The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick

  [89:186] Surely someone in the world who knows about the Holy Spirit will recognize that this is what VALIS is about (but the humble author did not). Look at their stance at the end; it is that of the Eleven at the time of “Acts”—in fact VALIS is a retelling of the story of the spirit of the risen Lord returning to the grieving disciples; Horselover Fat’s grief is over the death of a friend—he seeks this dead, lost friend in and as the Savior; to this lowly grieving man, a paradigm of the Eleven after the crucifixion, there suddenly returns the spirit, turning grief and loss into joy and recovery. The Rhipidon Society is the Eleven. The death of Gloria is the death of Jesus. No one has noticed this, including me. The spirit inspires Fat with faith so that he looks forward to the Parousia not backward to the crucifixion. Without intending it, in VALIS I retold “Acts.” So for a second time, “Acts” appears in my writing as the Urwelt, the real world.

  How can it be that I, even I, did not notice this: that I had depicted the grieving disciples (Horselover Fat) after the death of Jesus (Gloria) to whom the Holy Spirit returns, changing grief to joy and loss to recovery, and, most of all, turning him toward the future to wait overtly for the Parousia?

  [89:219] I dreamed that I wrote down that what we call “world” is a program in a meta-computer; the program is arranged conceptually and not in time, space, or by causation; we call this meta-computer that our world is in “God.”*

  Folder 59*

  Early 1981

  [59:8] † In VALIS in terms of style I satisfied the most ultra-correct literary standard. From my years of the late 40s and early 50s, when I understood what true literature was especially as I was affected by Norman. Who in turn had been affected by Henry Miller. There is tremendous social, revolutionary and political purpose in the style, as well as the content.‡

  [59:12] VALIS: an artifactual analog of reality being deceptive, paradoxical, resisting analysis as to which parts are true—some parts are true, certainly. Consisting primarily of information, but not such that adds up to a coherent picture. Thus VALIS is the thing it itself describes (analyzes!). Thus primarily VALIS is a creation, not an analysis. It itself poses the very mystery and puzzle that it itself deals with. To understand VALIS, then, is to understand reality in toto itself.

  Reality (as is said in VALIS) is a living maze that constantly changes. VALIS, which analyzes this maze-reality, is itself a maze, and it, like reality, constantly changes.

  My analysis of the logical paradox posed by VALIS is that the narrator is sane and therefore did see Christ: this is the solution to the maze VALIS and can at once be extrapolated to the macrocosmic maze reality; viz: Christ is present, but concealed within and by layers of paradoxical camouflage—exactly as in VALIS.

  [59:43]

  [59:50] Late at night, stoned and drunk, glancing at VALIS: it is highly experimental: absolutely unofficial, anti-official junk art (i.e., protest art); made of the garbage of the vernacular, informal in structure, incorrect in viewpoint: it speaks for and in the language of, the fashion of, a segment of society normally so disenfranchised that even Binky Brown doesn’t act as its voice—a certain kind of troubled young isolate asking schizophrenic questions like, “Is the universe real? Is God good?” Superstitious and artless and crude? Is that what VALIS is? Or is it very deliberate and careful, carefully fashioned by the most advanced artistic devices possible, in order to give voice to these, the final frontier of disenfranchised people—as my mail shows! Psychotic or nearly so, alone and brilliant. No one has ever spoken for them—and in their own way of expressing themselves. This is an artifact, not a sincere (naïve) confession; John Clute is wrong! And it will someday so be recognized. It is a cunningly, professionally contrived artifact, i.e., work of protest art, anti-bourgeois and anti-official, but anything but naïve. It is evident that I spent years figuring out how to write it. It is not spontaneous autobiography; it is a forgery, a very artistic forgery; only someone knowing about modern nonobjective protest art—especially that of Weimar!—would know what VALIS really is. It is like a Warhol painting of a Campbell’s soup can. It is very avant-garde. It is not what it seems to be—it is not quasi-psychotic confession; it is an artifact. Look out; it will delude you. Yes, it is picaresque! And it is a maze; it deliberately deceives—for the highest possible reason: not an artistic one, but to raise die rote fahne.4 It is of the 30s. It is dada out of antifascist Weimar. It is, in the final analysis, revolutionary (and does not have to do with religion; it has to do with revolutionary action against the state!).

