{"id":24988,"date":"2025-11-08T12:29:27","date_gmt":"2025-11-08T16:29:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=24988"},"modified":"2025-11-08T12:29:30","modified_gmt":"2025-11-08T16:29:30","slug":"j-g-ballard-the-subliminal-man","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/j-g-ballard-the-subliminal-man\/24988\/","title":{"rendered":"J. G. Ballard: The Subliminal Man"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> The Subliminal Man<\/em> is a short story by J.\u202fG.\u202fBallard, first published in January 1963 in New Worlds Science Fiction<\/em> and later included in The Terminal Beach<\/em> (1964). Dr. Franklin lives in a society obsessed with consumerism, where standardization and the constant replacement of goods define everyday life. Hathaway, an old acquaintance known for his eccentric and conspiratorial ideas, tries to warn him about mysterious giant structures that, according to him, control people\u2019s minds through subliminal messages. Initially skeptical, Franklin begins to suspect that Hathaway\u2019s theories might not be so far-fetched after all.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"J.<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

The Subliminal Man<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

J. G. Ballard
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018The signs, Doctor! Have you seen the signs?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Frowning with annoyance, Dr Franklin quickened his pace and hurried down the hospital steps towards the line of parked cars. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a young man in ragged sandals and paint-stained jeans waving to him from the far side of the drive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Dr Franklin! The signs!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Head down, Franklin swerved around an elderly couple approaching the out-patients 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018All right, Hathaway, what is it this time?\u2019 he snapped. \u2018I\u2019m sick of you hanging around here all day.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway lurched to a halt in front of him, uncut black hair like an awning over his eyes. He brushed it back with a claw-like hand and turned on a wild smile, obviously glad to see Franklin and oblivious of the latter\u2019s hostility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I\u2019ve been trying to reach you at night, Doctor, but your wife always puts the phone down on me,\u2019 he explained without a hint of rancour, as if well-used to this kind of snub. \u2018And I didn\u2019t want to look for you inside the Clinic.\u2019 They were standing by a privet hedge that shielded them from the lower windows of the main administrative block, but Franklin\u2019s regular rendezvous with Hathaway and his strange messianic cries had already become the subject of amused comment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin began to say: \u2018I appreciate that \u2013\u2019 but Hathaway brushed this aside. \u2018Forget it, Doctor, there are more important things now. They\u2019ve started to build the first big signs! Over a hundred feet high, on the traffic islands outside town. They\u2019ll soon have all the approach roads covered. When they do we might as well stop thinking.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Your trouble is that you\u2019re thinking too much,\u2019 Franklin told him. \u2018You\u2019ve been rambling about these signs for weeks now. Tell me, have you actually seen one signalling?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway tore a handful of leaves from the hedge, exasperated by this irrelevancy. \u2018Of course I haven\u2019t, that\u2019s the whole point, Doctor.\u2019 He dropped his voice as a group of nurses walked past, watching his raffish figure out of the corners of their eyes. \u2018The construction gangs were out again last night, laying huge power cables. You\u2019ll see them on the way home. Everything\u2019s nearly ready now.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018They\u2019re traffic signs,\u2019 Franklin explained patiently. \u2018The \ufb02yover has just been completed. Hathaway, for God\u2019s sake, relax. Try to think of Dora and the child.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I am<\/em> thinking of them!\u2019 Hathaway\u2019s voice rose to a controlled scream. \u2018Those cables were 40,000-volt lines, Doctor, with terrific switch-gear. The trucks were loaded with enormous metal scaffolds. Tomorrow they\u2019ll start lifting them up all over the city, they\u2019ll block off half the sky! What do you think Dora will be like after six months of that? We\u2019ve got to stop them, Doctor, they\u2019re trying to transistorize our brains!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Embarrassed by Hathaway\u2019s high-pitched shouting, Franklin had momentarily lost his sense of direction. Helplessly he searched the sea of cars for his own. \u2018Hathaway, I can\u2019t waste any more time talking to you. Believe me, you need skilled help, these obsessions are beginning to master you.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway started to protest, and Franklin raised his right hand firmly. \u2018Listen. For the last time, if you can show me one of these signs, and prove it\u2019s transmitting subliminal commands, I\u2019ll go to the police with you. But you haven\u2019t got a shred of evidence, and you know it. Subliminal advertising was banned thirty years ago, and the laws have never been repealed. Anyway, the technique was unsatisfactory, any success it had was marginal. Your idea of a huge conspiracy with all these thousands of giant signs everywhere is preposterous.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018All right, Doctor.\u2019 Hathaway leaned against the bonnet of one of the cars. His mood seemed to switch abruptly from one level to the next. He watched Franklin amiably. \u2018What\u2019s the matter \u2013 lost your car?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018All your damned shouting has confused me.