Extreme Metaphors: Selected Interviews with J.G. Ballard, 1967-2008

To celebrate the paperback release this week of Extreme Metaphors: Selected Interviews with J.G. Ballard, 1967-2008, I've reprinted my Irish Times review of the 2012 hardback, below. (That original review has now vanished into the Irish Times archive, behind the paywall.) For those too busy to read the whole review: basically,Extreme Metaphors was my book of the year. I read it with delight, frequently chortling. An extraordinary alternate history of the 20th century, packed with prescient ideas which help explain the 21st.

- Julian

A photo of my copy of Extreme Metaphors, taken five minutes ago. The image links to more information, from the website of one of the editors, Simon Sellars.

Extreme Metaphors: Selected Interviews with J.G. Ballard, 1967-2008

Edited by Simon Sellars and Dan O’Hara

Fourth Estate

503pp, price £stg25

J.G. Ballard might be the greatest English writer of the 20th century. He was certainly, for much of the second half of that century, the least understood, and most misread, when he was read at all. In 1970, when Nelson Doubleday Jr, a senior executive at Ballard’s American publishing house, finally got round to reading a finished copy of The Atrocity Exhibition, he was so horrified he ordered all copies pulped. In the UK, the reader’s report for Ballard’s 1972 novel Crash famously said “This writer is beyond psychiatric help. Do not publish.”

But live long enough, and respectability eventually covers you, like jungle vegetation claiming a wartime runway. In 1984, his most nakedly autobiographical novel, Empire of the Sun, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Martin Amis says on the back of this handsome hardback collection of interviews, “Ballard will be remembered as the most original English writer of the last century.” Will Self concurs; “Ballard issued a series of bulletins on the modern world of almost unerring prescience. Other writers describe; Ballard anticipated.”

Ballard most certainly did. The chapter of The Atrocity Exhibition which so disgusted Ballard's own publisher was titled “Why I Want To Fuck Ronald Reagan”. In it, Ballard portrayed the former Hollywood actor, who’d co-starred with a chimpanzee in Bedtime for Bonzo, as President of the United States. It would be over a decade before reality caught up with Ballard’s imagination.

Indeed, some of the interviews here are almost comically prescient; Ballard predicted Facebook before the internet even existed. In 1979, dismissing the BBC and ITV news as “that irrelevant mixture of information about a largely fictional external world”, he describes a future in which we video everything, and

“…the real news of course will be a computer-selected and computer-edited version of the day’s rushes. ‘My God, there’s Jenny having her first ice cream!’ or ‘There’s Candy coming home from school with her new friend.’ Now all that may seem madly mundane, but, as I said, it will be the real news of the day, and how it affects every individual.” (And yes, he goes on to predict Youporn…)

He predicts the future; but he also questions the present. And many of the questions he raises here have not yet been answered. The real issue, behind all the fake issues, in this year's American election [2012], was summed up succinctly by Ballard in 1984, talking to Thomas Frick:

“Marxism is a social philosophy for the poor, and what we need badly is a social philosophy for the rich.”

As with a number of the more interesting American SF writers of his era (Philip K. Dick, Thomas M. Disch, John Sladek), Ballard became a science fiction writer by default. The SF market was the only available outlet for fiction this odd. But he is not a science fiction writer. He is not, indeed, a writer, in the normal sense of the term. Ballard is a visual artist. He makes the point again and again here; the greatest influences on his works are not other literary works; they are the paintings of the surrealists. As he said in an interview with James Goddard and David Pringle in 1975,“They’re all paintings, really, my novels and stories.”

And it is true. You read his spare, functional prose, and the most astonishing images erect themselves in your mind. The beauty of the sentence itself didn’t interest him. (This makes him hard to quote: reading Ballard, you drift into a dreamstate which can’t be evoked in a couple of lines.) Certainly he set much of his work in the future. But there isn't a space ship to be found. (Well, OK, one, in an early story.) As mainstream SF explored outer space, J.G. Ballard explored what he came to call inner space. He wasn't similar to SF writers like Heinlein and Asimov and Arthur C. Clark, he was their opposite, a point he makes in an interview from 1975:

“You can’t have a Space Age until you’ve got a lot of people in space. This is where I disagree, and I’ve often argued the point when I’ve met him, with Arthur C. Clarke. He believes that the future of fiction is in space, that this is the only subject. But I’m certain you can’t have a serious fiction based on experience from which the vast body of readers and writers is excluded.”

