In 1972, J.G. Ballard drove his car through the suburbs of Düsseldorf. The sterilized atmosphere of this post WW2, white collar suburbia, where not a cigarette butt could be seen on the sidewalk, not a simple leaf could be seen falling from a tree, made him foreseeing the need of the middle class man for a disciplined and controlled environment.

To Science Fiction, Ballard was preferring Social Anticipation. Not that SF was sounding churlish to his ears, but he felt like his novels were more the warning of a slippery present than a premonition.

If a cancer wouldn’t have brought him to the Terminal Beach last year, J.G. Ballard would have celebrated his 80th birthday today. Once again, R.I.P.