The Shifting Realities of Philip K. Dick

  If Beethoven had lived just one additional year he would have entered a fourth period of his evolving talent. We can imagine this by listening to his last composition, the alternate ending for the thirteenth quartet. What we cannot imagine is—what about later, in his old age? Suppose he, like Verdi, like Haydn, had lived to compose in his eighties. Under LSD I have a vision of a seventh or eighth period of Beethoven: string quartets with chorus and four soloists.

  Out of all the SF that I have read, one story still means more to me than any others: It is Harry Bates’s Alas, All Thinking. It is the beginning and the end of literate science fiction. Alas.

  For fifteen years, the entire period in which I have written SF, I have never seen my agent or even talked to him on the phone. I wonder what sort of person he is, assuming he exists at all. When I call his number his receptionist says, “Mr. Meredith isn’t here right now. Will you talk to Mr. Rib Frimble?” Or some such unlikely name. On the basis of that, in my next call I ask not for Mr. Meredith but for Mr. Frimble. Then the receptionist says, “Mr. Frimble is out, sir; will you talk to Mr. Dead?” And so it goes.

  If I knew what a hallucination was I would know what reality was. I have examined the topic thoroughly, and I assert that it is impossible to have a hallucination; it goes against reason and common sense. Those who claim to have had them are probably lying. (I have had a few myself.)

  Once in a while somebody in the neighborhood who is rich enough to own a hedge, and is always busily clipping it, asks me why I write SF. I never have an answer. There are several other questions that get asked but that obtain no response at all from me. They are:

  Where do you get your plots?

  Do you put people you know into your stories?

  Why aren’t you selling to Playboy? Everyone else is. I hear it pays a hell of a lot.

  Isn’t science fiction mainly for kids?

  Let me illustrate what I mean when I say I have no answer to these; I will do herein what I generally do.:

  Answer to 1: Oh, well, plots; well, you can find them almost anywhere. I mean, there’re a lot of plots. Say, talking to you gives me an idea for a plot. There’s this humanoid superior mutant, see, who has to hide himself because the mass man has no understanding of him or his superior, evolved aims—etc.

  Answer to 2: No.

  Answer to 3: I don’t know. I guess I’m a failure. What other possibility can there be? And it was lousy of you to ask.

  Answer to 4: No, SF is not for kids. Or maybe it is; I don’t know who reads it. There’re roughly 150,000 people who comprise the readership, and that’s not a great number. And even if it does appeal to kids—so what?

  You can see how weak these answers are. And I’ve had fifteen years in which to think up better answers. Obviously I never will.

  The TV news announcer says tonight that a ninety-one-year-old man has married a ninety-two-year-old woman. It is enough to bring tears to your eyes. What do they have in store for them? What chance is there, every time they close their eyes, that they will ever open them again? The small and unimportant silent creatures are far finer and worth a great deal more than Robert Heinlein will ever know.

  Loneliness is the great curse that hangs over a writer. A while ago I wrote twelve novels in a row, plus fourteen magazine pieces. I did it out of loneliness. It constituted communication for me. At last the loneliness grew too great and I stopped writing; I left my then-wife and then-children and took a great journey. The great journey ended up in Bay Area fandom, and for a short while I ceased to be lonely. Then it came back, late one night. Now I know it will never go away. This is my payment for twenty-three novels and one hundred magazine pieces. It’s no one’s fault. That’s just the way it is.

  My mother shows her love for me by clipping out certain magazine and newspaper articles, which she gives me. These articles prove that the tranquilizers that I take do permanent brain damage. It’s nice, a mother’s love.

  Under LSD I saw radiant colors, especially the pinks and reds; they shone like God Himself. Is that what God is? Color? But at least this time I didn’t have to die, go to hell, be tormented, and then raised up by means of Christ’s death on the cross into eternal salvation. As I said to J. G. Newkom [a friend of Dick at this time] when I was free of the drug, “I don’t mind going through the Day of Judgment again, after I die, but I just hope it won’t last so long.” Under LSD you can spend 1.96 eternities, if not 2.08.

