Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick

Objective reality is a synthetic construct, dealing with a hypothetical universalization of a multitude of subjective realities.

He felt the craving within him, the need to be entertained. And they all felt this way; the settlement yearned for the bizarre.

When they want you they already have you; all they need is the paperwork.

He had very few dealings with the government. That was neither a virtue nor a vice; it was simply good luck.

To himself he thought, I was born in the wrong century. A hundred years ago this wouldn’t have happened and a hundred years from now it will be illegal.

May I stop at that amphetamine dispenser and put in my dime? I need a stimulant to cheer me up.

The big economic forces had managed to remain free, although virtually everything else had been absorbed by the Government. Laws that had been eased away from the private person still protected property and industry.

It had been a phobia of his for years that someday he would fall into the hands of madmen---in particular, madmen who seemed sane up until the last moment.

It was hell living in the twenty-first century. Information transfer had reached the velocity of light.

I’m dead; lay the heavy bread on me.

Of course you’re a worm. We’re all worms—grubby worms creeping over the crust of the Earth, through dust and dirt.

Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I saw—behind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don’t want to go back.

Perhaps at some other time, when there was no war, men might not act this way, hurrying an individual to his death because they were afraid. Everyone was frightened, everyone was willing to sacrifice the individual because of the group fear.

What will they accept, then?” Norm said, “Perky Pat herself.” He was silent, then. “Oh good Lord,” she said, appalled. “But if we win,” Norm pointed out, “we win Connie Companion.

When he looked up, Silvia was standing in front of him. Her arms were folded and she gazed vacantly past him. A bright yellow pencil was behind her ear. Her brown hair was tied back in a hard bun. At the corner others were sitting, other Silvias, dishes in front of them, half dozing or eating, some of them reading. Each the same as the next, except for their clothing.

Of course, the way they put it, the idea was if we had to buy our gas masks and bomb shelters we’d take better care of them. As if we ever damaged telephones and sidewalks. Or highways, because the whole state provided them. Or armies.

it woke him up and allowed his dreams, his nocturnal desires and random wishes, to condense into a semblance of rationality.

If you don’t buy, they’ll kill you. The perfect sales-pitch. Buy or die—new slogan.

Anyone that’s fighting the Police is on our side.

WHILE ROLLING A fifty-gallon drum of water from the canal to his potato garden, Bob Turk heard the roar, glanced up into the haze of the midafternoon Martian sky, and saw the great blue interplan ship. In the excitement he waved. And then he read the words painted on the side of the ship and his joy became alloyed with care. Because this great pitted hull, now lowering itself to a rear-end landing, was a carny ship, come to this region of the fourth planet to transact business. The painting spelled out: FALLING STAR ENTERTAINMENT ENTERPRISES PRESENTS FREAKS, MAGIC, TERRIFYING STUNTS, AND WOMEN! The final word had been painted largest of all.

to Central Park. To sit on a bench.” “But there is no more Central Park, Mr. Biskle. It was turned into a parking lot for government employees while you were on Mars.