Western And Southern Complaints

what he believes James Ballard
	I believe in the power that has the imagination to shape the world, to release the truth within us, to hunt at night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to propitiate the birds, to ensure the confidence of fools. I believe in my obsessions, in the beauty of the fighting drive, in the peace of the forests submerged in orgasms of deserted beaches, the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of the parking decks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels. I the ramps in use of Wake Island, pointing to the Pacific of our imagination. I in mysterious charm of Margaret Thatcher, in the curve of her nostrils and the sheen of his lower lip, the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; tormented in the smiles of the staff of petrol stations, in my dream that Margaret Thatcher is hugged by a young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel, watched by a tubercular filling station.
I believe in the beauty of all women, the treachery of their imaginations that touches my heart, the union of their bodies disillusioned with the illusory bars chrome of the counters of the supermarkets, in their warm tolerance for my perversions. I believe in the death of tomorrow nell'esaurirsi time, in our search for a new age in the smiles of the waitresses on the highway and the tired eyes of air traffic controllers at airports out of season. I in the genital organs of men and women in important positions in Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and beauty of Princess Diana, in the sweet odors emitted from their lips while the cameras set around the world. I into madness, the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the madness of flowers, preserved in the disease to the human race by astronauts Apollo. I nothing. I in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, De Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Dürer, Tanguy, Facteur Cheval, Watts Towers, Böcklin, Francis Bacon, and all the artists locked into invisible asylums of the planet. I the impossibility of existence, in the humor of mountains, in electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic. I in adolescent women, in their corruption of their own leg stances, in the purity of their bodies tangled in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.
I believe in flight, in the wing and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, the stone thrown by a child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives. I believe in the kindness of scalpel, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the solitude of the sun, the loquacity of the planets in our repetition, the universe and the boredom of the atom. I in the light emitted by televisions in the windows of department stores, in the messianic grids the radiator of automobiles on display, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs. I does not exist in the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of this. I in the disruption of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka. I in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, Fürerbunker of Berlin, of the launch pads of Wake Island. I believe in the body odors of Princess Diana. I over the next five minutes. I in the history of my feet. I think migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks. I anxiety, psychosis and despair. I in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds. I in the death of emotions and the triumph of the imagination. I in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza. I in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion. I in pain. I despair. I believe in all children. I maps, diagrams, codes, chess, puzzles, in flight schedules, reports of the airport. I all pretexts. all the reasons I think. I think all hallucinations. I believe in all the rage. I to all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions. I in mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the light of wisdom.