I get the feeling J.G. Ballard passed Ireland by. He was seldom piled high on the front tables in Easons. Seen, perhaps, as too English for our tastes? But of course, he wasn’t English at all. His sensibility was formed in Shanghai, where he was born to English parents in 1930; and in particular in the vast civilian internment camp of Lunghua, where he was interned by the Japanese (at the age of 11), along with his family. In this book he frequently talks of never getting used to the England he first encountered aged 16, in 1946, as a traumatised child of the tropics.

Exiled from Shanghai, an alien in England, Ballard nonetheless had a spiritual home. No matter where his books were ostensibly set, Ballard always wrote about America; not as a place, but as a state of mind. America as a condition. America as a psychological disorder… He loved America. Though Crash is set in England, on the motorways connecting his quiet home in Shepperton to London, the cars in Crash are American cars. His Shanghai childhood — in an Americanized Asia — was a century ahead of its time. He grew up in the future. As a result, these interviews have aged well. It helps that Simon Sellars and Dan O’Hara have edited this 500 page book with such love, intelligence, and deep knowledge of the material and its context. Extreme Metaphors presents, in chronological order, 44 interviews from the many hundreds he gave. (The editors estimate the total wordage of the novels as 1,100,000; short stories, 500,000 words; non-fiction, 300,000… and interviews, 650,000.) The interviews they’ve chosen have a very low fluff content. Many of the best originally appeared in long-vanished, never-digitised, photocopied fanzines, and are genuine, deeply engaged and engaging conversations about important subjects. Nobody is trying to sell you anything (it’s often impossible to tell what book Ballard is supposed to be promoting).

The wide range of interviewers adds to the pleasure of the book. Ballard attracted intense, usually male, interviewers, who had a deep engagement with his work. There is a pleasantly kaleidoscopic effect, as each sees Ballard through the lens of their obsession. Fellow novelists Toby Litt, Will Self and Hari Kunzru take a literary approach. John Gray is philosophical. The Russian Zinovy Zinik gets Ballard to talk about Soviet utopias and dystopias. With Iain Sinclair, Ballard discusses the design of 1970s multi-story carparks in Watford. (Ballard; “They covered them in strange trellises. It was a bizarre time.”)

And he is very open. When Joan Bakewell says of Crash, “Now, this is a deeply disturbing book. Were you very disturbed when you wrote it?” he replies “I think I was. I think in a way the novel is the record of a sort of mental crash that I had in the mid-sixties after the death of my wife…”

Ah, death. Yes, it’s everywhere in his work. Ballard’s fiction is largely set in the dead spaces of the modern world. Underpasses, flyovers; abandoned and disintegrating runways; nuclear test sites; blockhouses; drained swimmingpools. The tide of humanity has gone out. What is left is returning to the natural world. The atmosphere is that of Max Ernst’s Europe After The Rain. The organic and the inorganic are inextricably linked. Things grow, and things crumble. The work of man is absorbed by the jungle.

It’s hard, reading this book, not to think of contemporary, Americanised Ireland, with its motorways and drive-thru McDonalds. Of Dublin, with its low corporate tax rate, reckless financial zone, and Euro-HQs of American corporations; with its expat communities of British, German and US workers in gated dockside settlements, surrounded by grinding native poverty; an open city, in a state too weak to defend itself. Dublin was, for a decade there, the closest thing Europe had to the booming, buckaneering Shanghai of the 1930s.

Now, in neglected Dublin back gardens, the outdoor hot tubs fill with dead leaves. Beyond the M50, the ghost estates are reclaimed by the whitethorn bushes. Ireland has become a Ballardian landscape. Given the extraordinary relevance of his work to Ireland’s psychological condition, it might be time for more Irish people to start reading J.G. Ballard. And this lovingly curated book of interviews is a fine place to start.

I will be very surprised if any novel this year gives me as much pleasure as this book. And I can guarantee (now that Ballard is dead) that no novel will contain so many provocative, intriguing, and visionary ideas.

Julian Gough is an Irish writer, living in Berlin, whose work was shortlisted this year for both the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize and the BBC International Short Story Award. His latest novel, Jude in London, is out now in paperback from Old Street Publishing.

ENDS.

World Women in Literature Day

Mr. Jonathan Franzen, author of the acclaimed novel, Freedom, was unable to attend the launch of World Women in Literarature Day.

