The temptation is to write, immediately and at length, about J.G. Ballard’s The Drowned World (1962). After all, Andy Harper has gone so far as to reference chapters of this novel in titling his recent paintings, has insinuated thereby that its moods intersect with his art; précising the book, then, would provide an anchor and would root us reassuringly in the verifiable world of literary criticism. But that’s an impulse which should be resisted for now.