posted on 23 Jul 2019

The Drowned World by J.G. Ballard

In the absence of a more obvious or truly representative genre to pop them in, Ballard’s novels often get described as science fiction. It is, of course, a wholly inadequate and even misleading description of his work. Alasdair Wilkins writing on the Gizmodo website sums this up quite well:

“…specific novels seemed more interested in reimagining and repurposing hoary old science fiction conventions to new, experimental ends than merely telling a science fiction story. His interest in exploring more avant-garde modes of expression did not fit well with the science fiction landscape he discovered when he began writing in the late 1950s. Ballard's disillusionment with the hard science fiction of the time led him to become a founding figure in science fiction's New Wave movement during the sixties..”

From the outset, Ballard was always concerned with  a future characterised not by extra-terrestrial issues but the very much more Earth-bound problems of environmental catastrophe and the fate that awaited humanity as a result of events either beyond their control or that they have themselves created. Someone, somewhere, came up with the label ‘Ballardian’ to describe his approach to his very particular form of dystopian literature and while I think it’s an ugly and clumsy term, I can understand why people felt it was needed.

The Drowned World written in 1962 is a perfect example of Ballard’s art and his philosophical concerns. The story set in 2145 in London (although it’s a barely recognisable ‘drowned world’) concerns a small group of scientists stationed there to further monitor the effects of run-away global warming that is returning the Earth to a prehistoric state. On this occasion the catastrophe has come about because of cataclysmic natural upheavals that have caused the loss of the protective atmosphere shielding the Earth from the Sun.

Almost all the surviving population has decamped to what were the polar regions leaving behind this tiny handful of scientists who are protected by a small group of soldiers. But strange things are happening – as the world reverts to its tropical state and giant reptiles threaten to once again rule the roost, humans are starting to have disturbing, primal dreams that invade their conscious world and begin to force them to behave in primitive, inexplicable ways.

Three scientists – Drs Kerens and Bodkin and a beautiful but enigmatic colleague, Beatrice Dahl, decide to stay in this submerged London when the detachment of soldiers pull out in order to further monitor what is happening. But their largely ill-formed plans are overtaken by the arrival of a group of pirates, led by the unpredictable Strangman, who are there to loot the drowned city for whatever precious artefacts take their fancy.

It would be a considerable spoiler for me to say here how this plays out and you may want to read it for yourself, so I’ll confine my comments to some wider observations.

Initially I thought that the book was heading in a fairly predictable direction – modern man is stripped of his ideas of civilisation and what constitutes civilised behaviour - but that turned out to be quite a serious misjudgement because it is clearly something much more challenging. You’ll find yourself reminded of the issues that William Golding picks up in The Lord of the Flies and that Conrad had confronted in The Heart of Darkness and there are undoubtedly echoes of Conrad not just in content but in style.

Going back to the notion that Ballard writes ‘science fiction’ does, however, give us the chance to think about his interest in ‘inner space’ rather than in ‘outer space’ – a fascination that would characterise all of his output. This is something that was also noted by Kingsley Amis, who wrote a review of the book for The Guardian back in 1963:

“…..the main action is in the deeper reaches of the mind, the main merit the extraordinary imaginative power with which whatever inhabits these reaches is externalised in concrete form. The book blazes with images, striking and continuously meaningful.

There are perhaps faults of luxuriance, the similes, though often marvellously appropriate, sometimes crowd too thickly, and the author sees fit here and there to tell us that such and such is strange while amply demonstrating its strangeness. But he triumphantly achieves his object of exploring “inner space”. His emblem is a metaphorical diving suit, as against the literal spacesuit of most of his contemporaries.”

Reading Ballard is rather like being a fly caught in an especially cunning fly trap – it’s very easy to enter and almost impossibly hard to get out of once you’re there.

I don’t think the book has been out of print since its original publication and can be obtained in a Harper Perennial paperback for a couple of pounds. If you want a hardback first edition however, it’s going to cost you anything from £300 upwards. Perhaps a good alternative is to get hold of the Folio Society hardback which is beautifully produced - despite having an introduction by the irritating Will Self.

Terry Potter

July 2019