 BREAKING NEWS: Jonathan Franzen, author of the acclaimed novel Freedom, was unable to attend the launch of World Women in Literature Day.

Philip Roth and the President of America discuss World Women in Literature Day

Philip Roth, author of the great American novels, The Great American Novel, American Pastoral, and The Plot Against America, said last night "It is a tragedy for world literature that Jonathan Franzen was unable to attend."

Women's literature is currently making a big splash in America. News that a woman had won the recent Pulizer prize for fiction was covered by the New York Times, who devoted a full line to it in their initial announcement. In a break with tradition, they even spelt her name correctly in some later editions of the paper (see correction below the article).

David Foster Wallace celebrates World Women in Literature Day. Image courtesy Esquire and the collective unconscious.And the publishing world has been swept by rumours that several female Nobel Prize winning authors from unfashionable countries may be briefly reviewed in two, or even three, American news outlets next year, so long as David Foster Wallace (author of the wildly acclaimed first half of a novel, The Pale King), doesn't release a collection of unfinished short stories, or a facsimile of a notebook.

A spokesman for the American Press Association said last night: "Your mouth is moving but I can't hear you, I think because your voice is so high."

Please click on the three photographs for further information on this story.

Julian in America!

Me reading a book in Alaska

This coming week, I will attempt to please the pants off you, my beloved readers, by reading fiction in Washington DC (March 5^th), San Francisco (March 8^th), and New York City (March 10^th).  (And if you don't know my stuff, I apologise for my presumption. Please, have one on me.) The fiction will be extremely, almost pathologically Irish. It may be, according to some, funny. It might even be award winning.

For those too lazy to click the links above – or who have just been afflicted by a deadly nerve toxin, spread on their keyboard by a rival in love, leaving them helpless, paralyzed, unable to click on the links above, no matter how bitterly they yearn to – I’ll slap in the details below.

Washington DC

The Washington DC gig takes place on Saturday, March 5 at 7pm, in Sova, 1359 H Street NE, Washington, DC. Get a seat at the front with a good view, for I am thinking of wearing my black damask silk frock coat and bright yellow trousers.

San Francisco

The San Francisco gig takes place on Tuesday, March 8^th from 7:00pm to 8:30pm, in the United Irish Cultural Center, Room 2700 45th Avenue @ Sloat Avenue, San Francisco. The wonderful Yiyun Li (author of Gold Boy, Emerald Girl, The Vagrants, and A Thousand Years of Good Prayers) will moderate, and boy do I need moderating. As Yiyun Li points out here, the last time she heard me read, I was accompanied by milking machines and cows.

New York

And the New York gig features me and Cady Finlayson. a “spirited Irish fiddler.” It takes place on Thursday, March 10, 2011, 6 p.m. at the Hudson Park Library, 66 Leroy Street, New York, NY.

OK, now I've got to go pack. Tell your friends, lie to your enemies, and I'll see you down the mosh pit.

American Stars 'n' Bars

If you've read Jude: Level 1, you'll know I'm highly entertained by the glorious free-market energy of the US prison system. (The total number of people in prison, on parole, and on probation, in the US at the end of 2007 was 7.2 million - damn near twice the population of Ireland - so that's a lot of entertainment.)

But a magnificent new twist has emerged, which even I hadn't thought of. Over in Pennsylvania, people eventually started to wonder why the local judge was sentencing teenagers to serious time for crimes like putting up a spoof Myspace page about their assistant headmaster (a page marked "this is a joke"). As the New York Times reports..

"The answers became a bit clearer on Thursday as the judge, Mark A. Ciavarella Jr., and a colleague, Michael T. Conahan, appeared in federal court in Scranton, Pa., to plead guilty to wire fraud and income tax fraud for taking more than $2.6 million in kickbacks to send teenagers to two privately run youth detention centers run by PA Child Care and a sister company, Western PA Child Care.

While prosecutors say that Judge Conahan, 56, secured contracts for the two centers to house juvenile offenders, Judge Ciavarella, 58, was the one who carried out the sentencing to keep the centers filled."

Brilliant... Sigh. I am simply too innocent to be a real satirist. It never occurred to me to formally employ the judges.... Anyway - and skip this if you've read it before - while I'm at it I thought I might as well paste in a big chunk of Jude: Level 1 at this point, for the amusement of new readers. (I'm hardly going to sue myself for copyright infringement.)

