Quotes from Philip K. Dick

I resemble that worm which crawls through dust, Lives in the dust, eats dust Until a passerby's foot crushes it.

If you are wise, Matson said to himself grimly, you never take one-way trips. Anywhere. Even to Boise, Idaho...even across the street. Be certain, when you start, that you can scramble back.

My father told me what it used to feel like, waiting in the dentist's office. Every time the nurse opened the door you thought, It's happening. The thing I've been afraid of all my life.

It's amazing the limitation of the human anatomy, the fact that food and air must share a common passage.

The surveillance, he thought, essentially should be maintained. And, if possible, by me. I should always be watching, watching and figuring out, even if I never do anything about what I see; even if I just sit there and observe silently, not seen: that is important, that I as a watcher of all that happens should be at my place.

Listen, I'm not an intellectual—Fascism has no need of that. What is wanted is the deed. Theory derives from action. What our corporate state demands from us is comprehension of the social forces—of history.

The tragedy in his life already existed. To love an atmospheric spirit. That was the real sorrow. Hopelessness itself. Nowhere on the printed page, nowhere in the annals of man, would her name appear: no local habitation, no name. There are girls like that, he thought, and those you love most, the ones where there is no hope because it has eluded you at the very moment you close your hands around it.

Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed.

But change's always harsh on the loser. Nothing new.

There is no Pris," he said. "Only Rachael Rosen, over and over again.

In the center of an irrational universe governed by an irrational Mind stands rational man.

Office gossip annoyed him because it always proved better than the truth.

the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.

Maybe I'll just sit here parked for a while, he decided, and alpha meditate or go into various different altered states of consciousness.

The classic resignation. Mechanical, intellectual acceptance of that which a genuine organism––with two billion years of the pressure to live and evolve hagriding it––could never have reconciled itself to. "I can't stand the way you androids give up," he said savagely.

Parcifal is one of those corkscrew artifact of culture in which you get the subjective sense that you've learned something from it, something valuable or even priceless; but on closer inspection you suddenly begin to scratch your head and say Wait a minute. This makes no sense.

Anti-cat is one jump away from anti-Semitism.

Mental illness is not funny.

Madness, he thought. The ultimate horror for our para­noid culture: vicious unseen mechanical entities that flit at the edges of our vision, that can go anywhere, that are in our very midst.

Everything is destined to reappear as simulation. Landscapes as photography, woman as the sexual scenario, thoughts as writing, terrorism as fashion and the media, events as television. Things seem only to exist by virtue of this strange destiny. You wonder whether the world itself isn't just here to serve as advertising copy in some other world.' Jean Baudrillard

zaman. belki zaman da yuvarlakt?r, t?pk? dünya gibi. hindistana ulaÅŸmak için bat?ya doÄŸru yelken açars?n. sana gülerler ama sonunda hindistan önündedir, arkanda deÄŸil.zamanla- belki hepimiz yelken açm??, kendimizi doÄŸuda sanarak giderken, bizi bekleyen 'çarm?ha gerilmek' ten baÅŸka bir ÅŸey deÄŸildir.

within him an actual hatred once more manifested itself toward his electric sheep, which he had to tend, had to care about, as if it lived. The tyranny of an object, he thought. It doesn't know I exist.

Body of yin, soul of yang. Metal and fire unified. The outer and inner; microcosmos in my palm.

We peep out, but what do we see, really? Mirror reflections of our own selves, our bloodless, feeble countenances, devoted to nothing in particular, insofar as I can fathom it. Death is very close, he thought. When you think in this manner. I can feel it, he decided. How near I am. Nothing is killing me; I have no enemy, no antagonist; I am merely expiring, like a magazine subscription: month by month.