J. G. Ballard. Super-Cannes. 2000.

The maturation of a writer climbs like crazy beans the pole of an unnamable obsession, their proliferation demonstrating a hunger for ecstasy

Insanely rational

The accumulated wisdom of life lived and a staggering number of works of fiction is obvious

This detective novel is soooooo good

Perfect, the pacing, the section breaks, and the ending is a question mark that stings

Even the cover art is chillingly appropriate

With Crash, the story and underlying social critique were compelling and exquisitely wrought, but in the end still, for me, far-fetched; I am disturbed to report that this book, while equally sick, makes sense

Read this urgently and figure out to save the world from it, convince me it's silly