In this bit, Jude has lost his voice, got a crick in his neck, is stuck in a wheelchair, and has been mistaken for Professor Steven Hawking. Barney O'Reilly FitzPatrick McGee, the Irish-American CEO of the great American communications company, Westcom,  is showing him around a huge, secret, underground unit in their Galway plant...

From Jude: Level 1...

    “You’ve noticed they’re mostly Black, huh?” said Barney.

    I looked closer, and saw that most of the faces around me were indeed unusually deeply tanned for an underground Irish workforce in mid-winter.

Barney nodded. “Might be the last generation of authentic, home-grown Blacks to work for Westcom, and I’ll tell you why…” He looked about the great space, and a drop of moisture swelled in the corner of each eye.

    I settled back in my chair. I liked a story.

    He blew his nose, and cleared his throat. “Back when old man Fitzpatrick grew tobacco, the procuring of labour was an arduous, expensive, time-consuming business. Black men had to be sourced and purchased from unscrupulous Arab middlemen and imported by ship from West Africa. Spoilage rates were as high as 50%. Oh, times were tough for old man Fitzpatrick. Sure, eventually we had sufficient spare capacity to provide a breeding stock, and we were self-sufficient in labour. But then the cost of raising our African workers fell entirely on our family, a manifestly unfair situation. Often we’d get a good crop of sturdy young Blacks raised up to five or six years of age, near enough ready to do productive work and repay our investment: and they would all sicken and die in the sheds, and we had all the weary work to do all over again. The situation was intolerable, it was against natural justice: and so we campaigned for the abolition of slavery.”

I nodded my approval of this virtuous campaign.

“Came the glorious day, and we could kick them all out and they could rear their own brats on their own time, and their own dime. We rehired them, as needed, when they had matured. This improved profitability enormously. Productivity shot up too, for now the workers no longer had a cushy berth for life. The excess money saved, we invested in mining and smelting the iron ore in the hills too steep for cultivation. But, for that, a steady supply of strong male labour was required. We couldn’t be willy-nilly hiring by ones and twos. And so we contracted with the local prisons to supply our needs. They sourced the male labour as required. A vagrancy sweep, or a crackdown on gambling would supply peak labour demand at the mine. By now we were Western American Steel... But pretty soon we were paying so much out to the prisons for convict labour that we had a change of heart. Old grandpappy Fitzpatrick built our first prison. And so we could get the State, then later as we expanded into Federal Prisons, the Federal Government to pay to feed and house our workers, and we could pay ourselves for their services. So we were getting paid for them to work for us. It was soon our most profitable unit… You may have heard of our correctional subsidiary, American Stars ‘n’ Bars? Our Patriot Prison? With its uniquely flexible modular system?"

“Hmm?” I had been watching the green-eyed woman, who was very carefully taking something out of a safe and transferring it to a silver container that bounced light across her cheekbones, her noble nose… I shook my head, though as my head was on its side this involved rotating my face vertically rather than horizontally relative to the surface of the earth. Barney tilted his head in sympathy with mine.

"That's a... yes. Ha ha. Are you nodding or, ha ha... Anyway, as WAS became Westcom, and our jobs moved up the value chain, our prisoners, chiefly Negroes of little educational attainment, simply weren’t cutting it. Oh, they were bright and willing, but training them up costs time and money, and these guys simply weren’t inside long enough to make the investment worthwhile. They were missing out on training opportunities, the chance of betterment… Why, it was a crime. It was worse than a crime: it was a tragedy. So we lobbied Congress long and hard to give us time to really make a difference to these young men’s lives. And so we got their sentences doubled.”

I nodded, sideways, and stared at the face of the dark haired, green eyed woman. Head bowed over the silver container, staring into its depths.