  In fifteen years of professional writing I haven’t gotten a jot or a tittle better. My first story, Roog, is as good as—if not better than—the five I did last month. This seems very strange to me, because certainly through all those years I’ve learned a good deal about writing… and in addition my general store of worldly wisdom has increased. Maybe there are only a given number of original ideas in each person; he uses them up and that is that. Like an old baseball player, he no longer has anything to offer. I will say one thing in favor of my writing, however, which I hope is true: I am original (except where I copy my own previous work). I no longer write “like Cyril Kornbluth” or “like A. E. van Vogt.” But in that case I can no longer blame them for my faults.

  A publisher in England asked me to write a blurb for a collection of my short stories. In this country someone else writes them, usually someone who has not read the book. I would like to have started the blurb by saying, “These dull and uninteresting stories …” etc. But I suppose I had better not.

  Thus endeth my thoughts.

  “The Double: Bill Symposium”: Replies to “A Questionnaire for Professional SF Writers and Editors” (1969)

  Question 1: For what reason or reasons do you write science fiction in preference to other classes of literature?

  Its audience is not hamstrung by middle-class prejudices and will listen to genuinely new ideas. There is less of an emphasis on mere style and more on content—as should be. It is a man’s field, and hence a happy ending is not required—as in all the fiction fields dominated by women. It is one of the few branches of serious fiction in which humor plays a major role (thereby making SF more complete, as was Shakespeare’s work). Being one of the oldest modes of fiction known to the Western world, it embodies some of the most subtle, ancient, and far-reaching dreams, ideas, and aspirations of which thinking man is capable. In essence, it’s the broadest field of fiction, permitting the most far-ranging and advanced concepts of every possible type; no variety of idea can be excluded from SF; everything is its property.

  Question 2: What do you consider the raison d’etre, the chief value of science fiction?

  To present in fiction form new ideas too difficult or too vague as yet to be presented as scientific fact (e.g., Psionics). And ideas that are not scientific fact, never will be, but that are fascinating conjectures—in other words, possible or alternate science systems. World views that we can’t “believe” in but that interest us (as, for example, we find interesting the medieval worldview but simply cannot any longer accept it as “true”). So SF presents to us, in addition to the worldview, which we actually adopt, a great range of “as if” views: The possession of these have the effect of making our minds flexible: We are capable of seeing alternate viewpoints as coequal with our own.

  Question 3: What is your appraisal of the relationship of science fiction to the “mainstream” of literature?

  SF fails to explore the depths of interpersonal human relationships, and this is its lack; however, on a purely intellectual level it possesses more conceptual ideas as such, and hence in this respect is superior to mainstream or quality fiction. And (supra) it does not need to dwell on mere style as such but can range farther in terms of its content. But SF (excepting Bradbury) is for younger, more optimistic people, who haven’t yet truly suffered at the hands of life; quality fiction tends—and rightly so—to deal with the defeated, those who have lost the first bloom… hence quality fiction is more mature than SF—alas.

  Question 4: Do you believe that participating in fandom, fanzi
nes, and conventions would be a benefit or a hindrance to would-be writers?

  A benefit, but not a very great one. It would be a benefit if the fans allowed the writer to do the talking, instead of trying to instruct him. It is the job of the writer to do the telling; he should not be turned into a listener. But the concepts in SF writing are not derived from fandom, from within the field, anyhow; they are—or at least should be—derived from the wide world itself, its far shores in particular. From everywhere but SF fandom.

  Question 5: What source or sources would you recommend to beginning writers as having been, in your experience, the most productive of ideas for science fiction stories?

  Journals that deal in the most advanced research of clinical psychology, especially the work of the European existential analysis school. C. G. Jung. Oriental writings such as those on Zen Buddhism, Taoism, etc. Really authoritative—as compared with popularizations—historical works (e.g., The Brutal Friendship). Medieval works, especially those dealing with crafts, such as glass blowing—and science, alchemy, religion, etc. Greek philosophy, Roman literature of every sort. Persian religious texts. Renaissance studies on the theory of art. German dramatic writings of the Romantic period.