\u2019 Franklin pulled out his ignition key and read the number off the tag: \u2018NYN 299-566-367-21 \u2013 can you see it?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway leaned around lazily, one sandal up on the bonnet, surveying the square of a thousand or so cars facing them. \u2018Difficult, isn\u2019t it, when they\u2019re all identical, even the same colour? Thirty years ago there were about ten different makes, each in a dozen colours.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin spotted his car and began to walk towards it. \u2018Sixty years ago there were a hundred makes. What of it? The economies of standardization are obviously bought at a price.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway drummed his palm on the roofs. \u2018But these cars aren\u2019t all that cheap, Doctor. In fact, comparing them on an average income basis with those of thirty years ago they\u2019re about forty per cent more expensive. With only one make being produced you\u2019d expect a substantial reduction in price, not an increase.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Maybe,\u2019 Franklin said, opening his door. \u2018But mechanically the cars of today are far more sophisticated. They\u2019re lighter, more durable, safer to drive.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway shook his head sceptically. \u2018They bore<\/em> me. The same model, same styling, same colour, year after year. It\u2019s a sort of communism.\u2019 He rubbed a greasy finger over the windshield. \u2018This is a new one again, isn\u2019t it, Doctor? Where\u2019s the old one \u2013 you only had it for three months?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I traded it in,\u2019 Franklin told him, starting the engine. \u2018If you ever had any money you\u2019d realize that it\u2019s the most economical way of owning a car. You don\u2019t keep driving the same one until it falls apart. It\u2019s the same with everything else \u2013 television sets, washing machines, refrigerators. But you aren\u2019t faced with the problem.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway ignored the gibe, and leaned his elbow on Franklin\u2019s window. \u2018Not a bad idea, either, Doctor. It gives me time to think. I\u2019m not working a twelve-hour day to pay for a lot of things I\u2019m too busy to use before they\u2019re obsolete.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He waved as Franklin reversed the car out of its line, then shouted into the wake of exhaust: \u2018Drive with your eyes closed, Doctor!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the way home Franklin kept carefully to the slowest of the four-speed lanes. As usual after his discussions with Hathaway, he felt vaguely depressed. He realized that unconsciously he envied Hathaway his footloose existence. Despite the grimy cold-water apartment in the shadow and roar of the \ufb02yover, despite his nagging wife and their sick child, and the endless altercations with the landlord and the supermarket credit manager, Hathaway still retained his freedom intact. Spared any responsibilities, he could resist the smallest encroachment upon him by the rest of society, if only by generating obsessive fantasies such as his latest one about subliminal advertising.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ability to react to stimuli, even irrationally, was a valid criterion of freedom. By contrast, what freedom Franklin possessed was peripheral, sharply demarked by the manifold responsibilities in the centre of his life \u2013 the three mortgages on his home, the mandatory rounds of cocktail parties, the private consultancy occupying most of Saturday which paid the instalments on the multitude of household gadgets, clothes and past holidays. About the only time he had to himself was driving to and from work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But at least the roads were magnificent. Whatever other criticisms might be levelled at the present society, it certainly knew how to build roads. Eight-, ten-and twelve-lane expressways interlaced across the country, plunging from overhead causeways into the giant car parks in the centre of the cities, or dividing into the great suburban arteries with their multi-acre parking aprons around the marketing centres. Together the roadways and car parks covered more than a third of the country\u2019s entire area, and in the neighbourhood of the cities the proportion was higher. The old cities were surrounded by the vast motion sculptures of the clover-leaves and \ufb02yovers, but even so the congestion was unremitting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ten-mile journey to his home in fact covered over twenty-five miles and took him twice as long as it had done before the construction of the expressway, the additional miles contained within the three giant clover-leaves. New cities were springing from the motels, caf\u00e9s and car marts around the highways. At the slightest hint of an intersection a shanty town of shacks and filling stations sprawled away among the forest of electric signs and route indicators.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All around him cars bulleted along, streaming towards the suburbs. Relaxed by the smooth motion of the car, Franklin edged outwards into the next speed-lane. As he accelerated from 40 to 50 m.p.h. a strident ear-jarring noise drummed out from his tyres, shaking the chassis of the car. Ostensibly an aid to lane discipline, the surface of the road was covered with a mesh of small rubber studs, spaced progressively farther apart in each of the lanes so that the tyre hum resonated exactly on 40, 50, 60 and 70 m.p.h. Driving at an intermediate speed for more than a few seconds became nervously exhausting, and soon resulted in damage to the car and tyres.