jg ballard
WHAT I BELIEVE
I believe in the
power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us,
to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate
ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.
I believe in my
own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged
forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of
automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry
of abandoned hotels.
I believe in the
forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our
imaginations.
I believe in the
mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the
sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in
the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret
Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched
by a tubercular filling station attendant.
I believe in the
beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my
heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium
rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.
I believe in the
death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time
within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic
controllers at out-of-season airports.
I believe in the
genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan,
Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips
as they regard the cameras of the entire world.
I believe in
madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in
the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the
Apollo astronauts.
I believe in
nothing.
I believe in Max
Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte,
Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis
Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the
planet.
I believe in the
impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of
electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in
the murderous intent of logic.
I believe in
adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity
of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the
bathrooms of shabby motels.
I believe in
flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has
ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the
wisdom of statesmen and midwives.
I believe in the
gentleness of the surgeon's knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema
screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the
sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in
the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.
I believe in the
light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic
insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of
the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.
I believe in the
non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite
possibilities of the present.
I believe in the
derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet,
Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.
I believe in the
designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker,
the Wake Island runways.
I believe in the
body odors of Princess Di.
I believe in the
next five minutes.
I believe in the
history of my feet.
I believe in
migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of
clocks.
I believe in
anxiety, psychosis and despair.
I believe in the
perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers,
derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and
birds.
I believe in the
death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.
I believe in
Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.
I believe in
alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.
I believe in
pain.
I believe in
despair.
I believe in all
children.
I believe in
maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport
indicator signs.
I believe all
excuses.
I believe all
reasons.
I believe all
hallucinations.
I believe all
anger.
I believe all
mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.
I believe in the
mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of
light.