Philip K. Dick, fully Philip Kindred Dick

Philip K.
Dick, fully Philip Kindred Dick

American Science Fiction Novelist, Short Story Writer, Essayist and Philosopher, Eleven popular films based on his works have been produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report, Paycheck, Next, Screamers, The Adjustment Bureau and Impostor

Author Quotes

There is no Pris, he said. Only Rachael Rosen, over and over again.

They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed--run over, maimed, destroyed--but they continued to play anyhow.

Those who take lives will lose their own. Those who kill, will die. But he who gives his own life away will live again!

Unseen by us, in some region or dimension that we simply do not perceive. Even though I can?t prove that, even though it isn?t logical ? I believe it.

We live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups. I ask, in my writing, 'What is real?' Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms.

Were his mind not fried he probably would have thought about how lucky he was to be alive ? not in the philosophical sense of lucky but in the statistical sense. Nobody survives forty-nine tabs of high grade pure digitalis. As a general rule, twice the prescribed dose of digitalis will off you. Fat?s prescribed dose had been fixed at q.i.d.: four a day. He had swallowed 12.25 times his prescribed daily dose and survived. The infinite mercies of God make no sense whatsoever, in terms of practical considerations. In addition he had downed all his Librium, twenty Quide and sixty Apresoline, plus half a bottle of wine. All that remained of his medication was a bottle of Miles Nervine. Fat was technically dead. Spiritually, he was dead, too. Either he had seen God too soon or he had seen him too late. In any case, it had done him no good at all in terms of survival.

What we really need is a doctor, not a spear.

Why is love so good?... You love someone and they leave. They come home one day and you say "What's happening?" and they say, "I got a better offer someplace else," and there they go, out of your life forever, and after that until you're dead you're carrying around this huge hunk of love with no one to give it to. And if you do find someone to give it to, the same thing happens all over.

You know what you can buy at the supermarket?? Laws inquired acidly. ?I?ll tell you. Canned burnt offerings.? ?You know what you can buy at the hardware store?? Hamilton answered. ?Scales to weigh your soul on.? ?That?s silly,? the blond said petulantly. ?A soul doesn?t have any weight.? ?Then,? Hamilton reflected, ?you could put one through the U. S. mail for nothing.? ?How many souls,? Laws conjectured ironically, ?can be fitted into one stamped envelope? New religious question. Split mankind in half. Warring factions. Blood running in the gutters.? ?Ten,? Hamilton guessed. ?Fourteen,? Laws contradicted. ?Heretic. Baby-murdering monster.? ?Bestial drinker of unpurified blood.? ?Accursed spawn of filth-devouring evil.?

There is no route out of the maze. The maze shifts as you move through it, because it is alive.

They're living in another century entirely. I often have the feeling ? and it does show up in my books ? that this is all just a stage.

Thoughts of the Brain are experienced by us as arrangements and rearrangements -- change -- in a physical universe; but in fact it is really information and information-processing which we substantialize. We do not merely see its thoughts as objects, but rather as the movement, or, more precisely, the placement of objects: how they become linked to one another. But we cannot read the patterns of arrangement; we cannot extract the information in it -- i.e. it as information, which is what it is. The linking and relinking of objects by the Brain is actually a language, but not a language like ours (since it is addressing itself and not someone or something outside itself)... We should be able to hear this information, or rather narrative, as a neutral voice inside us. But something has gone wrong. All creation is a language and nothing but a language, which for some inexplicable reason we can't read outside and can't hear inside. So I say, we have become idiots. Something has happened to our intelligence. My reasoning is this: arrangement of parts of the Brain is a language. We are parts of the Brain; therefore we are language. Why, then, do we not know this? We do not even know what we are, let alone what the outer reality is of which we are parts. The origin of the word idiot is the word private. Each of us has become private, and no longer shares the common thought of the Brain, except at a subliminal level. Thus our real life and purpose are conducted below our threshold of consciousness.

Upon him the contempt of three planets descended.

