I picked this up in hardback for £2 in a closing down sale at a Borders in Thurrock (much as I enjoyed the bargains to be had, it's always sad when a bookshop closes, even one of the relatively bigger players).

You do not have to have been a fan of Ballard's like myself to appreciate this incredible autobiography. It's no wonder that Ballard went on to write some of the best SF in the world. His childhood in Shanghai supplied him with the recurring motifs which would populate his fiction.

Ballard's economy and coolness of prose is, at times, devastatingly simple and razor sharp. I defy anyone not to reach this paragraph and be gripped by the enormity of what it means:

'In late September, when San Juan beach was deserted and the cold air was beginning to come down from the mountains, we left the now-empty apartment building and set off on the long drive back to England.'

In isolation the above paragraph is meaningless. But read the book. Read it and marvel at the fortitude with which Ballard faced the rest of his life.

Copey