I thought a thought and then an infinite regress of theses and countertheses came into being. God said, "Here I am; here is infinity." I thought another explanation; again an infinite series of thoughts split off in dialectical antithetical interaction. God said, "Here is infinity; here I am." I thought, then, of an infinite number of explanations, in succession, that explained 2-3-74; each single one of them yielded up an infinite progression of flipflops, of thesis and antithesis, forever. Each time, God said, "Here is infinity. Here, then, I am." I tried for an infinite number of times; each time an infinite regress was set off and each time God said, "Infinity. Hence I am here." Then he said, "Every thought leads to infinity, does it not? Find one that doesn't." I tried forever. All led to an infinitude of regress, of the dialectic, of thesis, antithesis and new synthesis. Each time, God said, "Here is infinity; here am I. Try again." I tried forever. Always it ended with God saying, "Infinity and myself; I am here." I saw then, a Hebrew letter with many shafts, and all the shafts led to a common outlet; that outlet or conclusion was infinity. God said, "That is myself. I am infinity. Where infinity is, there am I; where I am, there is infinity. All roads-all explanations for 2-3-74-lead to an infinity of Yes-No, This or That, On-Off, One-Zero, Yin-Yang, the dialectic, infinity upon infinity; an infinity of infinities. I am everywhere and all roads lead to me; omniae [v]iae ad Deum ducent. Try again. Think of another possible explanation for 2-3-74." 1 did; it led to an infinity of regress, of thesis and antithesis and new synthesis. "This is not logic," God said. "Do not think in terms of absolute theories; think instead in terms of probabilities. Watch where the piles heap up, of the same theory essentially repeating itself. Count the number of punch cards in each pile. Which pile is highest? You can never know for sure what 2-3-74 was. What, then, is statistically most probable? Which is to say, which pile is highest? Here is your clue: every theory leads to an infinity (of regression, of thesis and antithesis and new synthesis). What, then, is the probability that I am the cause of 2-3-74, since, where infinity is, there I am? You doubt, you are the doubt as in:
"You are not the doubter; you are the doubt itself. So do not try to know; you cannot know. Guess on the basis of the highest pile of computer punch cards. There is an infinite stack in the heap marked INFINITY, and I have equated infinity with me. What, then, is the chance that it is me? You cannot be positive; you will doubt. But what is your guess?"
I said, "Probably it is you since there is an infinity of infinities forming before me."
"There is the answer, the only one you will ever have," God said.
"You could be pretending to be God," I said, "and actually be Satan." Another infinitude of thesis and antithesis and new synthesis, the infinite regress, was set off.
God said, "Infinity."
I said, "You could be testing out a logic system in a giant computer and I am-" Again an infinite regress.
"Infinity," God said.
"Will it always be infinite?" I said. "An infinity?"
"Try further," God said.
I doubt if you exist," I said. And the infinite regress instantly flew into motion once more.
"Infinity," God said. The pile of computer punch cards grew; it was by far the largest pile; it was infinite.
"I will play this game forever," God said, "or until you become tired."
I said, "I will find a thought, an explanation, a theory, that does not set off an infinite regress." And, as soon as I said that, an infinite regress was set off. God said, "Over a period of six and a half years you have developed theory after theory to explain 2-3-74. Each night when you go to bed you think, 'At last I found it. I tried out theory after theory until now, finally, I have the right one.' And then the next morning you wake up and say, 'There is one fact not explained by that theory. I will have to think up another theory.' And so you do. By now it is evident to you that you are going to think up an infinite number of theories, limited only by your lifespan, not limited by your creative imagination. Each theory gives rise to a subsequent theory, inevitably. Let me ask you; I revealed myself to you and you saw that I am the infinite void. I am not in the world, as you thought; I am transcendent, the deity of the Jews and Christians. What you see of me in world that you took to ratify pantheismthat is my being filtered through, broken up, fragmented and vitiated by the multiplicity of the flux world; it is my essence, yes, but only a bit of it: fragments here and there, a glint, a riffle of wind . . . now you have seen me transcendent, separate and other from world, and I am more; I am the infinitude of the void, and you know me as I am. Do you believe what you saw? Do you accept that where the infinite is, I am; and where I am, there is the infinite?"