We now dwelt in a very large prison, without walls, bounded by Canada, Mexico and two oceans. There were the jailers, the turnkeys, the informers, and somewhere in the Midwest the solitary confinement of the special internment camps. Most people did not appear to notice. Since there were no literal walls or barbed wire, since they had committed no crimes, had not been arrested or taken to court, they did not grasp the change, the dread transformation, of their situation. It was the classic case of a man kidnapped while standing still. Since they had been taken nowhere and since they themselves had voted the new tyranny into power, they could see nothing wrong. Anywho, a good third of them, had they known, would have thought it a good idea?Their freedom to do as they were told had been preserved.

What a great burden, the luxury of the way we live. Since no one makes suffer we have elected to volunteer.

What would it be like, to have the earth open up and millions of humans, imprisoned subsurface for fifteen years, believing in a radioactive waste above, with missiles and bacteria and rubble and warring armies ? the demesne system would sustain a death blow and the great park over which he flapped twice daily would become a densely populated civilization once more, nor quite as before the war, but close enough. Roads would reappear. Cities. And ? ultimately there would be another war. That was the rationale. The masses had egged their leaders on to war in both Wes-Dem and Pac-Peop. But once the masses were out of the way, stuffed down below into antiseptic tanks, the ruling elite of both East and West were free to conclude a deal.

Why?? Hamilton lashed out suddenly and loudly. ?Why the hell did God answer that prayer? Why not some of the others? Why not Bill Laws?s?? ?God approved of your prayer,? Silky said. ?After all, it?s up to Him; He has to decide how He feels about it.? ?That?s terrible.? Silky shrugged. ?Maybe so.? ?How can you live with that? You never know what?s going to happen?there?s no order, no logic.? It infuriated him that she did not object, that it seemed natural to her. ?We?re helpless; we have to depend on whim. It keeps us from being people?we?re like animals waiting to be fed. Rewarded or punished.?

You learn to get by from day to day, Sam Regan said sympathetically to him. You never think in longer terms. Just until dinner or until time for bed; very finite intervals and tasks and pleasures. Escapes.

There is nothing fantastic or ultra-dimensional about crab grass... unless you are an sf writer, in which case pretty soon you are viewing crab grass with suspicion. What are its real motives and who sent it here in the first place It only looks like crab grass. That's what they want us to think it is. One day the crab grass suit will fall off and their true identity will be revealed. By then the Pentagon will be full of crab grass and it'll be too late. The crab grass, or what we took to be crab grass, will dictate terms.

This hypnagogic condition. Attention-faculty diminished so that twilight state obtains; world seen merely in symbolic, archetypal aspect, totally confused with unconscious material.

Time to get up,? he informed her. ?Don?t you hear the Almighty bellowing in the living room?? ?What?s he saying?? Marsha murmured crossly. ?Nothing in particular. Repent or suffer eternal damnation. The usual tribal tub-thumping.?

Us Those who remember history are doomed to repeat it, called, but maybe this is better. Perhaps this is the only good thing; Do not forget to succeed.

We peep out, but what do we see, really? Mirror reflections of our own selves, our bloodless, feeble countenances, devoted to nothing in particular, insofar as I can fathom it. Death is very close, he thought. When you think in this manner. I can feel it, he decided. How near I am. Nothing is killing me; I have no enemy, no antagonist; I am merely expiring, like a magazine subscription: month by month.

What a tragic realm this is, he reflected. Those down here are prisoners, and the ultimate tragedy is that they don't know it; they think they are free because they have never been free, and do not understand what it means.

What you should do, she told Fat during one of his darker hours, is get into studying the characteristics of the T-34. Fat asked what that was. It turned out that Sherri had read a book on Russian armor during World War Two. The T-34 tank had been the Soviet Union's salvation and thereby the salvation of all the Allied Powers- and, by extension, Horselover Fat's, since without the T-34 he would be speaking - not English or Latin or the koine - but German.

First Name
Philip K.
Last Name
Dick, fully Philip Kindred Dick
Birth Date
Death Date

American Science Fiction Novelist, Short Story Writer, Essayist and Philosopher, Eleven popular films based on his works have been produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report, Paycheck, Next, Screamers, The Adjustment Bureau and Impostor