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«La fascinación no puede existir sin que la envidia social de las personas sea una emoción común y generalizada. La sociedad industrial que ha avanzado hacia la democracia y se ha detenido a medio camino es la sociedad ideal para generar una emoción así. La persecución de la felicidad individual está reconocida como un derecho universal. Pero las condiciones sociales existentes hacen que el individuo se sienta impotente. Vive en la contradicción entre lo que es y lo que le gustaría ser. Entonces, o cobra plena conciencia de esta contradicción y de sus causas, y participa en la lucha política por una democracia integral, lo cual entraña, entre otras cosas, derribar el capitalismo; o vive sometido continuamente a una envidia que, unida a su sensación de impotencia, se disuelve en inacabables ensueños.

Esto permite comprender que la publicidad siga siendo creíble. El abismo entre lo que la publicidad ofrece realmente y el futuro que promete corresponde al abismo existente entre lo que el espectador-comprador cree ser y lo que le gustaría ser. Los dos abismos se convierten en uno; y en lugar de salvarlo con la actuación o la existencia vivida, se intenta rellenarlo con un fascinante soñar despierto.

Las condiciones de trabajo vienen a veces en ayuda de este proceso.

El interminable presente de las horas sin sentido es “equilibrado” por un futuro soñado en el que la actividad imaginaria reemplaza a la pasividad del momento. En sus sueños diurnos, el obrero pasivo se convierte en consumidor activo. El yo trabajador envidia al yo consumidor.

No hay dos sueños iguales. Unos son instantáneos, otros prolongados. El sueño es siempre algo muy personal para el soñador. La publicidad no fabrica sueños. Se limita a decirnos a cada uno de nosotros que no somos envidiables todavía… pero podríamos serlo.

La publicidad tiene otra importante función social. El hecho de que esta función no sea deliberadamente planeada por los que hacen y usan la publicidad no disminuye en lo más mínimo su importancia. La publicidad convierte el consumo en un sustituto de la democracia. La elección de lo que uno come (o viste, o conduce) ocupa el lugar de la elección política significativa. La publicidad ayuda a enmascarar y compensar todos los rasgos antidemocráticos de la sociedad. Y enmascarar también lo que está ocurriendo en el resto del mundo.»

John Berger

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Neverwhere

«‘See?’ said Gary. ‘I’m not here. All there is, is you, walking up and down the platform, talking to yourself, trying to get up the courage to…’

Richard had not meant to say anything: but his mouth moved and he heard his voice saying: ‘Trying to get up the courage to do what?’

A deep voice came over the loudspeaker, and echoed, distorted, down the platform. ‘London Transport would like to apologize for the delay. This is due to an incident at Blackfriars station.’ ‘To do that,’ said Gary, inclining his head. ‘Become an incident at Blackfriars station. To end it all. Your life’s a joyless, empty sham. You’ve got no friends—’

‘I’ve got you,’ whispered Richard.

Gary appraised Richard with frank eyes. ‘I think you’re and asshole,’ he said, honestly. ‘A complete joke.’

‘I’ve got Door, and Hunter and Anaesthesia.’

Gary smiled. There was real pity in the smile, and it hurt Richard more than hatred, or enmity could ever have done. ‘More imaginary friends? We all used to laugh at you round the office for those trolls. Remember them? On your desk.’ He laughed. Richard started to laugh too. It was all too horrible: there was nothing else to do but laugh. After some time he stopped laughing. Gary put his hand into his pocket and produced a small plastic troll. It had frizzy purple hair, and it had once sat on the top of Richard’s computer screen. ‘Here,’ said Gary. He tossed the troll to Richard. Richard tried to catch it; he reached out his hands, but it fell through them as if there were not there. He went down on to his hands and knees on the empty platform, fumbling for the troll. It seemed on him, then, as if it were the only fragment he had of his real life: that if he could only get the troll back, perhaps he could get everything back…

Flash.

It was rush hour again. A train disgorged hundreds of people on to the platform, and hundreds of others tried to get on, and Richard was down on his hands and knees, being kicked and buffeted by the commuters. Somebody stepped on his fingers, hard. He screamed shrilly, and stuck his fingers into his mouth, instinctively, like a burned child; they tasked disgusting. He did not care: he could see the troll at the platform’s edge, now only ten feet away, and he crawled, slowly, on all fours, through the crowd, across the platform. People swore at him; they got in his way; they buffeted him. He had never imagined that ten feet could be such a long distance to travel.

Richard heard a high-pitched voice giggling, as he crawled, and he wondered who it could belong to. It was a disturbing giggle, nasty and strange. He wondered what manner of crazy person could giggle like that. He swallowed, and the giggling stopped, and then he knew.

He was almost at the edge of the platform. An elderly woman stepped on to the train, and as she did so, her foot knocked the purple-haired troll down into the darkness, down into the gap between the train and the platform. ‘No,’ said Richard. He was still laughing, an awkward, wheezing laugh, but tears stung his eyes, and spilled down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, making them sting even more.

Flash.

The platform was deserted and dark again. He climbed to his feet, and walked, unsteadily, the last few feet, to the edge of the platform. He could see it there, down on the tracks, by the third rail: a small splash of purple, his troll. He looked ahead of him: there were enormous posters stuck to the wall on the other side of the tracks. The posters advertised credit cards and sports shoes and holidays in Cyprus. As he looked the words on the posters twisted and mutated.

New messages:

END IT ALL was one of them.

PUT YOURSELF OUT OF YOUR MISERY.

BE A MAN – DO YOURSELF IN.

HAVE A FATAL ACCIDENT TODAY.

He nodded. He was talking to himself. The posters did not really say that. Yes, he was talking to himself; and it was time that he listened.»

Neil Gaiman

Neverwhere

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