'For half a mile we followed the road as it wound like a petrified snake above the reefs, and our conversation became more sporadic and fell away entirely, resuming only when we began our descent through a shallow valley. A few abstract sculptures stood by the roadside. Once these were sonic, responding to the slipstream of a passing car with a series of warning vibratos, but now the Lincoln passed them unrecognized.
Abruptly, around a steep bend, the reefs and peaks vanished, and the wide expanse of an inland sand-lake lay before us, the great summer house of Lagoon West on its shore. Fragments of light haze hung over the dunes like untethered clouds. The tyres cut softly through the cerise sand, and soon we were overrunning what appeared to be the edge of an immense chessboard of black and white marble squares. More statues appeared, some buried to their heads, others toppled from their plinths by the drifting dunes.
Looking out at them this afternoon, I felt, not for the first time, that the whole landscape was compounded of illusion, the hulks of fabulous dreams drifting across it like derelict galleons. As we followed the road towards the lake, the huge wreck of Lagoon West passed us slowly on our left. Its terraces and balconies were deserted, and the once marble-white surface was streaked and lifeless. Staircases ended abruptly in mid-flight, and the floors hung like sagging marquees.
In the centre of the terrace the screens stood where we had left them the previous afternoon, their zodiacal emblems flashing like serpents. We walked across to them through the hot sunlight. For the next hour we played the screen game, pushing the screens along their intricate pathways, advancing and retreating across the smooth marble floor.
No one watched us, but once, fleetingly, I thought I saw a tall figure in a blue cape hidden in the shadows of a second-floor balcony.
"Emerelda!"
On a sudden impulse I shouted to her, but almost without moving she had vanished among the hibiscus and bougainvillaea. As her name echoed away among the dunes I knew that we had made our last attempt to lure her from the balcony.'
Vermilion Sands: The Screen Game
(Page 48-49)
The stories of Vermilion Sands are vibrant, utopian, dystopian, melancholic and a dozen more adjectives my sleepy brain cannot access at this time of night.
But.
They are fairly negative towards the female sex.
Painting us as sirenical succubi, anaesthetising unsuspecting, and to be quite honest, nondescript men into our torrid affairs with violent ends.
Not the prettiest of descriptions for us lady-folk.
This being my first J. G. Ballard, i'm unsure whether this is a common theme throughout his work.
It is, however, a strong presence within Vermilion Sands and this wouldn't usually bother me, i'm quite aware of my sex's flaws but it's such a defining feature within every story that i can't help but feel somewhat insulted.
I know we're, unfailingly, psychotic harpies once a month but come on! We're not that bad.
Or were Space right all along?
Anyhow, if you can get past the blatant misogyny - i know, most ridiculous thing i've said in a while, Ballard's nine otherworldly musings on the future of this here planet are well worth the read.
My favourite being 'Studio 5, The Stars'.
These stories are both isolating and enchanting.
Cruel but comforting.
And they all fuse together to end with a satisfying wistfulness and an irrepressible desire to stay alive long enough to witness a land like Vermilion Sands.
Not likely but a nice thought.
I'm still waiting on my hoverboard dammit.
Mr Ballard, i think you and i will meet again.
Ps. This is what i used to do to my parents books when i was little.
Sorry, Mum...
My hand looks like a lobster claw.
Wtf?
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