  Question 6: Do you feel that a beginning science fiction writer should concentrate on short stories as opposed to novels—or vice versa? Why?

  Short stories first, to master this easier form. Then, very slowly, work toward longer pieces, say up to twenty-five thousand words. Then at last try a full-size (i.e., sixty-thousand-word) novel, based on the structure of some writer who is admired. I, for instance, based my first novels on the structure used by A. E. van Vogt. Later, when I was more sure of myself, I departed from this. Be sure, however, that you select a writer who is skilled in the novel form (for instance, don’t select Ray Bradbury).

  Question 7: What suggestions can you offer to the beginning writer concerning the development of “realistic” characters and writing effective dialogue?

  Read modern “quality” writing, especially the short pieces of Algren, Styron, Herb Gold, the so-called New School writers. And the fine left-wing writers of the thirties, such as Dos Passes, Richard Wright, and go back as far as Dreiser and Hawthorne—try to stick to American writers (including, of course, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein) because it is among the American writers that realistic dialogue has developed. Try the French realistics, such as Flaubert, for plot and characterization. Avoid Proust and other subjective-type writers. And by all means intently study James Joyce; everything from his early short stories to The Wake.

  Question 8: Do you believe that an effective novel requires a message or moral? Please comment.

  Absolutely not! The notion that a novel needs a moral or message is a bourgeois concept. In the days of the aristocracy it was recognized that art did not need to instruct or elevate; it could be a success by merely entertaining. One should never look down on entertainment; Mozart string quartets do not instruct—show me a moral or message in, say, the late Beethoven. Music is pure; literature can be, too; it becomes more pure as it drops its intention of improving and instructing the audience. The writer is not a bit superior in morals than his audience anyway—and frequently he’s inferior to them. What moral can he really teach them? What he has to offer is his ideas.

  Question 9: To what extent do you think it possible to detect a writer’s viewpoints as to politics, religion, or moral problems through examination of his stories?

  If the writer is a good one, it’s impossible. Only a bad writer details his personal viewpoints in his fiction. However, it is always possible that some good writing may be found in an “instructive” work. But at the moment I can’t think of any (e.g., Ray Bradbury. There is no way, in reading his work, to tell really what his personal views are; the writer in this case disappears entirely, and his story reveals itself on its own. This is the way it ought to be.). It is one of the cardinal errors of literary criticism to believe that the author’s own views can be inferred from his writing; Freud, for instance, makes this really ugly error again and again. A successful writer can adopt any viewpoint that his characters must needs possess in order to function; this is the measure of his craft, this ability to free his work of his own prejudices.

  Question 10: During your formative writings, what one author influenced you the most? What other factors such as background, education, etc., were important influences?

  Van Vogt influenced me the most. Also Tony Boucher (i.e., his critical views, not his fiction). Also my interest in the Japanese novelists in the French Department of Tokyo University, who wrote after World War Two. And my interest in Depth Psychology and drugs. And in “stream of consciousness” writing, as with James Joyce. And—but I wouldn’t recommend this for the would-be writer—my own “nervous breakdown,” which I experienced at nineteen and then again at twenty-four and at thirty-three. Suffering of this sort educates your viewpoint, but at the expense of your creature-comfort principle; it may make you a better writer but the cost is far too great.

  Question 11: What do you consider the greatest weakness of science fiction today?

  Its inability to explore the subtle, intricate relationships that exist between the sexes. Men, in their relationship with women, get themselves into the most goddamn difficult circumstances, and SF ignores—or is unable to deal with—this fundamental aspect of adult life. Therefore SF remains preadult, and therefore appeals—more or less—to preadults. If SF explored the man-woman aspect of life it would not lose its readers as those readers reach maturity. SF simply must learn to do this or it will always be retarded—as it is now. The novel Player Piano is an exception to this, and I suggest that every SF fan and especially every would-be writer study again and again the details of this superb novel, which deal specifically with the relationship of the protagonist and his wife.