  Scanner gave voice to the 60s street people. VALIS provides a voice to yet another—and even more despised—group—the adolescent loner intellectual, very much like Jack Isidore! This is a very Christian deed on my part, but its main implications are (1) artistic; and (2) revolutionary. It is true modern art—that of the refuse stratum of the computer hacker and Dungeons & Dragons era. (Post dope, as it itself states.) It is as if Jack Isidore has been revealed as secretly wise: a fool in Christ. And Horselover Fat is no schizoid, as was Jack Isidore; he grieves over lost and dead loved ones. His is the apotheosis of Isidore—Isidore grown into tragic maturity, yet still himself: and it is to him that is granted the vision of Christ, as if by Christ, of Christ, to Christ.

  Folder 60

  [60:A-1] “The sacred mushroom and the cross.”

  Elijah sending a portion of his spirit back to Elisha.

  The Zadokite scrolls. Superior to Christianity, in relation to which the Gospels are a somewhat attenuated derivation (secondhand).

  Nothing to do with Roman Catholic suppression. And no U.S. G-2 intrigue. Not set in the 60s and nothing to do with civil rights nor antiwar. No seances. Nothing to do with vulgar, popular credulity.

  In a sense this will be about: what it should have been like, i.e., Qumran and a brilliant translator with a totally new and radical concept as to the real meaning of Christianity, in conjunction with a truly profound professional theologian. Episcopalian, not Roman Catholic.

  This will not be Zoroastrian nor Kabbala, since (1) both are known; and (2) I used them in V and VR. This is new.

  But possibly Malebranche and Sankara and Kant? And Spinoza? And Plato—the meta-abstraction; i.e., what I have figured out since I wrote V and VR. I.e., from October 1980 on. All consigned to the Zadokite scrolls. Orphism and Pythagoreanism.

  Sacraments: mushroom bread and broth. In conjunction with the Orphic rites described by Jane Harrison. Zagreus? The miraculous child—the toys. Light, gold. Jacob Boehme’s pewter dish—the translator has connected this with the Orphic golden tablets.

  The infancy of Zadok. Miraculous child of light. The Hebrew Zagreus.

  The miraculous child of light, Zadok, is killed, dismembered and eaten; the messianic banquet; this confers (1) immortality; and (2) godlike knowledge. (The translator associates this with [1] Zagreus; and [2] the two trees in the garden of Eden.)

  The communicants are “restored to their pre-fallen state before the soul fell into earthly incarnation in the tomb that is the body”—obviously a mixture of Hebrew and Orphic, hence Platonist and Pythagorean thought; this fusion is what interests both the translator and the Bishop.

  Zagreus to Zadok to Jesus. The translator who is an atheist believes that “Zadok” is a cypher for the hallucinogenic mushroom bread and broth. But the Bishop believes otherwise. (Here I have to take into account The Road to Eleusis.5 I should probably explicitly refer to it.) (But not to John Allegro’s book.6) The effect of the flash of light on or from the gold object (toy? vessel?) is viewed as crucial. It induces (?) memory of having been a—God? Well: prefallen man (cf. The Book of Adam and Eve7)—the “Cave of Treasures”—the augmented vision/eyesight,➊ whatever “prefallen man” may signify. Man who ate of the tree of knowledge and acquired the knowledge that “the Elohim” have.

  Their theory: at one time (“in the beginning,” as with Julian Jaynes’ bicameral mind) we (humans) could see these “primordial archetypal ideas” but no longer can—quit
e a modification of Malebranche. This is what the eating of the miraculous child of light confers (in conjunction with a flash of light from the golden toys or vessel): ability to see these “primordial archetypal ideas used as the basis of creation—i.e., Plato’s eide. (Here the meta-abstraction is understood and presumed.) (I.e., the percipient no longer empirically sees the particular; the lens optic percept system provides a clue that triggers off the appropriate a priori eidos.)

  All this light business relates to the fourth gospel. (And to Zoroastrianism.) The translator figures out (or speculates) based on the use of light in Orphic rites that literal light is involved—something to do with eyesight and the optic nerve and a jolt to the brain and triggering off selective phosphene activity. The phosphenes—optic neurons—are a primordial sense system by which the “archetypal ideas or eidei” were originally a priori perceived, but like the bicameral mind, it has atrophied. Why, the hallucinogenic mushroom bread and broth sets off phosphene activity! As mescaline, peyote, LSD, etc., do.

  ➊ This augmented eyesight the translator and Bishop connect with Malebranche’s concept of “primordial archetypal ideas used by God in creating the universe”—probably Plato’s eide.