I said, "Yes."
God said, "And your theories are infinite, so I am there. Without realizing it, the very infinitude of your theories pointed to the solution; they pointed to me and none but me. Are you satisfied, now? You saw me revealed in theophany; I speak to you now; you have, while alive, experienced the bliss that is to come; few humans have experienced that bliss. Let me ask you, Was it a finite bliss or an infinite bliss?"
I said, "Infinite."
"So no earthly circumstance, situation, entity or thing could give rise to it. "
"No, Lord," I said.
"Then it is l," God said. "Are you satisfied?"
"Let me try one other theory," I said. "What happened in 2-3-74 was that-" And an infinite regress was set off, instantly.
"Infinity," God said. "Try again. I will play forever, for infinity."
"Here's a new theory," I said. "I ask myself, 'What God likes playing games? Krishna. You are Krishna.' " And then the thought came to me instantly, "But there may be a god who mimics other gods; that god is Dionysus. This may not be Krishna at all; it may be Dionysus pretending to be Krishna." And an infinite regress was set off.
"Infinity," God said.
"You cannot be YHWH Who You say You are," I said. "Because YHWH says, 'I am that which I am,' or, 'I shall be that which I shall be.' And you-"
"Do I change?" God said. "Or do your theories change?"
"You do not change," I said. "My theories change. You, and 2-3-74, remain constant."
"Then you are Krishna playing with me," God said.
"Or I could be Dionysus," I said, "pretending to be Krishna. And I wouldn't know it; part of the game is that I, myself, do not know. So I am God, without realizing it. There's a new theory!" And at once an infinite regress was set off; perhaps I was God, and the "God" who spoke to me was not.
"Infinity," God said. "Play again. Another move."
"We are both Gods," I said[. ] And another infinite regress was set off.
"Infinity," God said.
"I am you and you are you," I said. "You have divided yourself in two to play against yourself. 1, who am one half, I do not remember, but you do. As it says in the GITA, as Krishna says to Arjuna, 'We have both lived many lives, Arjuna; I remember them but you do not.' " And an infinite regress was set off; I could well be Krishna's charioteer, his friend Arjuna, who does not remember his past lives.
"Infinity," God said.
I was silent.
"Play again," God said.
"I cannot play to infinity," I said. "I will die before that point comes."
"Then you are not God," God said. "But I can play throughout infinity; I am God. Play."
"Perhaps I will be reincarnated," I said. "Perhaps we have done this before, in another life." And an infinite regress was set off.
"Infinity," God said. "Play again."
"I am too tired," I said.
"Then the game is over."
"After I have rested-"
"You rest?" God said. "George Herbert wrote of me:
"Herbert wrote that in 1633," God said. "Rest and the game ends."
"I will play on," I said, "after I rest. I will play until finally I die of it."
"And then you will come to me," God said. "Play."
"This is my punishment," I said, "that I play, that I try to
discern if it was
you in March of 1974." And then thought came instantly, My punishment or my reward; which? And an infinite series of thesis and antithesis was set off.
"Infinity," God said. "Play again."
"What was my crime?" I said, "that I am compelled to do this?"
"Or your deed of merit," God said.
"I don't know," I said.
God said, "Because you are not god."
"But you know," I said. "Or maybe you don't know and you're trying to find out." And an infinite regress was set off.
"Infinity," God said. "Play again. I am waiting."
Phil was so forcefully struck by this "theophany" (divine encounter) that he resolved to abandon what he now called the "hell-chore" of the Exegesis. On December 2, after a few good stints at analyzing 11-17-80 ("God said that I couldn't know with certainty, but, instead, to watch where the computer punch cards piled up. Okay. [... ]"), he inscribed, "END," and fashioned a title page for the thousands of sheets piled all about him:
3/20/74
12-2-80
THE DIALECTIC: God against Satan, & God's Final Victory foretold & shown
Philip K. Dick
AN EXEGESIS
Apologia Pro Mia Vita
But by December 12 he'd filled an envelope with new notes. And then Phil was back at the Exegesis again. Hadn't he told God that he'd play the game again as soon as he'd rested?
