
J. G. BALLARD
The Subliminal Man
J. G. Ballard is a British writer who has been called a "poet of death." But
Ballard, especially in the early part of his career, also wrote excellent
extrapolative science fiction on social themes, and this haunting story is one
of his finest.
Here Ballard speaks of the enslavement of the unconscious, of an economic
system that forces people to consume against their will through the use of
technology. Ballard makes an important assumption-the belief (at least
implicitly) that people would not want to consume at high rates if they were
not "forced'' to do so. In a profound sense, "The Subliminal Man" is a basic
critique of the underlying dichotomy that pervades the concept of
advertising-that of needs versus wants. We all have basic needs like food,
sex, clothing, and shelter. Almost everything else (including the book you are
now reading) is wants, often artificially created by the culture in which we
live. Think how much more difficult resistance would become if the technology
of subliminal advertising were forced upon us. This threat goes beyond the
financial difficulties that families would be in. We would also be threatened
with dehumanization, for it is the ability to think and chose that separates
us from the rest of the animal world.
Ballard's story also assumes that industry will continue to manufacture
products that will easily and quickly wear out, or if this is not the case,
then it will find ways to make us dissatisfied with the products we now have.
There is little evidence that things will change for the better.
"The signs, Doctor! Have you see the signs?"
Frowning with annoyance, Dr. Franklin quickened his pace and hurried down the
hospital steps toward the line of parked cars. Over his shoulder he caught a
glimpse of a thin, scruffy young man in
ragged sandals and lime-stained jeans waving to him from the far side of the
drive, then break into a run when he saw Franklin try to evade him.
"Dr. Franklin! The signs!"
Head down, Franklin swerved around an elderly couple approaching the
outpatients department. His car was over a hundred yards away. Too tired to
start running himself, he waited for the young man to catch him up.
"All right, Hathaway, what is it this time?" he snapped irritably. "I'm
getting sick of you hanging around here all day."
Hathaway lurched to a halt in front of him, uncut black hair like an awning
over his eyes. He brushed it back with a clawlike hand and turned on a wild
smile, obviously glad to see Franklin and oblivious of the latter's hostility.
"I've been trying to reach you at night, Doctor, but your wife always puts the
phone down on me," he explained without a hint of rancor, as if well used to
this kind of snub. "And I didn't want to look for you inside the Clinic." They
were standing by a privet hedge that shielded them from the lower windows of
the main administrative block, but Franklin's regular rendezvous with Hathaway
and his strange messianic cries had already been the subject of amused
comment.
Franklin began to say: "I appreciate that-" but Hathaway brushed this aside.
"Forget it, Doctor, there are more important things happening now. They've
started to build the first big signs! Over a hundred feet high, on the traffic
islands just outside town. They'll soon have all the approach roads covered.
When they do we might as well stop thinking.
"Your trouble is that you're thinking too much," Franklin told him. "You've
been rambling about these signs for weeks now. Tell me, have you actually seen
one signaling?"
Hathaway tore a handful of leaves from the hedge, exasperated by this
irrelevancy. "Of course I haven't, that's the whole point, Doctor. - He