By J. G. Ballard
On an afternoon in April, simply after 3 o'clock within the afternoon, Robert Maitland's vehicle crashes over the concrete parapet of a high-speed road onto the island lower than, the place he's injured and, eventually, trapped. What starts as a nearly ludicrous situation quickly becomes horror as Maitland—a wickedly glossy Robinson Crusoe—realizes that, regardless of proof of different population, this doomed terrain has develop into a replicate of his personal brain. looking the darkish outer rim of the typical, Ballard weaves deepest disaster into an intensely specular allegory.
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Extra resources for Concrete Island: A Novel
As he panted from the exertion of moving his burly body down the steps, Maitland recognized the harsh, phlegmy breathing of the man who had attacked him. The man was about fifty years old, plainly a mental defective of some kind, his low forehead blunted by a lifetime of uncertainty. His puckered face had the expression of a puzzled child, as if whatever limited intelligence he had been born with had never developed beyond his adolescence. All the stresses of a hard life had combined to produce this aged defective, knocked about by a race of unkind and indifferent adults but still clinging to his innocent faith in a simple world.
The first show of gratitude was enough to set her going... As he passed her she stepped forward and took his arm. She slipped it around her small shoulders. Like a dance-hall instructress leading a helpless novice, she steered him towards the stairs. Maitland stepped into the bright sunlight. The long grass seethed around his legs, greeting him like an affectionate dog. Fed by the spring rain, the grass was over four feet deep, reaching to Maitland's chest. He leaned unsteadily against the young woman.
Hunger contracted his stomach in a sudden spasm, forcing him to vomit on to his knees. He wiped away the phlegm and hobbled across the brick courses to the southern embankment. Losing consciousness for short intervals, he wandered to and fro, his eyes unfocused, following the blunted end of the crutch. As he tottered about, Maitland found himself losing interest in his own body, and in the pain that inflamed his leg. He began to shuck off sections of his body, forgetting first his injured hip, then both his legs, erasing all awareness of his bruised chest and diaphragm.