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the studs wore out they were replaced by slightly different patterns, matching those on the latest tyres, so that regular tyre changes were necessary, increasing the safety and efficiency of the expressway. It also increased the revenues of the car and tyre manufacturers. Most cars over six months old soon fell to pieces under the steady battering, but this was regarded as a desirable end, the greater turnover reducing the unit price and making more frequent model changes, as well as ridding the roads of dangerous vehicles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A quarter of a mile ahead, at the approach to the first of the cloverleaves, the traffic stream was slowing, huge police signs signalling \u2018Lanes Closed Ahead\u2019 and \u2018Drop Speed by 10 m.p.h.\u2019. Franklin tried to return to the previous lane, but the cars were jammed bumper to bumper. As the chassis began to shudder and vibrate, jarring his spine, he clamped his teeth and tried to restrain himself from sounding the horn. Other drivers were less self-controlled and everywhere engines were plunging and snarling, horns blaring. Road taxes were now so high, up to thirty per cent of the gross national product (by contrast, income taxes were a bare two per cent) that any delay on the expressways called for an immediate government inquiry, and the major departments of state were concerned with the administration of the road systems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nearer the clover-leaf the lanes had been closed to allow a gang of construction workers to erect a massive metal sign on one of the traffic islands. The palisaded area swarmed with engineers and surveyors, and Franklin assumed that this was the sign Hathaway had seen unloaded the previous night. His apartment was in one of the gimcrack buildings in the settlement that straggled away around a near-by \ufb02yover, a low-rent area inhabited by service-station personnel, waitresses and other migrant labour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sign was enormous, at least a hundred feet high, fitted with heavy concave grilles similar to radar bowls. Rooted in a series of concrete caissons, it reared high into the air above the approach roads, visible for miles. Franklin craned up at the grilles, tracing the power cables from the transformers up into the intricate mesh of metal coils that covered their surface. A line of red aircraft-warning beacons was already alight along the top strut, and Franklin assumed that the sign was part of the ground approach system of the city airport ten miles to the east.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three minutes later, as he accelerated down the two-mile link of straight highway to the next clover-leaf, he saw the second of the giant signs looming up into the sky before him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Changing down into the 40 m.p.h. lane, Franklin watched the great bulk of the second sign recede in his rear-view mirror. Although there were no graphic symbols among the wire coils covering the grilles, Hathaway\u2019s warnings still sounded in his ears. Without knowing why, he felt sure that the signs were not part of the airport approach system. Neither of them was in line with the principal air-lines. To justify the expense of siting them in the centre of the expressway \u2013 the second sign required elaborate angled buttresses to support it on the narrow island \u2013 obviously meant that their role related in some way to the traffic streams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two hundred yards away was a roadside auto-mart, and Franklin abruptly remembered that he needed some cigarettes. Swinging the car down the entrance ramp, he joined the queue passing the self-service dispenser at the far end of the rank. The auto-mart was packed with cars, each of the five purchasing ranks lined with tired-looking men hunched over their wheels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inserting his coins (paper money was no longer in circulation, unmanageable by the automats) he took a carton from the dispenser. This was the only brand of cigarettes available \u2013 in fact there was only one brand of everything \u2013 though giant economy packs were an alternative. Moving off, he opened the dashboard locker.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside, still sealed in their wrappers, were three other cartons.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A strong fish-like smell pervaded the house when he reached home, steaming out from the oven in the kitchen. Sniffing it uneagerly, Franklin took off his coat and hat. His wife was crouched over the TV set in the lounge. An announcer was dictating a stream of numbers, and Judith scribbled them down on a pad, occasionally cursing under her breath. \u2018What a muddle!\u2019 she snapped. \u2018He was talking so quickly I took only a few things down.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Probably deliberate,\u2019 Franklin commented. \u2018A new panel game?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Judith kissed him on the cheek, discreetly hiding the ashtray loaded with cigarette butts and chocolate wrappings. \u2018Hello, darling, sorry not to have a drink ready for you. They\u2019ve started this series of Spot Bargains, they give you a selection of things on which you get a ninety per cent trade-in discount at the local stores, if you\u2019re in the right area and have the right serial numbers. It\u2019s all terribly complicated.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Sounds good, though. What have you got?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Judith peered at her checklist. \u2018Well, as far as I can see the only thing is the infra-red barbecue spit. But we have to be there before eight o\u2019clock tonight. It\u2019s seven thirty already.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Then that\u2019s out. I\u2019m tired, angel, I need something to eat.\u2019 When Judith started to protest he added firmly: \u2018Look, I don\u2019t want a new infra-red barbecue spit, we\u2019ve only had this one for two months. Damn it, it\u2019s not even a different model.