  “That Moon Plaque” (1969)

  IN no way should problems here on Earth detract from the glory of the Apollo 11 moon flight. Similar problems led to the colonization of the New World back in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: poverty, lack of opportunity, even starvation. Sometimes the presence of grave social problems is a stimulus to exploration; man searches relentlessly for a way out of his problems, and in doing so he presses at every door, hoping to find one that will lead him somewhere that is new and different. And it must be recognized that the moon flight has acted and will continue to act as a flare lighting up the powerful abilities of man, his capacity to do what has never been done before. It is an indication of what can be done, and should make, by its existence, a new awareness grow in us as to what we can do. We should, because of it, be more optimistic as to what we can do here on Earth; it is proof of our strength and tenacity, not an indication that we are forgetting domestic goals. And, in addition, it was essential that we send a man to the moon; exploration is natural to man; it is virtually an instinct. It is, at least, a force in man so powerful that it cannot be denied. The moon flight was inevitable and is a new measure of ourselves.

  “Who Is an SF Writer?” (1974)

  THE delight which SF writers show when encountering one another personally, at conventions or on panels or during lectures, indicates some common element shared by them, novices and old pros alike. There always emerges a psychological rapport, even if the ideas and politics in their respective works clash head-on; it is as if absolutely opposite themes in their published work—which might be expected to create a personal barrier when the writers meet face to face—this barrier is never there, and a feeling when a group of SF writers gathers is always one of a family rejoined, lost friends refound or new friends made—friends among whom there is a fundamental basis of outlook or at least of personality structure. Nearly always it is characterized by a mutual respect, and this respect on the part of each writer is for the others as persons, not merely a respect for their work. We are linked as if scattered members of a once tightly knit ethnic group which has been scattered, but then momentarily reunited. I have f
elt this with no other group of people: Something special is there in us, that not only is common but which binds us rather than separates us as one finds, say, in the social gatherings of the so-called “New York literary writers,” in which chronic jealousy and envy and sour carping impede personal contact. To my knowledge, this camraderie and rapport is at least currently unique in the arts; and it means something; it tells something about us.

  On meeting a new SF writer who has just gotten into print, we never feel crowded or insecure; we feel strangely happy, and tell him so and encourage him: We welcome him. And I think this is because we know that the very fact that he has chosen to write SF rather than other types of fiction—or other careers in general—tells us something about him already. I know one element that allows us to prejudge favorably any new pro SF writer to our midst: There just cannot be a profit motive as this person’s working dynamism because there is no profit financially in writing SF; the average high school teacher, to name another underpaid group, makes almost twice what I make, and all my income comes from writing SF. So we know this to start with: Facing a new young pro SF writer I know first of all what he is not driven by; he is out of the hands of one of the great corrupting drives, that for great wealth—and I might add great fame and prestige as well, because we don’t get those either. I know, when I meet a new pro writer, that he must in some sense truly love to write SF, at all costs, or he would be in other, greener pastures.

  But what is the positive motivation and personality that I feel, say, that Geo. Effinger, a new SF writer whom I met in August of last year, can be assumed to have? “I know where your head is,” is what I think when I meet a man or woman who has just published his first SF piece. I know you don’t want fame, power, the big best seller, fortune—and therefore I know that you must want to or even need to write SF. One SF writer said to me one day, “I’d write it even if they paid nothing.” Vanity to see your name in print? No, just an awareness that this is a chosen field, and chosen by him; he is not being forced to live out the ambitions of his thwarted parents and their aspirations that their son “amount to something,” as, for example, by becoming a doctor or a lawyer—all those good, classy, well-paying professions. His drive must be intrinsic; it is impossible to imagine one’s mother saying, “I hope my son will grow up to be an SF writer.” What is there in the SF writer, old pro like myself (twenty-two years of selling) or a new one after his initial sale, is a belief in the value of science fiction. Not necessarily a belief in his own ability to write the Great American SF Novel and be remembered forever—novice pros are very shy and unpushy and humble—but his belief in the significant meaning of his field. And he would not see this specific field as a high-value field unless he had read SF by other authors, previous authors, and had some sense of the nature of what SF is, can do, will be.