“…But as Westcom became a favoured contractor on Federal Government Defence contracts, and we came to understand the Federal Government better, we came to… if I may use the word… love the Federal Government. And we began to feel concern for its welfare. You’ve got to see the bigger picture, and take the longer view. As the Federal Government pays us up to $500 for a screwdriver on our Defence contracts, it makes sense to maximise the State’s revenues so that they can pay us… Thus, if we can lower the burden on the Government, we can increase our income and profitability. And our prisoners are fine, fine, people. But they cost the Government a fortune in benefits, in healthcare and education, in providing streetlighting to their ghettos and so forth, before they are old enough to graduate to prison. It is the old problem my ancestor faced, of covering the overhead on their unproductive years. So the future lies in outsourcing labour to foreign slave-states. Let the Chinese and Hindus and so forth raise the whining infants to maturity. Not on America’s tab… We will build our prisons abroad, and ship the goods home. Indeed, we have used this opportunity to rethink the entire prison paradigm. In our next-generation foreign prisons, the prisoners will be kicked out after their shift and will have to feed and house themselves at their own expense. It is quite, quite brilliant, and will enhance profitability threefold… And so these are the last, I fear, of the great Black American workforce which my family has served so proudly and so humbly for so long. Here, meet some, before they vanish, like the Buffalo…”

He waved, and two young men in dark suits walked over to us. Barney whispered in my upturned ear, “Lately many of them have discovered Religion. I have encouraged it, for it makes them more Punctual, but Christ Almighty, they tend to go on about it… Gentlemen! I’d like you to meet Professor Stephen Hawking.”

“Sir.”

“Sir.”

I asked them about their religion. Barney groaned.

“Well sir, we are brothers in the Brotherhood of Brothers of Muhammad in the Hood.”

“Followers of the teachings of Muhammad…”

“It is a little known fact that Muhammad was a Black man, of Africa…”

“It is a little known fact that the first man to whom the Prophet gave the honour of giving the Call to Prayer was a freed Black slave, Bilal…”

“And so we follow that great Religion…”

“A Religion blind to the colour of a man’s skin.”

”A Religion of compassion.”

    “Religion of Love.”

    “Religion of tolerance.”

    "... for the Prophet taught us to hate no-one.”

    "And thus we hate no one."

    "Except the fucking Mexicans."

    "Yeah the Mexicans. And the fucking Koreans."

    "…’king Koreans. And whitey."

    "Yeah, whitey."

    "Fuck the Man."

    "And the cops."

    "Fuck the cops."

    "Nothing worse than a black man in a cop jacket."

    "Fuck those negroes."

    "Yes, fuck them."

    “Thank you, gentlemen,” said Barney.

    “Sir.”

    “Sir.”

    They bowed and left.

    “Oh well, it is better than Marxism,” said Barney.

(From Jude: Level 1, published in the UK by Old Street Publishing. And published in Greek by Topos Books, very handy if you're Greek...)

(Oh, and the terrific image is borrowed from Prison Penpals, check 'em out.)

Happy New Year

Back home in Berlin, and sick as a dog. My gang came down with a selection-box of diseases over the Christmas in Ireland. Returning half-conscious to Berlin - coughing and hawking our way through airports, train stations, cafés and public toilets - we spread our plagues in a mighty swathe across Europe. So if civilisation is consequently snuffed out, sorry about that.

(The Plain People of the Internet: Ah! Is that a rare reference there to the five wives and forty children he is rumoured to  have stashed away in Berlin? Make a note...)

So on a human level, I and all I love start 2009 utterly banjaxed. But as a writer (far more important, natch), my year has got off to a nice start. The New York Times has just printed a piece by me. The piece is probably funnier if you have read all of US Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson's official bailout statements over the past six months. (But, you know, don't. It's too high a price to pay to get a gag.)

I'll put it up on the site here, once the New York Times has had a fair run at it. But meanwhile here's their version. They even commissioned a cartoon from R. O. Blechman, which is a heck of an honour. (Blechman is seventy-eight now, and won an Emmy for his animated film of Stravinsky and Ramuz's theatre thingy, The Soldier's Tale.)

Oh, and a happy, happy, HAPPY, HAPPY New Year to you all.

(The eloquent photo above is borrowed from PawsAroundChicago.com. They give pets lifts. Oh you laugh and call it decadence, but it is only through such - not entirely necessary, yet welcome - innovations that civilization advances. I don't know the name of the photographer. A haunting picture, suffused with empathy and a deep understanding of suffering, it is possible it is a self portrait.)

Happy People

The New York Times ran a piece on Thursday (by Roni Caryn Rabin), with an opening that spoke to my soul. Not the content - though I like the content - the way it was expressed. (Maybe it's because I'm going slowly nuts thumping my own book of poems into shape, but I'm seeing gorgeous, startling poetry everywhere lately.) Anyway, this contains what must be one of the shortest (and bluntest) second pararaphs in NYT history. Maybe it needs to be seen in the context of the whole article... maybe to fully appreciate this you need to have read a truly horrible amount of long, windy NYT prose... Now I've built it up way too much, and you'll just scratch your head and think what the heck was he talking about. Ah, I'm just going to quote it and shut up.

