless realism (the drug addictions, the frayed relationship with Paula) but on the other, the very neat resolution of the murder produces a rounded off with a sleep effect that chafes against the grittiness so much of the book stands for.
For me, the main takeaway from this book is that I will not be joining the cult of Ballard. Give me nineteenth century omniscient narrators and petty failures by forgivable characters. I don't like this civilisation-is-heading-towards-the-big-sleep pessimism, where all female characters are inevitably described in terms of their sexuality and there's no warmth, only coolness. No one in this book knows how to be happy, and they don't care to learn either. The best criticism they have for being happy is that it's bourgeois — which is stupid. And George Eliot would agree with me.
Two stars seems harsh because of the sheer conviction with which Ballard constructs the whole crime-driven community thing, but neither do I want to imply I liked this. 2.5-3 will have to do.