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But, darling, don\u2019t you see, it makes it cheaper if you keep buying new ones. We\u2019ll have to trade ours in at the end of the year anyway, we signed the contract, and this way we save at least five pounds. These Spot Bargains aren\u2019t just a gimmick, you know. I\u2019ve been glued to that set all day.\u2019 A note of irritation had crept into her voice, but Franklin stood his ground, doggedly ignoring the clock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Right, we lose five pounds. It\u2019s worth it.\u2019 Before she could remonstrate he said: \u2018Judith, please, you probably took the wrong number down anyway.\u2019 As she shrugged and went over to the bar he called: \u2018Make it a stiff one. I see we have health foods on the menu.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018They\u2019re good for you, darling. You know you can\u2019t live on ordinary foods all the time. They don\u2019t contain any proteins or vitamins. You\u2019re always saying we ought to be like people in the old days and eat nothing but health foods.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I would, but they smell so awful.\u2019 Franklin lay back, nose in the glass of whisky, gazing at the darkened skyline outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A quarter of a mile away, gleaming out above the roof of the neighbourhood supermarket, were the five red beacon lights. Now and then, as the headlamps of the Spot Bargainers swung up across the face of the building, he could see the massive bulk of the sign clearly silhouetted against the evening sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Judith!\u2019 He went into the kitchen and took her over to the window. \u2018That sign, just behind the supermarket. When did they put it up?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I don\u2019t know.\u2019 Judith peered at him. \u2018Why are you so worried, Robert? Isn\u2019t it something to do with the airport?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin stared at the dark hull of the sign. \u2018So everyone probably thinks.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Carefully he poured his whisky into the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After parking his car on the supermarket apron at seven o\u2019clock the next morning, Franklin carefully emptied his pockets and stacked the coins in the dashboard locker. The supermarket was already busy with early morning shoppers and the line of thirty turnstiles clicked and slammed. Since the introduction of the \u201824-hour spending day\u2019 the shopping complex was never closed. The bulk of the shoppers were discount buyers, housewives contracted to make huge volume purchases of food, clothing and appliances against substantial overall price cuts, and forced to drive around all day from supermarket to supermarket, frantically trying to keep pace with their purchase schedules and grappling with the added incentives inserted to keep the schemes alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Many of the women had teamed up, and as Franklin walked over to the entrance a pack of them charged towards their cars, stuffing their pay slips into their bags and shouting at each other. A moment later their cars roared off in a convoy to the next marketing zone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A large neon sign over the entrance listed the latest discount \u2013 a mere five per cent \u2013 calculated on the volume of turnover. The highest discounts, sometimes up to twenty-five per cent, were earned in the housing estates where junior white-collar workers lived. There, spending had a strong social incentive, and the desire to be the highest spender in the neighbourhood was given moral reinforcement by the system of listing all the names and their accumulating cash totals on a huge electric sign in the supermarket foyers. The higher the spender, the greater his contribution to the discounts enjoyed by others. The lowest spenders were regarded as social criminals, free-riding on the backs of others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Luckily this system had yet to be adopted in Franklin\u2019s neighbourhood \u2013 not because the Professional men and their wives were able to exercise more discretion, but because their higher incomes allowed them to contract into more expensive discount schemes operated by the big department stores in the city.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten yards from the entrance Franklin paused, looking up at the huge metal sign mounted in an enclosure at the edge of the car park. Unlike the other signs and hoardings that proliferated everywhere, no attempt had been made to decorate it, or disguise the gaunt bare rectangle of riveted steel mesh. Power lines wound down its sides, and the concrete surface of the car park was crossed by a long scar where a cable had been sunk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin strolled along. Fifty feet from the sign he stopped and turned, realizing that he would be late for the hospital and needed a new carton of cigarettes. A dim but powerful humming emanated from the transformers below the sign, fading as he retraced his steps to the supermarket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Going over to the automats in the foyer, he felt for his change, then whistled sharply when he remembered why he had deliberately emptied his pockets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hathaway!\u2019 he said, loudly enough for two shoppers to stare at him. Reluctant to look directly at the sign, he watched its re\ufb02ection in one of the glass door-panes, so that any subliminal message would be reversed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Almost certainly he had received two distinct signals \u2013 \u2018Keep Away\u2019 and \u2018Buy Cigarettes\u2019. The people who normally parked their cars along the perimeter of the apron were avoiding the area under the enclosure, the cars describing a loose semi-circle fifty feet around it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned to the janitor sweeping out the foyer. \u2018What\u2019s that sign for?