J.G. Ballard, fellow lover of the apocalypse and inspiration to over-sexed stunt drivers everywhere, has died. There are many wonderful memoriams up and about on the interweb. The Guardian reports on his wide-ranging influence across movies, television, music, and architecture. The Telegraph tells a nice story about his life in which there is included Ballard's confession of "an indulgent over use of silver spray-paint in decorating his footwear." Neil Gaiman remembers him, as well.
In other exhibitions of atrocity news, Russell Crowe as Robin Hood looks remarkably like Russell Crowe dressed up as Robin Hood. Perhaps this was to be expected, but somehow I find it disappointing.
Finally, and on the topic of me, I've been re-reading many of my favorite books of late in preparation for my "comps," a test given to impending MFA graduates in order to assess their thoughts on the books which influenced them. It's a strange thing to re-read books that you haven't read for an extended period of time. They tend to change in a way that makes it obvious that you have changed. Re-reading Cather in the Rye, for instance, has made it obvious that I'm no longer a sixteen-year-old boy.
Happy Monday, readers.
ttfn.
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