Pe 8 iulie 1974, Philip K. Dick scria într-o scrisoare către Claudia Bush: For years Ive felt I didnt know what I was doing; I had to watch my activities and deduce, what I was up to. My novels, for example. They are said by readers to depict the same world again and again, a recognisable world. Where is that world? In my head? Is it what I see in my own life and inadvertently transfer into my novels and to the reader? At least Im consistent, since it is all one novel. I have my own special world. I guess they are in head, in which case they are a good clue to my identity and to what is happening inside me: they are brain prints. This brings me to my frightening premise. I seem to be living in my own novels more and more. I cant figure out why. Am I losing touch with reality? Or is it reality sliding toward a Phil Dickian type of atmosphere? And if the latter, then for gods sake why? Am I responsible? How could I be responsible? Isnt that solipsism? (The Exegesis)
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 15:24:51 +0000
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