It goes on, he thought. The internecine hate. Perhaps the seeds are there, in that. They will eat one another at last, and leave the rest of us here and there in the world, still alive. Still enough of us once more to build and hope and make a few simple plans.
On some other world, possibly it is different. Better. There are clear good and evil alternatives. Not these obscure admixtures, these blends, with no proper tool by which to untangle the components.
They know a million tricks, those novelists. Take Doctor Goebbels; that's how he started out, writing fiction. Appeals to the base lusts that hide in everyone no matter how respectable on the surface. Yes, the novelist knows humanity, how worthless they are, ruled by their testicles, swayed by cowardice, selling out every cause because of their greed - all he's got to do is thump on the drum, and there's his response. And he's laughing, of course, behind his hand at the effect he gets.
Damn her he said to himself. What good does it do my risking my life? She doesn't care whether we own an ostrich or not. Nothing penetrates.
Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.
Empathy, he once had decided, must be limited to herbivores or anyhow omnivores who could depart from a meat diet. Because,ultimately, the empathic gift blurred the boundaries between hunter and victim, between the successful and the defeated.
When I was a child, I thought as a child. But now I have put away childish things. ... I must be scientific.
I like her; I could watch her the rest of my life. She has breasts that smile.
I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be depression, like you get. I can understand how you suffer now when you're depressed; I always thought you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then my means of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don't care. Apathy, because you've lose a sense of worth. It doesn't matter whether you feel better because you have no worth.
I'd like to see you move up to the goat class, where I think you belong.
Maybe I'll go where I can see stars, he said to himself as the car gained velocity and altitude; it headed away from San Francisco, toward the uninhabited desolation to the north. To the place where no living thing would go. Not unless it felt that the end had come.
My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.
Upon him the contempt of three planets descended.
You will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity. At some time, every creature which lives must do so. It is the ultimate shadow, the defeat of creation; this is the curse at work, the curse that feeds on all life. Everywhere in the universe.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope.
Am I the only one who knows? I'll bet I am; nobody else really understands Grasshopper but me - they just imagine they do.
Can anyone alter fate? All of us combined... or one great figure... or someone strategically placed, who happens to be in the right spot. Chance. Accident. And our lives, our world, hanging on it.
Eierkopf. Egghead. Because the big double-domed empty heads break so easily . . . in the street brawls.
The trouble with being educated is that it takes a long time; it uses up the better part of your life and when you are finished what you know is that you would have benefited more by going into banking.
The basic tool for the manipulation of reality is the manipulation of words. If you can control the meaning of words, you can control the people who must use the words.
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.
Reality is whatever refuses to go away when I stop believing in it.
Drug misuse is not a disease, it is a decision, like the decision to step out in front of a moving car. You would call that not a disease but an error of judgment.
Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.
I must admit that the existence of Disneyland (which I know is real) proves that we are not living in Judaea in 50 AD. . . . Saint Paul would never go near Disneyland. Only children, tourists, and visiting Soviet high officials ever go to Disneyland.
Don't try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night.
This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance.
It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.
More Philip K. Dick Quotations (Based on Topics)
Life - Reality - Time - World - Cars - Thought & Thinking - People - Mind - Science - Education - Planning - Writing - Defeats - Night - Cowardice - Tyranny & Despotism - Humanity - Finance - Selling - View All Philip K. Dick Quotations
More Philip K. Dick Quotations (By Book Titles)
- Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
- The Man in the High Castle
Voltaire - T. H. White - Robert Louis Stevenson - Milan Kundera - Margaret J. Wheatley - Henry Drummond - Bram Stoker - Bernardo Bertolucci - Antiphanes - Anne Frank