I saw this book in a shop window when I was strolling around San Francisco a few months ago, and couldn't resist. No one but Phillip K. Dick could have written this book. While some of his books are very sci-fi, he has others that are more rooted in a depressing kind of suburban angst. This book is definitely the latter category. Whenever I read his books that feature that kind of feeling, I can't help but think that the events and situations are taken from his own life. But then, the direction that this book goes is so very strange -- not in any kind of science fiction way -- but rather a kind of surreal world that somehow seems more surreal because it all is explainable.
It took me a long time to get through it because it is kind of depressing -- it didn't exactly draw me through. One thing I find with every PKD novel, though, is that there is one character in each book that, to my mind, clearly is PKD. So, it's like PKD is a character that recurs in all his novels, and that was true here, too.
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