by Phillip K. Dick (1977)

2024 reads, 15/22

Not really sure where to start with this one – Philip K. Dick (PDK for short), arguably one of the best science fiction writers of all time, has been on my to-read list for years. In fact, it’s surprising that I haven’t read anything by him yet, especially since Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? is the inspiration for my favorite movie, Blade Runner. But I digress – we’ll get to that review soon enough.

A Scanner Darkly is a dystopian sci-fi novel set in 1994 California, in an alternate timeline where America has lost the war on drugs. Dealers, users, and federal agents are all intertwined in one another’s lives, and the existence of “scramble suits,” a body suit that conceals one’s identity, only complicates matters. Bob Arctor is an undercover narcotics agent investigating users such as Jim Barris, Ernie Luckman, and Charles Freck, whose house is bugged with “scanners” for Arctor’s alter-ego to surveil.

“Does a passive infrared scanner like they used to use or a cube-type holo-scanner like they use these days, the latest thing, see into me—into us—clearly or darkly? I hope it does, he thought, see clearly, because I can’t any longer these days see into myself.”

I’m slightly reminded of other counterculture novels, e.g., One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; any of the works of Kesey, Leary, and HST between the beats and the hippies. Barris even recites Leary’s catchphrase as a sign-off: “Turn on, tune out, and good-by.” But where those novels focus on the actual use or psychedelics of drugs, A Scanner Darkly focuses more on the consequences of repeated drug use.

The concept of the “scramble suit” is also intriguing; as readers, we know who Arctor and his alter ego are, but I was left wondering about the identities and motives of the other characters. How do they fit into this mess? What exactly is Arctor looking for? The idea of double lives is pervasive throughout this novel, both in a temporal and spatial sense, and adds to the haziness.

“There she was, stable and as if forever; then—nothing. Vanished like fire or air, an element of the earth back into the earth. To mix with the everyone-else people that never ceased to be. Poured out among them. The evaporated girl, he thought. Of transformation. That comes and goes as she will. And no one, nothing, can hold on to her.”

This book was amazing and heartbreaking at the same time, and made me immediately pick up my next PKD book. For anyone looking to get into PKD, or just wanting to read a science fiction classic, this is a great one to go with.

P.S. The movie did a great job capturing not just the confusing nature of the novel, but also remained pretty faithful to the book. Worth the watch!

#readingyear2024 #scifi #dystopia #wtf #pkd #book2screen

by Clarice Lispector (1973)

2024 reads, 5/22

“This text that I give you is not to be seen close up: it gains its secret previously invisible roundness when seen from a high-flying plane. Then you can divine the play of islands and see the channels and seas. Understand me: I write you an onomatopoeia, convulsion of language. I’m not transmitting to you a story but just words that live from sound.”

Água Viva seems to delicately straddle the line between novella, poetry, meditation, conversation, and monologue. It’s pretty short, but don’t let the page count fool you – I had to reread multiple passages to even attempt an understanding of her words. But if you break through her prose, you are treated with a linguistic tour de force of a novel.

“Every once in a while I’ll give you a light story— melodic and cantabile area to break up this string quartet of mine: a figurative interval to open a clearing in my nourishing jungle.”

As far as I’m aware, Água Viva is the only title of Lispector’s that isn’t translated from Portuguese. There seems to be no good translation; it can literally translate to “jellyfish,” but “stream of life,” “running water,” or even “where all flows” are better approximations. My favorite of these is “running water,” since the narrator seems to bubble up this stream-of-consciousness of never-ending thoughts. It’s filled with metaphors, fourth wall breaks, and beautiful imagery of the human condition – sometimes it’s even a bit discomforting.

Is there a plot? Not really. The most I could surmise about the narrator was that they were an artist, maybe a painter or musician, now attempting writing: the experience of writing itself, its relation to other arts, and life. This writing can be distant and seemingly cryptic. But imagery revolving around the natural world is explored as well, such as the passage where the narrator personifies different types of flowers. It’s these passages that feel like the narrator is Lispector herself – and I believe it’s her way of grounding her cosmic language with us.

“I’m going to make an adagio. Read slowly and with peace. It’s a wide fresco.”

How cool was that? The musical metaphor almost immediately morphed into an artistic metaphor – this type of contorting language is used often. It displaced me at first. But the moments where she seems disconnected from us, where she reaches the depths of the human condition (recalling de profundis, if you’ve read Near to the Wild Heart), are equally balanced by moments of direct language: we are reprieved, for the time being. The oscillation between her shallow and intense prose is yet another representation of this running water, this breathing of language, this água viva.

“For now there’s dialogue with you. Then it will be monologue. Then the silence. I know that there will be an order.”

Lispector has slowly but surely climbed her way among my favorite authors with this one. Infinitely returnable and emotionally unfiltered, there’s always something new to discover in each reread. If you’re looking for something different, give Água Viva a chance. Analyze it in depth, or let the words wash over you: you’ll be rewarded either way.

“Today I finished the canvas I told you about: curves that intersect in fine black lines, and you, with your habit of wanting to know why— I’m not interested in that, the cause is past matter—will ask me why the fine black lines? because of the same secret that now makes me write as if to you, writing something round and rolled up and warm, but sometimes cold as the fresh instants, the water of an ever-trembling stream. Can what I painted on this canvas be put into words? Just as the silent word can be suggested by a musical sound.”

Addendum: A similar experience to reading this would be listening to Tim Hecker’s ambient album Haunt Me, Haunt Me Do It Again in full; it’s a perfect pairing. Both are meditative and thought-provoking, seasoned with a slight lingering discomfort throughout.