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man leaned on his broom, gazing dully at the sign. \u2018No idea,\u2019 he said. \u2018Must be something to do with the airport.\u2019 He had a fresh cigarette in his mouth, but his right hand reached to his hip pocket and pulled out a pack. He drummed the second cigarette absently on his thumbnail as Franklin walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everyone entering the supermarket was buying cigarettes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cruising quietly along the 40 m.p.h. lane, Franklin began to take a closer interest in the landscape around him. Usually he was either too tired or too preoccupied to do more than think about his driving, but now he examined the expressway methodically, scanning the roadside caf\u00e9s for any smaller versions of the new signs. A host of neon displays covered the doorways and windows, but most of them seemed innocuous, and he turned his attention to the larger billboards erected along the open stretches of the expressway. Many of these were as high as four-storey houses, elaborate three-dimensional devices in which giant housewives with electric eyes and teeth jerked and postured around their ideal kitchens, neon \ufb02ashes exploding from their smiles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The areas on either side of the expressway were wasteland, continuous junkyards filled with cars and trucks, washing machines and refrigerators, all perfectly workable but jettisoned by the economic pressure of the succeeding waves of discount models. Their intact chrome hardly tarnished, the metal shells and cabinets glittered in the sunlight. Nearer the city the billboards were sufficiently close together to hide them but now and then, as he slowed to approach one of the \ufb02yovers, Franklin caught a glimpse of the huge pyramids of metal, gleaming silently like the refuse grounds of some forgotten El Dorado.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That evening Hathaway was waiting for him as he came down the hospital steps. Franklin waved him across the court, then led the way quickly to his car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What\u2019s the matter, Doctor?\u2019 Hathaway asked as Franklin wound up the windows and glanced around the lines of parked cars. \u2018Is someone after you?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin laughed sombrely. \u2018I don\u2019t know. I hope not, but if what you say is right, I suppose there is.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway leaned back with a chuckle, propping one knee up on the dashboard. \u2018So you\u2019ve seen something, Doctor, after all.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Well, I\u2019m not sure yet, but there\u2019s just a chance you may be right. This morning at the Fairlawne supermarket . . .\u2019 He broke off, uneasily remembering the huge black sign and the abrupt way in which he had turned back to the supermarket as he approached it, then described his encounter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway nodded. \u2018I\u2019ve seen the sign there. It\u2019s big, but not as big as some that are going up. They\u2019re building them everywhere now. All over the city. What are you going to do, Doctor?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin gripped the wheel tightly. Hathaway\u2019s thinly veiled amusement irritated him. \u2018Nothing, of course. Damn it, it may be just auto-suggestion, you\u2019ve probably got me imagining \u2013\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway sat up with a jerk. \u2018Don\u2019t be absurd, Doctor! If you can\u2019t believe your own senses what chance have you left? They\u2019re invading your brain, if you don\u2019t defend yourself they\u2019ll take it over completely! We\u2019ve got to act now, before we\u2019re all paralysed.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wearily Franklin raised one hand to restrain him. \u2018Just a minute. Assuming that these signs are<\/em> going up everywhere, what would be their object? Apart from wasting the enormous amount of capital invested in all the other millions of signs and billboards, the amounts of discretionary spending power still available must be infinitesimal. Some of the present mortgage and discount schemes reach half a century ahead. A big trade war would be disastrous.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Quite right, Doctor,\u2019 Hathaway rejoined evenly, \u2018but you\u2019re forgetting one thing. What would supply that extra spending power? A big increase in production. Already they\u2019ve started to raise the working day from twelve hours to fourteen. In some of the appliance plants around the city Sunday working is being introduced as a norm. Can you visualize it, Doctor \u2013 a seven-day week, everyone with at least three jobs.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin shook his head. \u2018People won\u2019t stand for it.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018They will. Within the last twenty-five years the gross national product has risen by fifty per cent, but so have the average hours worked. Ultimately we\u2019ll all be working and spending twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No one will dare refuse. Think what a slump would mean \u2013 millions of lay-offs, people with time on their hands and nothing to spend it on. Real leisure, not just time spent buying things,\u2019 He seized Franklin by the shoulder. \u2018Well, Doctor, are you going to join me?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin freed himself. Half a mile away, partly hidden by the four-storey bulk of the Pathology Department, was the upper half of one of the giant signs, workmen still crawling across its girders. The airlines over the city had deliberately been routed away from the hospital, and the sign obviously had no connection with approaching aircraft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Isn\u2019t there a prohibition on \u2013 what did they call it \u2013 subliminal living? How can the unions accept it?