Books like The Drought

Should I be worried that I feel at home in Ballard’s world? The Drought is the fourth of Ballard’s books that I have read. (The others are The Drowned World, Concrete Island, and High-Rise.) I’m drawn to his themes of isolation and alienation. His association of inner world and outer world. And his misfit characters. It is especially the misfit characters that make The Drought feel like home.The protagonists of all four novels are estranged from the world around them. When the world around them changes, it offers them the opportunity to withdraw further into themselves. This is the reason they feel at home in their new worlds. And this happens, not despite the disasters, but because of them. In The Drought, Ransom moves into a houseboat on the river to escape his marriage and career. Here, among “the people living on the margins of the channel” (22), he finally feels at home. These are his people. These marginal people. Stragglers and lingerers. Solipsists and solitaries. Outcasts and castaways. There are parallels between the characters in The Drought and the characters from the other novels I have read. The greatest resemblance is between The Drought and Concrete Island. Ransom, Catherine, and Quilter might even be the prototype for Maitland, Jane, and Proctor.One of the strengths of Concrete Island is the dynamic between the trio of characters. But The Drought has many characters. Ransom, Catherine, and Quilter are not a trio. Philip Jordan exists as the antithesis of Quilter. Lomax and Miranda add another component to the story. High-Rise, like The Drought, has a larger cast of characters, but its plot still concerns a trio—Laing, Wilder, and Royal—representing the three social classes. Ransom, Quilter, and Lomax might be the prototype for this hierarchical structure. Both Lomax and Royal are wealthy architects. Ransom and Laing are middle-class physicians. And Quilter and Wilder are wild cards from the lowest economic class.I believe the characters in The Drought have been refined and recombined in Ballard’s later novels. But here, in The Drought, they are an odd assortment of individuals living on the margins of society. And they are all truly individuals, for even when they are together, they are solitary beings. These are the people who stay behind as the river dries up and everyone else evacuates to the seashore. There is Catherine, the zoo curator’s daughter, “remote sister of the lions” (28). And the zookeeper Whitman, a man who nurses “a wild misanthropic hope” (68). While Catherine is only truly at home with her lions, she can get along with people. But Whitman is completely estranged from society. He has nothing but contempt for people. He could easily add to his namesake’s litany of complaints against the human species.“I think I could turn and live awhile with the animals . . . . they are so placid and self-contained” (Leaves of Grass, 1855).There is the idiot Quilter, at home amid the stench and mud of the dying river with its dead birds and fish rotting under the sun. And the antithesis of Quilter, the Ariel to Quilter’s Caliban, Philip Jordan, the character most closely identified with the river, “part waif and part water-elf” (33).Lomax and Miranda do not seem to fit into their environment as naturally as Catherine and Whitman, Quilter and Philip Jordan, yet they too are singular members of this community of misfits. The foppish Lomax and his witch-like sister live in a luxurious mansion, yet despite their wealth, they are not part of ordinary society. They are as marginal as the river people. After their servants flee to the sea with the rest of the population, it is Quilter and Whitman who service their needs and their property.Then there are the minor characters. Captain Tulloch, who will man his steamer to the very end. Mrs. Quilter, fanning herself on the houseboat given to her as charity by Lomax. And Jonas, the obsessed ship’s caption, “like a desert Ahab, hunting for his white sea” (200).In The Drowned World, Ballard’s language suits his landscape perfectly. It is profuse, teeming with metaphor, lush in description. This is the novel’s strength, for the story goes downhill in the second half. In contrast, the language of The Drought is self-conscious. The metaphors and literary references are all over the place. Is this The Tempest, with Lomax as “a demented Prospero” (208)? His sister or daughter or whatever she is, Miranda, lusted after by the “Caliban-like” (21) Quilter? While Philip Jordan serves as “the calm-eyed Ariel of the river” (89-90)? Or is Miranda “an imbecile Ophelia” (103)? Is Lomax Mephistopheles” (64)?Is this The Odyssey? The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? Moby Dick? The mixture is chaotic. But it is not without a unifying theme. These are seafaring tales. Tales of “Ulysses” (34) and “Sinbad” (205). Of the Ancient Mariner and his “albatross” (35). Of the castaways Prospero and Miranda. And most of all of Jonah. The Reverend Johnstone sermonizes on Jonah’s gourd. Jonas, the “desert Ahab” (200), Jonas “the preacher” (216) has a name that is mighty close to Jonah.And the main character, Ransom? His name is not as obvious as Whitman’s or Miranda’s. But it is also not subtle. ‘Ransom’ comes from the Latin for ‘redemption.’ And this is indeed a tale of redemption.In the second half of The Drowned World, mood is sacrificed for action. Not so in The Drought. There is no villain in The Drought. Instead, the characters contend with each other and with the environment. As the river dries up, it stinks. Dead birds and fish lie in the mud. Garbage fires dot the landscape. Dust covers everything. Yet Ransom lingers. He deliberately stays behind when most people are evacuating. He welcomes the change. Catherine expresses it best when she says to him: “nothing moves, but so much is happening” (29).Later, amid the salt dunes of a dying sea, the river will call to them. Ransom and Catherine and Philip Jordan. The true solitaries in this collection of misfits. Catherine, drawn back to her lions. Philip Jordan, drawn back to his river. Ransom, seeking the timelessness of the desert. The river people. The marginal people. I feel at home with them as my neighbors. They coexist without infringing on each other’s solitariness. They come and go as they will. One may wave to the other on the river bank. The other may wave back. Or not. They are mysteries to each other. But what they have in common is their separateness. The river is timeless. Whether water or sand. It washes away the past. It washes away memory. It washes away obligation. Leaving behind an eternal present. And in that, there is freedom. This is what Ransom was seeking and in his return to the river he has ransomed himself. He has redeemed himself.