For a guy who had just been granted a theophany, Phil had a downright dismal Christmas. He was blue because it seemed there was no one to talk with about the ideas that mattered to him. In the Exegesis, Phil acknowledged that his talk sometimes sounded like "religious nonsense & occult nonsense"-but somewhere in it all was the truth. And he would never find it. God Himself had assured him of that. So come Christmas Eve 1980 he was alone-by choice-watching the Pope's Midnight Mass on TV and seeing no sign of Christ in the ritual display.
By the New Year, Phil had recovered some of his zest for speculation. And he grappled with his sense of declining energy by dieting severely. Within a relatively short time, Phil was thin for the first time since the early sixties. He found the dietary discipline easy-what he called his "self-denial trip" allowed him to relish giving up favorite foods like canned steak-and-kidney pies from Ireland. The change in physical image suited Phil. Chris Arena, a Thursday Night Group regular, recalls Phil's prior vulnerability about his weight:
One night Phil and I were having this chop session with each other and I told him, "You're just a fat old man." Phil gets up like okay, now I'm going to kick your ass. And then he sits down and says, "I am a fat old man." The doctor told him to lose weight and not drink, and that prompted Phil to go on the diet. But even before that, he knew that I was telling him the truth.
The new slim Phil took on a surprising role in his condominium association. Juan and Su Perez, who became Phil's new neighbors and close friends after Doris Sauter moved out, recall that the new condo occupants enjoyed having a "creative kook" in the building but suspected that Phil smoked a lot of weed. Those few who ventured to read his books were horrified. So how the hell did Phil become chairperson of the Rules and Grievances Committee? "He was always home," Juan explains. "And Phil was concerned that anyone else would be too strict about cats and loud music."
Phil and Juan, who was working on his master's in psychology (he'd been assigned two of Phil's novels for a class on delusional thought), would fantasize out a book project that would blend Juan's background in chemistry and psychology with Phil's philosophical and religious knowledge. Su recalls that Phil, a frequent guest at dinnertime, would often bemoan his bad luck with women and request her advice. "I would say to him, 'Don't tell them so much about yourself so fast.' "
But in early 1981 there arose an event that eclipsed even the longing for a woman: A Major Hollywood Motion Picture!
At long last, negotiations to adapt Androids for the screen had resulted in a solid deal. Producer Michael Deeley took up the project, with the Ladd Company to handle distribution. Ridley Scott (Alien) would direct the film-to be titled Blade Runner-and Harrison Ford (of Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark) would play Rick Deckard, whose job it is to kill "replicants" (as Phil's "androids" are called in the film) who escape their colony planets. Shooting would commence in Hollywoodjust a short jaunt up the freeway from Phil's place-in the first half of 1981.
To understand the impact all this had upon Phil, it's important to realize that in the early production stages Blade Runner was the odds-on candidate to be the next Star Wars. No two names were then hotter than Ridley Scott and Harrison Ford. The budget ultimately reached $25-$30 million, a heavy wager by the firm's backers. Blade Runner only gradually earned the profits to justify the gamble-at the outset, re views were mixed, the box office so-so, the merchandising spin-offs were a total flop. In the long run, the film has made substantial earnings through international distribution and the video sales and rental markets. In Japan, Blade Runner is regarded as a cult classic and it is a key factor behind Phil's towering literary status in that country. But in America, the film never quite took hold in first-run distribution-though it's not hard to see why Phil was so excited at the time.
Phil was also duly skeptical that the film would do justice to his novel. But no one is immune to Hollywood dreams, and Phil had his fantasies of fame and glory. Reality obtruded quickly enough, though. Phil loathed Hampton Fancher's screenplay, which he read in December 1980. His response was to declare war on the project. In a piece for the February-March 1981 issue of SelecTV Guide-the magazine of Phil's cable service-he took a potshot at Ridley Scott's biggest hit: "For all its dazzling graphic impact, ALIEN (to take one example) had nothing new to bring us in the way of concepts that awaken the mind, rather than the senses."