#readingyear2024 #favorites #philosophy #wtf #physicallyowned #lispector

by Thomas Pynchon (1973)

2023 reads, 12/12:

Thirty years ago, Martin Scorsese published an opinion piece in the New York Times, defending filmmakers, authors, and other artists whose “style gets in the way of [their] storytelling.” While this piece was mainly a rebuttal to an opinion piece on Federico Fellini, Scorsese lists Thomas Pynchon as one such artist who falls under this category. And after spending almost 50 hours with Gravity’s Rainbow, I’m here to say I agree and appreciate his defense.

I’ve ventured into Pynchon’s work before with The Crying of Lot 49 and Inherent Vice, and I loved them both, so it only made sense that I attempt Gravity’s Rainbow, in its 50th year of publication. Continuing Pynchon’s setting of alternative histories, this book takes place at the end of World War II in an alternate, dream-like, paranoid version of the European theatre.

“He sits tonight by his driftwood fire in the cellar of the onion-topped Nikolaikirche, listening to the sea. Stars hang among the spaces of the great Wheel, precarious to him as candles and goodnight cigarettes.”

The first part of the book, “Beyond the Zero,” was the most difficult to me. Pynchon loves to invoke hysteron proteron (Greek: “later earlier”) at all scales in this book, but mainly in this first section. Individual phrases, sentences, paragraphs, and whole chapters are succumbed to this reversal in time: effect first, cause later. It’s even posed within the first few pages: “Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the light come before or after?”

Pieces start to come together as you read, with connections being made right up to the end. Passages will run off track (example: the introduction of main character Katje, and then immediately being whisked back to the time of her ancestor and learning how he eradicated the dodo birds whilst envisioning them coming together and converting to Christianity). Its twists and turns aren’t for everybody, but everything is written for a reason. As I mentioned in my TCoL49 review, he writes how we think, re-experiencing whole memories in seconds.

“Connection? Of course there’s one. But we don’t talk about it.”

And that’s not to say that GR isn’t slightly prophetic as well. About 200 pages in, starting from the beginning of Part 2, the plot starts to kick in, and we find ourselves on cartoon-like cat-and-mouse chase throughout Parts 2 and 3. Along with control, themes such as War & technology, using The Rocket as a motif, constantly emerge. Pynchon’s books all have some inkling of paranoia as well, himself being a paranoid (you can count on one hand the number of photographs of him out there).

“...what do you think, it’s a children’s story? There aren’t any. The children are away dreaming, but the Empire has no place for dreams and it’s Adults Only in here tonight, here in this refuge with the lamps burning deep, in pre-Cambrian exhalation, savory as food cooking, heavy as soot. And 60 miles up the rockets hanging the measureless instant over the black North Sea before the fall, ever faster, to orange heat, Christmas star, in helpless plunge to Earth.”

Almost every sentence in GR has some reference to some historical event, person or slang that I’ve never heard of. Through reading I’ve learned about the Herero and Namaqua genocides, Kabbalist traditions, the Peenemunde slave camp, the Phoebus cartel (all historically factual, and some of which should have been taught in school) – all while reading actual rocket science. But this is not a textbook, there is a plot to be found here, with jokes and heartwarming moments as well.

“What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?”

But you don’t need to get every reference to have fun, and I wouldn’t have read this if it wasn’t enjoyable. I’m nowhere near a WWII history buff, and I never will be, but this was fun and even hilarious at times (examples: Pirate’s banana breakfast, Slothrop’s stream-of-consciousness trip down a toilet looking for his harmonica, and Snake, the unpredictably homicidal horse being paid off to not appear in the US rodeo circuits). His style does not hinder what he is trying to say, I actually think it helps. It’s the mini-episodes make this book fun, it’s the math and physics jokes that make this book enjoyable, it’s the literary acid trips (especially in Part 4) that make this book thought-provoking, and it’s the commentary on politics, War, and control that make this book worth it. His prose is like no other – upon finishing the book the realization hit that I may never read something like it again.

“Most people’s lives have ups and downs that are relatively gradual, a sinuous curve with first derivatives at every point. They’re the ones who never get struck by lightning. No real idea of cataclysm at all. But the ones who do get hit experience a singular point, a discontinuity in the curve of life—do you know what the time rate of change is at a cusp? Infinity, that’s what! A-and right across the point, it’s minus infinity! How’s that for sudden change, eh?”

I’m not sure whether this review has convinced or deterred you, but if you fall in the former camp, the best pieces of advice I have are (1) borrow the eBook from your library (likely no one else is reading it, lol) and read on a Kindle for quick Wikipedia lookups and German translations, (2) read this guide after every chapter to recall the important plot points, and (3) just let your imagination run wild with him. But if this book doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, and you’ve made it to the end of this review, then at least read possibly my favorite quote of the whole book:

“They have found a house in the stay-away zone, under the barrage balloons south of London. The town, evacuated in ’40, is still “regulated”—still on the Ministry’s list. Roger and Jessica occupy the place illegally, in a defiance they can never measure unless they’re caught. Jessica has brought an old doll, seashells, her aunt’s grip filled with lace knickers and silk stockings. Roger’s managed to scare up a few chickens to nest in the empty garage. Whenever they meet here, one always remembers to bring a fresh flower or two. The nights are filled with explosion and motor transport, and wind that brings them up over the downs a last smack of the sea. Day begins with a hot cup and a cigarette over a little table with a weak leg that Roger has repaired, provisionally, with brown twine. There’s never much talk but touches and looks, smiles together, curses for parting. It is marginal, hungry, chilly—most times they’re too paranoid to risk a fire—but it’s something they want to keep, so much that to keep it they will take on more than propaganda has ever asked them for. They are in love. Fuck the war.”

#readingyear2023 #american #physicallyowned #wtf #pynchon