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Looking back, I suspect that if I had died, the accident might well have been judged deliberate, at least on the unconscious level. But I believe Crash is less a hymn to death than an attempt to buy off the executioner who waits for us all in a quiet garden nearby. Crash is set at a point where sex and death intersect, though the graph is difficult to read and is constantly recalibrating itself.
How We Drive: J.G. Ballard, R.I.P. Interesting tribute to JG Ballard on Traffic’s blog. Nice tie-in.
