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I read this five years ago, and I hated it. I hated it fiercely. I recall thinking it better suited for a short story at best. I am almost tempted to read it again to see if I would still loathe it so strongly or if my reading tastes have changed. In the meantime, I'll just provide what I wrote about it at age seventeen:

I disliked this book so intensely that I feel I have to warn people. I bought this book because Amazon recommended it after I rated some of Chuck Palahniuk's books. Their writing shouldn't even be compared if the rest of Ballard's novels are as bad as this one. His writing style isn't that bad, but simply monotonous, and the plot is beyond lacking. I could have read the first few pages and known what the whole book was about and saved myself the hour or so it took to finish it. It tells you in the beginning pages that Vaughan dies in an attempt at a car crash with Elizabeth Taylor, at the end of the novel Vaughan dies as said, and in between: SEX. That is all this novel really is. Sex in cars while thinking of car crashes and feeling detached. There are no plot twists, no surprises, and absolutely nothing worth $$$ and nothing to justify the time you might waste reading it. I really wanted to like this book, but I couldn't. It wasn't how sickening one might find the subject matter; it was how redundant and predictable it was.