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018The fear of a slump. You know the new economic dogmas. Unless output rises by a steady in\ufb02ationary five per cent the economy is stagnating. Ten years ago increased efficiency alone would raise output, but the advantages there are minimal now and only one thing is left. More work. Subliminal advertising will provide the spur.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018What are you planning to do?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I can\u2019t tell you, Doctor, unless you accept equal responsibility for it.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018That sounds rather Quixotic,\u2019 Franklin commented. \u2018Tilting at windmills. You won\u2019t be able to chop those things down with an axe.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018I won\u2019t try.\u2019 Hathaway opened the door. \u2018Don\u2019t wait too long to make up your mind, Doctor. By then it may not be yours to make up.\u2019 With a wave he was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the way home Franklin\u2019s scepticism returned. The idea of the conspiracy was preposterous, and the economic arguments were too plausible. As usual, though, there had been a hook in the soft bait Hathaway dangled before him \u2013 Sunday working. His own consultancy had been extended into Sunday morning with his appointment as visiting factory doctor to one of the automobile plants that had started Sunday shifts. But instead of resenting this incursion into his already meagre hours of leisure he had been glad. For one frightening reason \u2013 he needed the extra income.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Looking out over the lines of scurrying cars, he noticed that at least a dozen of the great signs had been erected along the expressway. As Hathaway had said, more were going up everywhere, rearing over the supermarkets in the housing developments like rusty metal sails.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Judith was in the kitchen when he reached home, watching the TV programme on the hand-set over the cooker. Franklin climbed past a big cardboard carton, its seals still unbroken, which blocked the doorway, kissed her on the cheek as she scribbled numbers down on her pad. The pleasant odour of pot-roast chicken \u2013 or, rather a gelatine dummy of a chicken fully \ufb02avoured and free of any toxic or nutritional properties \u2013 mollified his irritation at finding her still playing the Spot Bargains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tapped the carton with his foot. \u2018What\u2019s this?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018No idea, darling, something\u2019s always coming these days, I can\u2019t keep up with it all.\u2019 She peered through the glass door at the chicken \u2013 an economy twelve-pounder, the size of a turkey, with stylized legs and wings and an enormous breast, most of which would be discarded at the end of the meal (there were no dogs or cats these days, the crumbs from the rich man\u2019s table saw to that) \u2013 and then glanced at him pointedly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018You look rather worried, Robert. Bad day?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin murmured noncommittally. The hours spent trying to detect false clues in the faces of the Spot Bargain announcers had sharpened Judith\u2019s perceptions. He felt a pang of sympathy for the legion of husbands similarly outmatched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Have you been talking to that crazy beatnik again?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hathaway? As a matter of fact I have. He\u2019s not all that crazy.\u2019 He stepped backwards into the carton, almost spilling his drink. \u2018Well, what is this thing? As I\u2019ll be working for the next fifty Sundays to pay for it I\u2019d like to find out.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He searched the sides, finally located the label. \u2018A TV set<\/em>? Judith, do we need another one? We\u2019ve already got three. Lounge, dining-room and the hand-set. What\u2019s the fourth for?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018The guest-room, dear, don\u2019t get so excited. We can\u2019t leave a hand-set in the guest-room, it\u2019s rude. I\u2019m trying to economize, but four TV sets is the bare minimum. All the magazines say so.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018And<\/em> three radios?\u2019 Franklin stared irritably at the carton. \u2018If we do invite a guest here how much time is he going to spend alone in his room watching television? Judith, we\u2019ve got to call a halt. It\u2019s not as if these things were free, or even cheap. Anyway, television is a total waste of time. There\u2019s only one programme. It\u2019s ridiculous to have four sets.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Robert, there are four<\/em> channels.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But only the commercials are different.\u2019 Before Judith could reply the telephone rang. Franklin lifted the kitchen receiver, listened to the gabble of noise that poured from it. At first he wondered whether this was some offbeat prestige commercial, then realized it was Hathaway in a manic swing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hathaway!\u2019 he shouted back. \u2018Relax, for God\u2019s sake! What\u2019s the matter now?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018\u2013 Doctor, you\u2019ll have to believe me this time. I climbed on to one of the islands with a stroboscope, they\u2019ve got hundreds of high-speed shutters blasting away like machine-guns straight into people\u2019s faces and they can\u2019t see a thing, it\u2019s fantastic! The next big campaign\u2019s going to be cars and TV sets, they\u2019re trying to swing a two-month model change \u2013 can you imagine it, Doctor, a new car every two months? God Almighty, it\u2019s just \u2013\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin waited impatiently as the five-second commercial break cut in (all telephone calls were free, the length of the commercial extending with range \u2013 for long-distance calls the ratio of commercial to conversation was as high as 10:1, the participants desperately trying to get a word in edgeways between the interminable interruptions), but just before it ended he abruptly put the telephone down, then removed the receiver from the cradle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Judith came over and took his arm. \u2018Robert, what\u2019s the matter? You look terribly strained.