Pictures of upside down houses (with no explanations)
Nicely done viral.
Of all American writers, none have got the genre-hack-to-hidden-genius treatment quite so fully as Philip K. Dick, the California-raised and based science-fiction writer who, beginning in the nineteen-fifties, wrote thirty-six speed-fuelled novels, went crazy in the early seventies, and died in 1982, only fifty-three. His reputation has risen through the two parallel operations that genre writers get when they get big. First, he has become a prime inspiration for the movies, becoming for contemporary science-fiction and fantasy movies what Raymond Chandler was for film noir: at least eight feature films, including â€œTotal Recall,â€ â€œMinority Report,â€ â€œA Scanner Darkly,â€ and, most memorably, Ridley Scottâ€™s â€œBlade Runner,â€ have been adapted from Dickâ€™s books, and even moreâ€”from Terry Gilliamâ€™s â€œBrazilâ€ to the â€œMatrixâ€ seriesâ€”owe a defining debt to his mixture of mordant comedy and wild metaphysics.
But Dick has also become for our time what Edgar Allan Poe was for Gilded Age America: the doomed genius who supplies a style of horrors and frissons. (In both cases, it took the French to see it; the first good critical writing on Dick, as on Poe, came from Europe, and particularly from Paris.) Like Poeâ€™s, Dickâ€™s last big book was a work of cosmic explanation in which lightning bolts of brilliance flash over salty oceans of insanity. Poeâ€™s explanation of everything was called â€œEureka.â€ Dickâ€™s was â€œVALIS.â€ The second, literary Dick is now in the Library of America ($35), under the excellent editorial care of Jonathan Lethem, a passionate devotee, who also provides an abbreviated chronology of Dickâ€™s tormented life. Four of the sixties novels are neatly packed together in the handsome black covers: â€œThe Man in the High Castle,â€ â€œThe Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch,â€ â€œDo Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?â€ (the original of â€œBlade Runnerâ€), and his masterpiece, â€œUbik.â€
(via SF Signal)
The truth is that the church has always — unconsciously,
perhaps — offered rewards for falsehood. It was founded upon the
supernatural, the miraculous, and it welcomed all statements
calculated to support the foundation. It rewarded the traveller who
found evidences of the miraculous, who had seen the pillar of salt
into which the wife of Lot had been changed, and the tracks of
Pharaoh’s chariots on the sands of the Red Sea. It heaped honors on
the historian who filled his pages with the absurd and impossible.
It had geologists and astronomers of its own who constructed the
earth and the constellations in accordance with the Bible. With
sword and flame it destroyed the brave and thoughtful men who told
the truth. It was the enemy of investigation and of reason. Faith
and fiction were in partnership.
Robert Green Ingersoll – “Why I Am Agnostic”