nice idea of the sacred lost among the profane, and where the profane is referred to as if it were sacred. interesting baudrillard simulacrum hyperreal etc. etc. connections. character work is, as expected, not great, but i fw all of them nonetheless. i feel like he should've ran with the psi plot... but ubik is good. iffy prose at times, but very engaging.
update september 2025: i just reread work of art in the art of mechanical and finally pursued the conquest of ubiquity reading. it's nice. and i see where he got ubik from now. cus laymen on reddit and youtube and goodreads when i had first read this book were just citing the latin. like okay bro ubik means ubiquity who could've guessed
Anthony Heald is the a great audio book reader
“Where did you put the lounge? It used to be located where I could find it.”
this is very much like anxiety is the dizziness of freedom from exhalation. it also reminds me vaguely of something i read once, maybe a short story: a spaceship or something going into space, messages take longer, and/or only so much can be sent. i dunno. maybe this is just interstellar
“I am Jory,” the thoughts came, “and no one talks to me”
“Put her in solitary right now,” Runciter broke in. “Better she be isolated than not exist at all.” “She exists,” von Vogelsang corrected. “She merely can’t contact you. There’s a difference.” Runciter said, “A metaphysical difference which means nothing to me.”
pvp civlization ahh door 😭
On her bare, dark forearm he made out a tattoo. CAVEAT EMPTOR, it read. He wondered what that meant.
??? what does this mean
i need a gg ashwood in my life
“When his enthusiasm goes, there isn’t much left of him.”
i love characters named joe who are bureaucrats pkd really has a type doesn't he
“That’s right,” Runciter said with satisfaction; he had, originally, helped write the ad. It was, in his opinion, another manifestation of the marvelous multifacetedness of his mind.
“I wonder,” he murmured, “who paid Hollis to put his employees in the middle of your project.”
“That doesn’t really matter, does it?” Miss Wirt said. “What matters is that they’re there.”
Runciter said, “Sometimes one never finds out. But as you say - it’s the same as when ants find their way into your kitchen. You don’t ask why they’re there; you just begin the job of getting them back out.” He had arrived at a cost figure.
Joe never has reasons, just hunches
“If god approved of half-life, each of us would be born in a casket filled with dry ice.”
“One of these days,” Joe said wrathfully, “people like me will rise up and overthrow you, and the end of tyranny by the homeostatic machine will have arrived. The day of human values and compassion and simple warmth will return, and when that happens someone like myself who has gone through an ordeal and who genuinely needs hot coffee to pick him up and keep him functioning when he has to function will get the hot coffee whether he happens to have a poscred readily available or not.” He lifted the miniature pitcher of cream, then set it down. “And furthermore, your cream or milk or whatever it is, is sour.”
You know what I realize now, Al? He gave his life to save ours. In an indirect way.” “Very indirect,” Al said.
“In my opinion,” Al said hollowly, “you have a will to fail.
No combination of circumstances - including this - is going to change that.”
NOOO WENDY DEAD
Decay versus Runciter, Al said to himself. Throughout the world. Perhaps throughout the universe. Maybe the sun will go out, Al conjectured, and Glen Runciter will place a substitute sun in its place.
heald gives al's voice too much presence and aura
oh has the ubik voice been runciter the whole time? i haven't been paying enough attention
gives me vibes of matthew mcconaughey "fading memory of a town"
The Willys-Knight followed close behind, its horn honking dolefully to tell Joe it was there.
“I didn’t feel like saying so, goddam it. Why should I volunteer information like that, that I can’t do anything? I keep trying and it keeps not working; nothing happens. And it’s never been that way before. I’ve had the talent virtually my entire life.”
It has crushed me like a bent-legged insect, he said to himself. A simple bug which does nothing but hug the earth. Which can never fly or escape. Can only descend step by step into what is deranged and foul. Into the world of the tomb which a perverse entity surrounded by its own filth inhabits.
“I’m lonely,” Joe said, on impulse. “Does the hotel have any source of supply? Any girls?” The clerk said in a clipped, disapproving voice, “Not this hotel, sir; this hotel does not pander.” “You keep a good clean family hotel,” Joe said.
“We like to think so, sir.” “I was just testing you,” Joe said. “I wanted to be sure what kind of hotel I was staying in.” He left the counter, recrossed the lobby, made his way down the wide marble stairs, through the revolving door and onto the pavement outside.
Dick was writing about a fallen world, where the sacred has been lost among the profane, and where the profane is referred to as if it were sacred.
i agree with the sentiment that pkd is good at short stories but can't maintain large texts. his premises are so fire. but low key this starts going downhill after like luna tbh. its still good though.