  [60:A-9]

  [60:A-15]

  VALIS is a titanic work of art based on a titanic artistic vision (2-3-74). I have completely rendered the fool in me (H. Fat the evolved Jack Isidore) onto paper, and this fool is Christ; so I have rendered Christ onto paper; the Savior is in VALIS but not where it says—i.e., the cosmic Christ—no: as Fat. And what does this say of me? I contain Christ—Horselover Fat/Jack Isidore/Thomas.

  It’s an extraordinary novel qua novel—about an equally extraordinary experience; and these two interrelate, don’t just run parallel; they interact.

  I.e., the vision (2-74 to 2-75) put in artistic form—made into a work of art. So VALIS is more important than 2-74 to 2-75! That was just the vision; what remained was the essential next half: putting it into (converting it into) a work of art.

  [60:A-34] God everywhere! The cat and the music. Each cat’s mind is a complete universe; how could this be without the infinity of God?

  I know God through doubt (“you are not the doubter—you are the doubt”).

  Here is it all: each atom of reality yields an infinity: and where infinity is, there is God.

  [60:A-35] In VALIS I transmuted myself and my life into a picaroon character: my victory, to artistically render a judgment on my—the artist’s—own life! And here’s how it comes out:

  With the death of all he loves behind him (Gloria’s death stands for loss of Kathy and Stephanie, Francie, etc.), including the death of God (the child Sophia), Fat resolves his life into a search for the Savior; this is the plot of VALIS. Its Kerygma; VALIS’ message is not the parousia but pistis.

  And this is me (as H. Fat), rendered into fiction forever. And yet the real truth is that I embody doubt, not faith; and yet, when I as I am am rendered into art by me the artist, doubt—absolute doubt—becomes or is seen as absolute faith, as Fat searches for the Savior, while I sit here night after night not believing. Which is the truth? VALIS enters the info flow of the macromind, so it—not I—will survive. And, as Plato said, that which is eternal alone is real.

  * * *

  [60:A-37] Here is the ultimate truth: the fool sees Christ. H. Fat is a fool; and I say (but it is not true), “I am H. Fat”; but in truth he has pistis, I have doubt. But people will believe the artistic version.

  (1) In VALIS I depict H. Fat finding Christ.

  (2) In VALIS I depict H. Fat as a fool.

  (3) ∴ he did find Christ, for the fool finds Christ. Am I that fool? That is my wish fulfillment fantasy: me with faith—i.e., me the fool, not the scholar. Now all I see is my own hallucinated world—hence not God. Then we are in purgatory; it must be so. And in 2-74 I was sprung.

  I perceive Ed Meskys blind and I grieve, and that grief is the purpose of the universe—its existence proves that God exists. That grief is higher even than agape; it was spoken of only in the secret literature, and it has no name. Power-wisdom-agape, so far, and now a fourth disclosure: this “grief” that I feel—it is to agape as agape is to wisdom. The Urgrund dialectic yes/no has evolved up one more notch.

  I broke into the actual world, saw God; and now I’m back in this God damn hallucination of my own (purgatory). No wonder I’m disconsolate; no wonder I get ripped. To see him and then to lose him—what I need is pistis; I need to be H. Fat. “Jack Isidore” has metamorphosed from caricature of myself to my spiritual self, along the Parsifal—guileless fool—axis. Everything else I wrote tonight is bullshit, but not this. Jack Isidore, me as the fool, found Christ. I must become ∴ Jack Isidore if I am to be saved; I must model myself on him, and suffer the consequences—they are heavy, if you are the fool. This is the passion of Christ: the punishment of the fool.

  [60:A-44]

  Folder 75

  Early 1981

  [75:D-1] 3-74, Valis, was the mens dei. I comprehended it. It’s a strange thing to be addicted to, comprehending God’s mind—I must be a Sufi; by “beauty” (the essence of God) read “pleasure”—because the why as to why I do it, it is because it gives me pleasure.

  [75:D-2] I’ve finally found a Q I don’t imagine I have an answer for: why is Kathy more beautiful than the perfect (sic) beauty of God? Maybe even St. Sophia can’t answer this; hence, as a result, we have imperfect creation, for which no rational reason can be given, even by God. This is the ultimate mystery, even God can’t penetrate it. How can something unique, transitory and imperfect be more beautiful than God/heaven?