"Happy people spend a lot of time socializing, going to church and reading newspapers — but they don’t spend a lot of time watching television, a new study finds.

That’s what unhappy people do."

Sarah Palin for U.S. Poet Laureate

(A note from about a week after I posted this: the guys at Prospect magazine read it, laughed a hollow laugh, and asked for a longer, slightly different version, which you can read here...)

Well, Sarah Palin is back in Alaska, and all you can hear around these parts is the lonesome wail of the broken-hearted satirists of Europe. Come back Sarah! We love you! It's OK if you think Africa's a country! We don't mind. It's not like you were running for President of Africa. Hell, there's people over here in Europe think America's a country...

At least she's still giving interviews, to sort out these terrible misconceptions, so I can still get my regular fix. In today's one, with Fox News' Greta Van Susteren, "the Alaska governor explains what she would have discussed had she been more available to the press."

Which turns out to be stuff like - I know Africa is a continent! Embedded in sentences like this one:

"I don't know, because I remember the discussion about Africa, my concern has been the atrocities there in Darfur and the relevance to me with that issue, as we spoke about Africa and some of the countries there that were kind of the people succumbing to the dictators and the corruption of some collapsed governments on the continent, the relevance was Alaska's investment in Darfur with some of our permanent fund dollars, I wanted to make sure that that didn't happen anymore."

I like the middle bit of that sentence the best. It has a kind of poetry. And she says "continent", just to bang it home that she knows it's a continent. Subtle, but brilliant.

Hell, it IS poetry. Read it again:

Africa, a poem by Sarah Palin

"And the relevance

To me

With that issue,

As we spoke

About Africa and some

Of the countries

There that were

Kind of the people

Succumbing to the dictators

And the corruption

Of some

Collapsed governments

On the

Continent,

The relevance

Was Alaska's"

As Kurtz should have said at the end of Heart of Darkness, "The relevance! The relevance!"

If Obama is serious about reaching out across the aisle; about ending the divisions between Republican and Democrat - between red states and blue states - between people who believe in evolution and people who believe in creation - between monkeys and humans - between literate and illiterate - if Barack Hussein Obama truly believes in Change - then he will appoint Sarah Palin as the United States' seventeenth, and greatest, Poet Laureate.

Election Day USA 2008

At last, it's election day in the USA. Who will win? Well, I think Obama won the election six weeks ago, on Monday 15th of September 2008 when Lehman Brothers , the hundred-and-fifty-year-old American investment bank, collapsed and filed for bankruptcy protection. (And, somewhat addicted to the high-wire of public prediction by now, I'm typing this before the votes have been counted. I haven't even looked at an exit poll, if any are out yet. There's hours of voting left to go in parts of the US.) That was the event that made the collapse of not just banks but the whole deregulated financial system unstoppable.

Check out the graphs in the second half of this excellent video from John Authers of the Financial Times. (You can skip the stuff on the dollar at the start.) In the crucial states Obama needs, Obama trailed McCain until the day of the Lehman's collapse, and then bam, his line shoots up and McCain's plummets, and McCain has trailed Obama in all of them ever since.

Almost everything written about this election has been fluff. The economy will always drive politics in a democracy. Only when things are going fairly well will people bother to vote on any other issue. When the economy implodes, so do the hopes of the incumbent party. McCain actually ran a very good campaign under incredibly difficult circumstances: he stayed in the race until the entire American banking system collapsed. His problem was that he had to run as two mutually conflicting things. To get the Republican party to vote for him, campaign for him, and finance him, he needed to run as a Republican. But that's only 40% of the voters. Not enough. And President Bush was so unpopular (this week he recorded a 20% approval rating, the lowest in history, lower than Nixon in the last days of Watergate), that to win the votes of anyone else at all, McCain had to run as a crazy maverick who wasn't anything like Bush and, sure, was hardly a Republican at all, at all. And you can't be both King of the Republicans, and the Scourge of the Republicans. (Look what happened to the last guy who tried to walk that tricky line.)

