The Creator as Critic and Other Writings by E.M. Forster Book

Ballard is a randy old goat who writes elegantly and thinks future civilizations will remember us by our motorway flyovers. He doesn't say this in an irritating "satirical" Bill Bryson/David Brooks way, he actually thinks it, and he's utterly convincing.

It's amazing, when I look at the shit that passes for commentary in the British press 99% of the time, that most of the essays in this book originally appeared in newspapers. The stuff on classic Hollywood and Sci-Fi is great. And although, by the time most of the essays were published, he was already a balding, middle-aged man, he's never embarrassed, or embarrassing, when he writes about sex, which he does all the time, because he's a randy old goat who loves motorways and airports and cars.

I called him up once at his Shepperton home (his number's in the phone book) when I worked at his local rag. He answered the phone and I asked him for an interview. He paused for a long time and then said, in a very polite voice, "I think I shall have to decline." Which is a pretty classy, funny way of saying "no," I think.