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin picked up his drink and walked through into the lounge. \u2018It\u2019s just Hathaway. As you say, I\u2019m getting a little too involved with him. He\u2019s starting to prey on my mind.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the dark outline of the sign over the supermarket, its red warning lights glowing in the night sky. Blank and nameless, like an area for ever closed-off in an insane mind, what frightened him was its total anonymity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Yet I\u2019m not sure,\u2019 he muttered. \u2018So much of what Hathaway says makes sense. These subliminal techniques are the sort of last-ditch attempt you\u2019d expect from an over-capitalized industrial system.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He waited for Judith to reply, then looked up at her. She stood in the centre of the carpet, hands folded limply, her sharp, intelligent face curiously dull and blunted. He followed her gaze out over the rooftops, then with an effort turned his head and quickly switched on the TV set.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Come on,\u2019 he said grimly. \u2018Let\u2019s watch television. God, we\u2019re going to need that fourth set.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A week later Franklin began to compile his inventory. He saw nothing more of Hathaway; as he left the hospital in the evening the familiar scruffy figure was absent. When the first of the explosions sounded dimly around the city and he read of the attempts to sabotage the giant signs he automatically assumed that Hathaway was responsible, but later he heard on a newscast that the detonations had been set off by construction workers excavating foundations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More of the signs appeared over the rooftops, isolated on the palisaded islands near the suburban shopping centres. Already there were over thirty on the ten-mile route from the hospital, standing shoulder to shoulder over the speeding cars like giant dominoes. Franklin had given up his attempt to avoid looking at them, but the slim possibility that the explosions might be Hathaway\u2019s counter-attack kept his suspicions alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He began his inventory after hearing the newscast, and discovered that in the previous fortnight he and Judith had traded in their<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Car (previous model 2 months old)
2 TV sets (4 months) Power mower
(7 months) Electric cooker (5 months)
Hair dryer (4 months)
Refrigerator (3 months)
2 radios (7 months)
Record player (5 months)
Cocktail bar (8 months)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half these purchases had been made by himself, but exactly when he could never recall realizing at the time. The car, for example, he had left in the garage near the hospital to be greased, that evening had signed for the new model as he sat at its wheel, accepting the saleman\u2019s assurance that the depreciation on the two-month trade-in was virtually less than the cost of the grease-job. Ten minutes later, as he sped along the expressway, he suddenly realized that he had bought a new car. Similarly, the TV sets had been replaced by identical models after developing the same irritating interference pattern (curiously, the new sets also displayed the pattern, but as the salesman assured them, this promptly vanished two days later). Not once had he actually decided of his own volition that he wanted something and then gone out to a store and bought it!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He carried the inventory around with him, adding to it as necessary, quietly and without protest analysing these new sales techniques, wondering whether total capitulation might be the only way of defeating them. As long as he kept up even a token resistance, the in\ufb02ationary growth curve would show a controlled annual ten per cent climb. With that resistance removed, however, it would begin to rocket upwards out of control . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Driving home from the hospital two months later, he saw one of the signs for the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was in the 40 m.p.h. lane, unable to keep up with the \ufb02ood of new cars, and had just passed the second of the three clover-leaves when the traffic half a mile away began to slow down. Hundreds of cars had driven up on to the grass verge, and a crowd was gathering around one of the signs. Two small black figures were climbing up the metal face, and a series of grid-like patterns of light \ufb02ashed on and off, illuminating the evening air. The patterns were random and broken, as if the sign was being tested for the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Relieved that Hathaway\u2019s suspicions had been completely groundless, Franklin turned off on to the soft shoulder, then walked forward through the spectators as the lights stuttered in their faces. Below, behind the steel palisades around the island, was a large group of police and engineers, craning up at the men scaling the sign a hundred feet over their heads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly Franklin stopped, the sense of relief fading instantly. Several of the police on the ground were armed with shotguns, and the two policemen climbing the sign carried submachine-guns slung over their shoulders. They were converging on a third figure, crouched by a switch-box on the penultimate tier, a bearded man in a grimy shirt, a bare knee poking through his jeans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hathaway!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin hurried towards the island, the sign hissing and spluttering, fuses blowing by the dozen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the \ufb02icker of lights cleared and steadied, blazing out continuously, and together the crowd looked up at the decks of brilliant letters. The phrases, and every combination of them possible, were entirely familiar, and Franklin knew that he had been reading them for weeks as he passed up and down the expressway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY
NEW CAR NOW NEW CAR NOW NEW CAR NOW
YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES YES<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sirens blaring, two patrol cars swung on to the verge through the crowd and plunged across the damp grass. Police spilled from their doors, batons in their hands, and quickly began to force back the crowd. Franklin held his ground as they approached, started to say: \u2018Officer, I know the man \u2013\u2019 but the policeman punched him in the chest with the \ufb02at of his hand. Winded, he stumbled back among the cars, and leaned helplessly against a fender as the police began to break the windshields, the hapless drivers protesting angrily, those farther back rushing for their vehicles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The noise fell away when one of the submachine-guns fired a brief roaring burst, then rose in a massive gasp as Hathaway, arms outstretched, let out a cry of triumph and pain, and jumped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But, Robert, what does it really matter?\u2019 Judith asked as Franklin sat inertly in the lounge the next morning. \u2018I know it\u2019s tragic for his wife and daughter, but Hathaway was in the grip of an obsession. If he hated advertising signs so much why didn\u2019t he dynamite those we can<\/em> see, instead of worrying so much about those we can\u2019t?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin stared at the TV screen, hoping the programme would distract him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Hathaway was right<\/em>,\u2019 he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Was he? Advertising is here to stay. We\u2019ve no real freedom of choice, anyway. We can\u2019t spend more than we can afford, the finance companies soon clamp down.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018Do you accept that?\u2019 Franklin went over to the window. A quarter of a mile away, in the centre of the estate, another of the signs was being erected. It was due east from them, and in the early morning light the shadows of its rectangular superstructure fell across the garden, reaching almost to the steps of the french windows at his feet. As a concession to the neighbourhood, and perhaps to allay any suspicions while it was being erected by an appeal to petty snobbery, the lower sections had been encased in mock-Tudor panelling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin stared at it, counting the half-dozen police lounging by their patrol cars as the construction gang unloaded the prefabricated grilles from a truck. He looked at the sign by the supermarket, trying to repress his memories of Hathaway and the pathetic attempts the man had made to convince Franklin and gain his help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was still standing there an hour later when Judith came in, putting on her hat and coat, ready to visit the supermarket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Franklin followed her to the door. \u2018I\u2019ll drive you down there, Judith. I have to see about booking a new car. The next models are coming out at the end of the month. With luck we\u2019ll get one of the early deliveries.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They walked out into the trim drive, the shadows of the signs swinging across the quiet neighbourhood as the day progressed, sweeping over the heads of the people on their way to the supermarket like the blades of enormous scythes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n

1963<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Subliminal Man is a short story by J.\u202fG.\u202fBallard, first published in January 1963 in New Worlds Science Fiction and later included in The Terminal Beach (1964). Dr. Franklin lives in a society obsessed with consumerism, where standardization and the constant replacement of goods define everyday life. Hathaway, an old acquaintance known for his eccentric and conspiratorial ideas, tries to warn him about mysterious giant structures that, according to him, control people\u2019s minds through subliminal messages. Initially skeptical, Franklin begins to suspect that Hathaway\u2019s theories might not be so far-fetched after all.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":24990,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[1424,552,772],"class_list":["post-24988","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-j-g-ballard-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-kingdom","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":1424,"label":"J. G. Ballard"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/11\/J.-G.-Ballard-The-Subliminal-Man.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":1424,"name":"J. G. Ballard","slug":"j-g-ballard-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":1424,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":2,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24988","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=24988"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/24988\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/24990"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=24988"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=24988"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=24988"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}