How to Build a Universe
That Doesn't Fall Apart Two Days Later
by Philip K. Dick
How to Build a Universe: Part 01.
First, before I begin to bore you with the usual sort of things science
fiction writers say in speeches, let me bring you official greetings from
Disneyland. I consider myself a spokesperson for Disneyland because I
live just a few miles from it -- and, as if that were not enough, I once
had the honour of being interviewed there by Paris TV.
For several weeks after the interview, I was really ill and confined
to bed. I think it was the whirling teacups that did it. Elizabeth Antebi,
who was the producer of the film, wanted to have me whirling around in
one of the giant teacups while discussing the rise of fascism with Norman
Spinrad... an old friend of mine who writes excellent science fiction.
We also discussed Watergate, but we did that on the deck of Captain Hook's
pirate ship. Little children wearing Mickey Mouse hats -- those black
hats with the ears -- kept running up and bumping against us as the cameras
whirred away and Elizabeth asked unexpected questions. Norman and I, being
preoccupied with tossing little children about, said some extraordinarily
stupid things that day. Today, however, I will have to accept full blame
for what I tell you, since none of you are wearing Mickey Mouse hats and
trying to climb up on me under the impression that I am part of the rigging
of a pirate ship.
Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything.
We can't talk about science, because our knowledge of it is limited and
unofficial, and usually our fiction is dreadful. A few years ago, no college
or university would ever have considered inviting one of us to speak.
We were mercifully confined to lurid pulp magazines, impressing no one.
In those days, friends would say me, "But are you writing anything
serious?" meaning "Are you writing anything other than science
fiction?" We longed to be accepted. We yearned to be noticed. Then,
suddenly, the academic world noticed us, we were invited to give speeches
and appear on panels -- and immediately we made idiots of ourselves. The
problem is simply this: What does a science fiction writer know about?
On what topic is he an authority?
It reminds me of a headline that appeared in a California newspaper
just before I flew here. SCIENTISTS SAY THAT MICE CANNOT BE MADE TO LOOK
LIKE HUMAN BEINGS. It was a federally funded research program, I suppose.
Just think: Someone in this world is an authority on the topic of whether
mice can or cannot put on two--tone shoes, derby hats, pinstriped shirts,
and Dacron pants, and pass as humans.
Well, I will tell you what interests me, what I consider important.
I can't claim to be an authority on anything, but I can honestly say that
certain matters absolutely fascinate me, and that I write about them all
the time. The two basic topics which fascinate me are "What is reality?"
and "What constitutes the authentic human being?" Over the twenty-seven
years in which I have published novels and stories I have investigated
these two interrelated topics over and over again. I consider them important
topics. What are we? What is it which surrounds us, that we call the not-me,
or the empirical or phenomenal world?
In 1951, when I sold my first story, I had no idea that such fundamental
issues could be pursued in the science fiction field. I began to pursue
them unconsciously. My first story had to do with a dog who imagined that
the garbagemen who came every Friday morning were stealing valuable food
which the family had carefully stored away in a safe metal container.
Every day, members of the family carried out paper sacks of nice ripe
food, stuffed them into the metal container, shut the lid tightly -- and
when the container was full, these dreadful-looking creatures came and
stole everything but the can.
Finally, in the story, the dog begins to imagine that someday the garbagemen
will eat the people in the house, as well as stealing their food. Of course,
the dog is wrong about this. We all know that garbagemen do not eat people.
But the dog's extrapolation was in a sense logical -- given the facts
at his disposal. The story was about a real dog, and I used to watch him
and try to get inside his head and imagine how he saw the world. Certainly,
I decided, that dog sees the world quite differently than I do, or any
humans do. And then I began to think, Maybe each human being lives in
a unique world, a private world, a world different from those inhabited
and experienced by all other humans. And that led me wonder, If reality
differs from person to person, can we speak of reality singular, or shouldn't
we really be talking about plural realities? And if there are plural realities,
are some more true (more real) than others? What about the world of a
schizophrenic? Maybe, it's as real as our world. Maybe we cannot say that
we are in touch with reality and he is not, but should instead say, His
reality is so different from ours that he can't explain his to us, and
we can't explain ours to him. The problem, then, is that if subjective
worlds are experienced too differently, there occurs a breakdown of communication...
and there is the real illness.
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