James Graham Ballard

As the countryside vanishes under a top-dressing of chemicals, and as cities provide little more than an urban context for traffic intersection, the surburbs are at last coming into their own. The skies are larger, the air more generous, the clock less urgent. Vermilion Sands has more than its full share of dreams and illusions, fears and fantasies, but the frame for them is less confining. I like to think, too, that it celebrates the neglected virtues of the glossy, lurid and bizarre.

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