Crash

J.G. Ballard's Crash is a novel that somehow, no matter how many times I re-read it, ables itself to contort my facial expressions (on both axis of disgust and delight) from one extreme to the other. Ballard's imagery deforms my mouth and eyes repeatedly to a point where my peers (if present) must check on me to assure themselves that I have kept my sanity.

Along with how repulsed and enchanted I am by this book, I have found an obsession with reading certain passages over-and-over again. What excites me to the point of this re-reading are the constant allusions of gore-to-sexual pleasure. Whether it be from "buboes of gas bacillus infections" (registering in my head [in my "crash-state-of-mind"] as luscious breasts), or simply the eroticism of wounds which the narrator speaks so highly of, I feel myself slowly morphing into the narrator's character. His fantasies become mine (until I close the book, of course). Not many writers have the capability of transfiguring me into their characters, but Ballard has a vivid way of alluring me into his sickening world.

My only question about the book so far takes place when the narrator recalls a "nightmare" that he has where his wife gives birth to a "devil's child" while her breasts squirt liquid feces. What confuses is me is what distinguishes a "nightmare" from one of his revolting fantasies? Is it purely the demonic presence that frightens him? Is he just unaware of the abhorrence of his fantasies? Surely, this question cannot be answered by anyone besides the narrator himself, but I felt someone may be able to guide me in the correct direction of an answer.