It has been very refreshing to have two presidential candidates that I really like and respect running for the big gig. (I wasn't impressed by the character of either candidate the last time.) It has been sad to see McCain ripped in two by the situation he put himself in. Much of the anger he expressed in that last month was probably at himself. I think he will be very glad indeed when this is over.

Obama had the easier task but, even allowing for that, he has run a stunningly good campaign. I think he'll walk this election. On water if necessary. He's not trying to win the popular vote (fat lot of good winning that did Al Gore), he's aiming to sweep the Electoral College. I think he will.

OK, that's who will win (oh, and one last prediction... Obama will do well among white voters, getting a bigger share of them than Bill Clinton got, and all that talk about the Bradley effect will turn out to have been fluff too). But who should win? I don't think novelists should have opinions, especially political opinions. It damages their work, by ruling out certain readings, and closing down ambiguities that should not be closed down. I do have private opinions and preferences, but they are private. And my books do not necessarily share my opinions. So I shall outsource my opinion to someone much older and wiser than me, the very wonderful Alan Abelson, of Barron's (Wall Street's favourite newspaper): "This election pits one candidate who should have been elected eight years ago against one who should be elected eight years hence."

There you go. Fair and balanced.

May the best man win.

Though personally, as a satirist, I would like to get in early, and officially endorse Sarah Palin's 2012 bid for the presidency. She has given so much to us, we have a duty to give something back.

I know, I know, you've already watched it fifteen times, but indulge yourself one last time...

And, above all, on this day of all days, it is your political duty, if you haven't done so already, to click on this link, and then click on everything you see when you get there, with the sound on.

Update on 2008-11-05 04:14 by Julian Gough

The super-duper New York Times interactive map is addictive and delightful. I've been enjoying making my own calls on the states, ahead of the networks and newspapers, by zooming in and trying to work out, county by county, how the tide is flowing. I'll make a call here, for the fun of it: I think Obama will just pip McCain in Indiana. As I type, McCain is only .2% ahead, and there's still a lot of votes to come from Lake County, which contains the city of Gary, which is breaking 2 to 1 for Obama. McCain is winning in the rural counties, but they have largely been counted by now.

And now I'm off to bed, it's nearly 5am in Berlin.

Update on 2008-11-05 04:36 by Julian Gough

Nah, I couldn't go to bed, it's too exciting... Florida looks like a big win for Obama. He's 2% ahead of McCain as I type, but McCain's counties are counted, the big blocks of votes still to come in are all Miami-Dade, Palm Beach and Broward counties, (so, urban - Miami, Fort Lauderdale - and Democrat), and they are going to swing it strongly to Obama.

I really should go to bed, this election is over. Ah, it's a great shame McCain was robbed of the Republican nomination by the Rove/Bush machine in 2000. That really bent American democracy out of shape. And what consequences...

But in 2008, Obama deserves his victory. Here's the bravest and most important speech of the campaign, from either candidate. Character is destiny, and Obama has character.

Update on 2008-11-05 04:54 by Julian Gough

Yes, it's officially over. The networks have called it, and after the Kerry/Bush debacle, they ain't going to be leaping to wild conclusions. Wow. President Obama.

I'm incredibly happy. What a great day for America. What a relief for the world. (What was the global opinion poll result again? 75% of those with an opinion were for Obama?) The number of wounds that this helps to heal... holy cow.

God Bless the U.S.A.

With only a fistful of days to go, well yeah, I've got a lot of thoughts about the US election but, you know, who cares about my thoughts on the US election. Here's a clip that doesn't contain any footage of Barack Obama, John McCain, or Sarah Palin. (OK it does contain footage of Joe Biden, but hey, perfection is for Allah.)

And, wonky sound and all, this clip contains that strange, sideways something about the USA that makes me like the place so much. I'll warn you, if you're European - this clip is corny; it is cutesy (and the sound sucks); but get past that.

To make a clarifying statement which is not as cynical as it seems: America has the potential to be the country it thinks it is.

I have often found myself repeating W.H Auden's lines (below), from "On The Circuit", as I fly away from another astonishing, infuriating, sickening, exhilarating, inspiring encounter with America. I wonder do the candidates find themselves murmuring something similar sometimes...

"Another morning comes: I see

Dwindling below me on the plane,

The roofs of one more audience

I shall not see again.

God bless the lot of them, although

I don't remember which was which:

God bless the USA, so large,

So friendly, and so rich."