My Introduction to the Novels of Phillip K. Dick

I bought my first Phillip K. Dick novel when I was a freshman in high school. "Maze of Death" was on the discard rack for twenty five cents. I didn't read the jacket and thought it was a mystery. 

Book stores and libraries, for some unexplained reason, make me have to pee. I was in a hurry. I threw down my quarter and made my way through the maze that was the Warder Public Library in Springfield, Ohio. The restroom was in the basement, miles away.

The next day was a Saturday Session. I had been assigned to attend a special detention lasting several hours. My offense was smarting off to unit principal Paul "Blinky" Spakowski. I think his name was Paul. It was a long time ago. I was insolent. He stuttered and blinked and told me he'd had more fruitful conversations with the wall. I suggested he do so and let me leave. My entreaty was ineffectual inasmuch as he had to document my transgressions and solicit my autograph. The wall failed to interject (hence his preference).

The rule of Saturday session was to constantly and at all times be reading or writing. I was sitting behind a couple of upperclassmen. One has since passed away, the other I've lost track of. When Mrs. Owens left the room on a break, they loaded up a smokeless pipe. We called that type of pipe a Zepplin back then. They passed it to me as a joke, not knowing I would accept (I was a nerd).

I had also eaten two Black Beauties (This was 1981), not the smartest thing to do, specifically when forced to sit still for 6 hours. Little did I know, between the amphetamines and the grass, I was entering a similar condition as that of the author.

I dove into that novel to fight the paranoia instilled by my condition and environment and be as unobtrusive as possible. I was surprised to find it was not a mystery, but science fiction.

I finished the book right there in the cafeteria that afternoon. It enthralled me. It captivated me. It grooved with my buzz, I love a good plot twist when I don't see it coming. This story had several. They were brilliant. When I got to the last paragraph, certain I knew what was going on, WHAM! reality shifted again...and AGAIN! I had a new favorite author. 

Like so many times when finishing a great read, I regretted the experience was over. I probably didn't grieve, or even mourn, but I didn't want it to be over. I wanted more. Fortunately Phillip K. Dick was incredibly prolific. He published more than 40 novels and 120 short stories.

 
My next trip to Warder Public, I checked out "The Man in High Castle" "Flow My Tears the Policeman Said", and "The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch". My favorites were yet to come. It's a testimony to my love of this body of work that I carried his books around school. Being a teenager and having novels with the word "Dick" on the cover invited a lot of unpleasant commentary and speculation on my sexuality. It was almost as bad as when I read Michael Moorcock in junior high. 

The Author died the next year, as did George Bellairs and Ayn Rand. 1982 was a lethal year to be on my reading list.

Learning to talk

When I was a child, my family used to vacation in Lewistown, Pennsylvania every year. I remember discussing the thick dialect of the area with my cousin when we were about eight years old. Cousin Bill claimed that his family didn’t have an accent, further postulating that mine did. I thought that was a ridiculous position for him to assert until he challenged me to prove him wrong.

    Billy Barnes blew me away that summer after the third grade with his perspective. I had a certainty that I spoke the correct American English, but lacked an adequate defense to my opinion. This conundrum seemed akin to a great philosophical question that I maybe couldn’t respond to. I was eight for crying oit loud. Then, back in Ohio with people I could understand, I eventually found my rebuttal. People where I lived tended to sound more like people on national television.

    My answer bred more questions. True, the little mountain community on the Susquehanna river seemed to live a bit behind the times, but they had TV. Why didn’t they talk like it? Would everybody someday sound alike once technology and communications brought the mountain people up to date with my ultra modern space age world of Donnelsville Ohio? How long would it take for them to catch up?

    These were pretty heavy concepts for an eight year old. I’ve answered some of my questions. Others, I have fun monkeying with from time to time.

    I don’t so much talk like the TV anymore either, which I hadn’t expected. Truth be told, I speak more like my Pennsylvania cousins, southern neighbors, and backwoods buddies, while they don't speak more like the TV at all. So much for the linguistic theories of my eighth year.

    I’ve traveled quite a bit, mostly to rural areas within the U.S., and I’ve picked up bits of dialect here and there. Some of my linguistic affectations are the result of becoming habituated to particular words or phrases. Others, I have intentionally assumed as a more effective way of communicating.

    I say "heck" a lot more. It's a friendly word. A lot of exclamations and interjections have a decidedly forceful or contrary nature. Heck is a lot more laid back. Its a word you use with friends. It invokes familiarity and amiability.
 Heck yeah it does.
 Why?
 Heck, I don't know.

     Incorporating and assimilating the colloquialisms of other cultures aids in comprehension of their perspective. If language is the means by which we describe our world and our perceptions to ourselves and others, then surely expanding our personal lexicon should expand our understanding of life itself. At eight I was proud to talk like the television. At 47 I'm thankful I don't.
If I ever catch myself saying Westconsin, I'll know I've gone too far.