Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Horselover Fat 1

Dear Philip K. Dick,

Your work is disjointed, so much so that I don't know what to say to you now that your mind has, most likely, been healed. Maybe you won't understand. I'll try to explain.

Your mind was open, if nothing else. It was so open at times, it troubled you. It gave you trouble. People - all sorts of people - acknowledge the relationship between madness and brilliance. It is only one small step most often. And so there were times your very intelligence drove you mad. At times, you were in ancient Rome, while you were elsewhere, maybe watching television, probably watching television, bring another pot to boil.

It isn't without sadness that one reads your books; your major works are laden with multiple languages (Latin, German, French, and Spanish etc), conspiracy theories spanning thousands of years, Gnostic research, religious fervor, madness, and existential awe. And, yet, so taken with lofty ideas, your writing is clear and succinct. There was skill in your net casting, dragging in everything and anything - almost desperately, as you tried to find something that might explain anything, anything at all; everything was unreal.

Your writing was bizarre and fitful but beautiful and convincing. In Ubik, a spray-on reality shifter was beside a Latin conspiracy regarding the birth of Christ. Or, Valis: truths in truths in truths. And The Transmigration of Timothy Archer begs for what it means to even be alive.

Some people are unaware a science fiction author existed such as you. However, you were never sure where to point your fervent beliefs. That is clear.

You had visions - visions which included ancient Roman landscapes and obscure religious symbols; that seemed to tell you that this world was not reality. Diagrams of light and geometry came into focus. In a dream, you search for that magazine. You push aside issue after issue. You say to yourself, The empire never ended. Over and over, you say the same thing. You are a Roman guard, a slate-tongued whiner.

More than anything else, you wanted to become a mainstream author over one devoted to science fiction2. You struggled all your life with this, giving up and taking back. You constantly fought against your place in the science fiction world, wrote books split in two: the crack artist and the genius. You never knew which to believe. And your own mind split in two. But,
unlike others who may have suffered, you were able to dissect and stand apart from your madness3. And now I read your books when I can't bear the thought of reading Thomas Mann or any of your idols. I'm so sorry.

Take care of yourself,


1 Horselover Fat is one of many pen names Dick used. Horselover is derived from Philip, which, in Greek, appears as Phil-Hippos commonly, meaning horse lover. And dick is German for fat. Horselover Fat is the eponymous narrator of Valis. Other pen names included Jack Dowland and Richard Philips.
2 Dick composed several non-science fiction books in the beginning of his career. They were quickly rejected. Confessions of a Crack Artist was the only to be published in his lifetime.
3 Dick suspected he was schizophrenic.

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