"The Unlimited Dream Company" by J.G. Ballard (published 1979)
In terms of an outright, obvious religious unveiling, "The Unlimited Dream Company" (1979) reminds me of a project similar to Darren Aronofsky's film "Mother!" (2017). However, they cannot be any more different.
"The Unlimited Dream Company" tells a perplexing story about a man named Blake, a man who has grandiose ideas about himself that are fantasical and insane, and definitely what psychologists might note as an "inflated ego". Blake knows this and he can't do anything about it. One day he decides to steal an aircraft and pilot it. He does. He crashes. He finds himself in this mysterious yet wonderful suburb of London, right along the River Thames, called Shepperton. There he falls in love with everyone and everything, in a weird sexual and/or platonic way, wanting to infuse with the entire place a newfound magic he acquired from the crash: a power and magic that allows him to create beautiful dreamscapes of anthropomorphism and orgiastic, biological, organic bliss, a photosynthesis with everything and anything he sees. The way Ballard writes this is genius, a brilliant perversity sounding very, very familiar, if not outright relatable. It would be a lie to say otherwise. It can be scary to read; much of what Ballard writes about is taboo to an extreme point, but somehow, and excuse this crude description, he manages to write a character that would fit the description of a really perverse Mr. Rogers (sorry Mr. Rogers), but with all the same good intentions and even more love. Needless to say, it is a *creepy* novel, but without any real fear of being sucked into a *malevolent* dimension (though we do see this malevolent dimension appear at the end).
Despite all of Ballard's inappropriate machinations (many of which are of a sexual nature), I cannot really begin to describe, let alone really fathom (yet) what exactly is happening in "The Unlimited Dream Company". Many parts were so ridiculous sounding that they made me laugh (a surprising reaction when reading a story with such heavy undertones as this). I know that in this world sex is a force for good, a force that literally creates lush forests and bountiful gardens of light and shadow and happiness. I know that in this world sex is not merely an act between two people but a gesture that encompasses everyone metaphorically and symbolically in a kind, compassionate way (though extremely perverse).
And yet. And yet, Ballard makes sure to write a scene in which his main character, Blake, steps back and reflects:
"Already I knew that I was guilty of many crimes, not only against those beings who had granted me a second life, but against myself, crimes of arrogance and imagination. Mourning the young woman beside me, I waited as my blood fell from the air." (p. 194)
This is towards the end, when Blake and his wife, Miriam St. Cloud, are violently shot by a vicious man named Stark.
But what is worse? The lust of the imagination, the sex of the psyche, burgeoning forth gorgeous gardens of a brilliant confusion from which one can gain a sense of pleasure, however unorthodox, shared by all?
Or... bloodlust? The violence stemming from anger and unreason, polluting the earth with rotting chaos and unsatisfiable hunger? (Ballard's description Shepperton's paradise, lost, is fascinating).
Frankly, you may feel sick when you read this, if you ever do decide to read it. But I think the value here rests with the question of where the "sick" feeling is coming from. And perhaps why. Though I did feel this at certain times, there was something utterly rapturous and gratifying about this novel. A huge part of it is due to Ballard's artistry as a writer, not just the idea in itself.
This is the first book I've read by J.G. Ballard and I know I'll read more.
"The Unlimited Dream Company" tells a perplexing story about a man named Blake, a man who has grandiose ideas about himself that are fantasical and insane, and definitely what psychologists might note as an "inflated ego". Blake knows this and he can't do anything about it. One day he decides to steal an aircraft and pilot it. He does. He crashes. He finds himself in this mysterious yet wonderful suburb of London, right along the River Thames, called Shepperton. There he falls in love with everyone and everything, in a weird sexual and/or platonic way, wanting to infuse with the entire place a newfound magic he acquired from the crash: a power and magic that allows him to create beautiful dreamscapes of anthropomorphism and orgiastic, biological, organic bliss, a photosynthesis with everything and anything he sees. The way Ballard writes this is genius, a brilliant perversity sounding very, very familiar, if not outright relatable. It would be a lie to say otherwise. It can be scary to read; much of what Ballard writes about is taboo to an extreme point, but somehow, and excuse this crude description, he manages to write a character that would fit the description of a really perverse Mr. Rogers (sorry Mr. Rogers), but with all the same good intentions and even more love. Needless to say, it is a *creepy* novel, but without any real fear of being sucked into a *malevolent* dimension (though we do see this malevolent dimension appear at the end).
Despite all of Ballard's inappropriate machinations (many of which are of a sexual nature), I cannot really begin to describe, let alone really fathom (yet) what exactly is happening in "The Unlimited Dream Company". Many parts were so ridiculous sounding that they made me laugh (a surprising reaction when reading a story with such heavy undertones as this). I know that in this world sex is a force for good, a force that literally creates lush forests and bountiful gardens of light and shadow and happiness. I know that in this world sex is not merely an act between two people but a gesture that encompasses everyone metaphorically and symbolically in a kind, compassionate way (though extremely perverse).
And yet. And yet, Ballard makes sure to write a scene in which his main character, Blake, steps back and reflects:
"Already I knew that I was guilty of many crimes, not only against those beings who had granted me a second life, but against myself, crimes of arrogance and imagination. Mourning the young woman beside me, I waited as my blood fell from the air." (p. 194)
This is towards the end, when Blake and his wife, Miriam St. Cloud, are violently shot by a vicious man named Stark.
But what is worse? The lust of the imagination, the sex of the psyche, burgeoning forth gorgeous gardens of a brilliant confusion from which one can gain a sense of pleasure, however unorthodox, shared by all?
Or... bloodlust? The violence stemming from anger and unreason, polluting the earth with rotting chaos and unsatisfiable hunger? (Ballard's description Shepperton's paradise, lost, is fascinating).
Frankly, you may feel sick when you read this, if you ever do decide to read it. But I think the value here rests with the question of where the "sick" feeling is coming from. And perhaps why. Though I did feel this at certain times, there was something utterly rapturous and gratifying about this novel. A huge part of it is due to Ballard's artistry as a writer, not just the idea in itself.
This is the first book I've read by J.G. Ballard and I know I'll read more.
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