  [75:D-3] It’s all told in VALIS: losing Kathy (Gloria), and getting God as a substitute. Really, the story—and it is my life we are talking about—is very simple, when you stumble onto it. And I don’t say if the substitute is an adequate solution (i.e., as good, better, not as good); I just reported it neutrally. But the fact is, it’s not good enough. Okay, then we will apply the hermetic solution—which is what is found in Divine Invasion: Linda Fox and Xena are Kathy. And also God! Manny, alone, is not.

  Hello heartbreak. Joe Gideon. Tears first treats it. Then Scanner. Then VALIS. Then Divine Invasion, a projected answer, theoretical (i.e., I didn’t find it); only DI alone of the four novels is not autobiographical. Shows I know what the answer is (I just can’t find it).

  As an artist I have been successful: I’d encompassed it in the four novels (and The Golden Man intro); but in life I can’t. The final novel is fantasy.

  [75:D-9] I have been looking over Scanner, the intro to The Golden Man and VALIS. The continuity is pain, emotional pain; this goes back to Tears. It is obvious that I have no defense against pain, that I am a—lunatic, one driven mad by—not pain—but by a comprehension of pain (like the Buddha). Comprehension of pain (spiritual and mental, especially) is the basis of my writing, as is my awareness of the frailty of life and how easily it passes over into death. Thus, although I have been driven insane by my comprehension, I am not cut off from reality; hence also I am a saint. And I write very well; I get it all down on paper. What does this add up to? Okay—I have at last carefully formulated an explanation (as Jim Haynes pointed out); I give my answer. It is an absurd answer, an attempt to ex plain what cannot be explained (pain, loss, grief and death). Hence it reveals this: these matters cannot be rationally explained; if they could be, I would have done so (I am smart and persistent). Hence, one can infer that our situation—thrown-ness—is an irrational one, a point I consider in my explanation; hence I expose the ontological irrationality of dasein, and thus stigmatize all philosophical and theological systems including my own. We are back—led back—to the raw brute fact of pain, loss, grief, suffering. Perhaps more than anyone else I reveal the irrational depths underlying reality. My ideological solution is a failure; if I believe in it I have gone mad. And I state that, too: that I am mad. This only reinforces the relentless picture of irrationality; my madness is merely a piece of it, allied to a
greater madness. This is a new and singular worldview. What solution do I propose that works? (Inasmuch as my Gnostic system obviously does not; its failure proves its own premise, that of underlying irrationality and irreality and the failure of reason and of systems.) Humor, love and beauty. And a firm rootedness in the particular, in the ordinary. It is in the ordinary that my real solution is found—in diametric contradistinction to my bizarre and weird system. Beyond and above my sensitivity to pain and my unwillingness to avoid it (avoiding it would be evil madness, and the rest of us are guilty of it to some degree, contrasted with me) I am a saint. This is of little use or importance. My insanity, given an insane world, is, paradoxically, a facing of reality, and this is sane; I refuse to close my eyes and ears. So Y equals Ȳ, as Pat says; our world and our proper role in it is paradoxical. The only question is, which kind of madness will we choose? To deny and avoid the irrational reality? I am proof that everyone else is doing this. We are, then, all mad, but I, uniquely, choose to go mad while facing pain, not mad while denying pain. These are simply different paths—but mine hurts more; it is not necessarily better—it is more a curiosity. Why would I choose this route? Because I am a saint. I have kept my soul—as, now and then, an occasional reader realizes. But I have not yet proven that there is a soul; thus I may have chosen my route in vain. No known religion encompasses this, even Buddhism. Very strange. Little can be said for my point of view, except that it can’t be logically demolished; if it could be I would have done so. Thus I am in touch with reality. So, then, in what sense am I insane? I am insane in that I continue to face the truth without the ability to come up with a workable answer. All I have done is (1) indicate the real situation; (2) show that all the known answers, systems of thought, are false. Again, I have shown that the problem cannot be solved or explained, only fled from. This is very disturbing; I indict the whole universe and ourselves as irrational, myself included. I really do not know anything in terms of the solution; I can only state the problem. No other thinker has ever stated a problem and so miserably failed to solve it in human histories; human thought is, basically, problem-solving, not problem stating. Again, my very failure to come up with a plausible solution—even when I try—simply verifies the magnitude of the problem, rather than impugning my problem-solving faculties. It shows that what we normally regard as solution-systems really evade the reality and complexity and magnitude of the problem: fundamental irrationality giving rise to pain, grief, loss and death. Thus I am a very dangerous person. Again, my very efforts to produce a solution are alarming because they so blatantly fail. My failure is the failure of all mankind (to find a solution or explanation). The fault is not mine.