It's extremely doubtful that any of the Blade Runner principals ever took notice of Phil's little piece. David Peoples, who in early 1981 was called in to do a rewrite of the Fancher script, doesn't recall Phil's name ever coming up in meetings. Peoples thought Fancher's initial script excellent and never read Androids, before or after his rewrite-which Phil (making a 180-degree shift from his previous disdain for the entire project) praised to the skies when he read it in August 1981. The final screenplay, jointly credited to Fancher and Peoples, recasts or eliminates key elements of the Androids plot (see Chronological Survey); the Mercer empathy religion is entirely absent, for example. But Phil was well aware of the differences between the print and film media and never thought an exact transposition possible or even desirable.
While the screenplay struggles ended happily, a more painful and personal misunderstanding arose, by way of the mails, between Phil and Ursula Le Guin. In February 1981 Le Guin gave talks at Emory University, at which SF writer Michael Bishop was in attendance. Bishop had written admiring essays on both Ubik and the just-released Valis and was corresponding with Phil. (Since then, Bishop has published a 1987 novel, The Secret Ascension-subtitled Philip K. Dick Is Dead, Alas-in which the late mainstream author Philip K. Dick could not, in his lifetime, find acceptance for his subversive SF works.) Bishop informed Phil of certain of Le Guin's comments, the substance of which Phil considered offensive enough to warrant a public response in Science Fiction Review, a fanzine in which quarrelsome correspondence is an entertainment staple:
I'm looking at a recent letter to me from Michael Bishop. Michael likes my new novel VALIS, but learned that Ursula Le Guin had been tremendously upset by it, "not only for its examination of perhaps unresolvable metaphysical matters (into which she seems to fear you are plunging at the risk of never emerging again) but for its treatment of female characters-every one of which, she argued, was at bottom (I cannot remember her exact phrase) a hateful and not to be trusted death figure [... ] she had the utmost admiration for the work of Philip K. Dick, who had been shamefully ignored in this country and who appeared to be spiraling into himself and going slowly crazy in Santa Ana, California." Her dismay, Michael says, "Results solely from a gen
uine human concern about your intellectual and emotional well-being."
Phil's letter also cites Le Guin's complaint that he had failed to portray the redemptive power of art in his Valis self-portrait.
For her part, Le Guin deeply regretted Phil's hurt feelings. She had long been a staunch public advocate of Phil's talent, and her 1971 novel The Lathe of Heaven was, by her own acknowledgment, markedly influenced by his sixties works. A letter from her offering apologies and clarification is included in that same summer 1981 issue of SFR. In interview, Le Guin explains that she never seriously feared for Phil's sanity and does not recall terming his themes "unresolvable." "I would say `crazy' about both Phil and Virginia Woolf. But I don't like those books of his later period through Valis. I think there is a madness in those books that he didn't come out of-Virginia Woolf comes out, Phil doesn't always. It is not always transmuted into art." Le Guin reaffirms her dislike of the female characters in the decade preceding Valis. "The women were symbols-whether goddess, bitch, hag, witch-but there weren't any women left, and there used to be women in his books."
Phil and Le Guin did come to an ultimate reconciliation through subsequent private letters. But it remains useful to trace just where Phil stood firm or gave way in response to her criticisms. As to her alleged dislike for unresolvable metaphysical speculations, Phil pointedly replied, in his SFR letter, "I have never drawn the line between ideas that could and could not-should and should not-be looked into. That, to me, is a dangerous idea: that some ideas are better left alone, for the good and the sanity of all concerned." The issue of his sanity was a more painful matter, of course. In the SFR letter, Phil insisted that Valis be taken as picaresque fiction and not as a self-portrait: "The fact that my protagonist, Horselover Fat, is a madman does not prove that I, the author, am a madman even if I say, `I am Horselover Fat', because this is the way you write certain kinds of books. There are scenes of violent arguments between Phil Dick and Horselover Fat in the novel."
Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick Page 40
