Painter and cartoonist Gary Panter offered a word-portrait: “Phil was pixieish and self-effacing, always ready to make himself the butt of the joke. He sat thinking with his head back and lips pursed a little. He smiled small before he smiled big. He had long fingers like a piano player’s. White hairy chest peeking over his top button. His skin was pale. His lips were red. His cheeks had a tiny blush. He was like a clever fox, but tired, like he didn’t sleep much. He told me more than once about the miracle of his intuiting his son’s potentially fatal internal hernia. He’d take a big breath before he spoke because he knew the sentences would be long. His hands were lithe and expressive, often mirroring each other palm to palm. He had soulful, heartful eyes. With other people he could’ve played other roles, because he was a theatrical and prankish person. He laughed a lot.”
Tim Powers alludes to a notion found in other accounts as welclass="underline" that in its latter stages the Exegesis journey seemed to converge with a foreshadowing of its author’s death. “I do remember that around Christmas of ’81 he was convinced that the world would end in a couple of months. And it did, for him. I thought: Not bad—you were close.”
Anyone interested in suggesting a medical, psychiatric, neurological, or pharmacological context for the experiences and behavior surrounding Philip K. Dick’s Exegesis—and by “behavior” we mean, of course and above all, the writing of the thing itself—will be spoiled for choice. Dick offers a wealth of indicators suggestive of bipolar disorder, neurological damage due to amphetamine abuse, a sequence of tiny strokes (it would be a stroke that killed him in 1982), and more. Within these pages, Dick mordantly speculates on a few himself.
The decades since Dick’s death have been fertile ones for popular neurological case histories, frequently of creative people (call it the Oliver Sacks era). It is likely that had Dick lived longer, he would have been drawn to project his own neurological metaphors for his visionary experiences; in particular, it is hard to imagine that his restless mind would not have been eager to explore what Eve Laplante, in her 1988 article in the Atlantic Monthly, called “The Riddle of TLE” (temporal lobe epilepsy). The cause of electrical seizures in the brain less dangerous, and more diagnostically furtive, than grand mal epilepsy, TLE is associated in certain cases with hypergraphia (superhuman bouts of writing) and hyperreligiosity (“an unusual degree of concern with morality, philosophy, and mysticism, sometimes leading to multiple religious conversions,” in Laplante’s words). Among the historical figures whose profiles are suggestive of a retroactive TLE diagnosis are Dostoyevsky, St. Theresa of Avila, Emanuel Swedenborg, and Van Gogh.
Temporal lobe epilepsy has, reasonably enough, drawn attention from Dick’s biographers, and we should not hesitate to mention it here. Yet, given just a brief paraphrase of Dick’s history, neurologist Alice Flaherty, author of The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain, cautioned that one of any number of medical causes might easily account for Dick’s hypergraphia—a TLE diagnosis is far from a foregone conclusion. Indeed, it is worth noting that Dick described hallucinatory experiences of one kind or another going back as far as grade school; that his earliest writings prefigure the ontological and moral concerns exhibited after 2-3-74; and that his boggling literary productivity during his aspirant years and first ascendancy, from 1952 to 1964, could easily be labeled “hypergraphic.” Dick’s Exegesis is a site, then, where we reencounter one of the defining mysteries of our scientific age: the persistent elusiveness of a satisfying description of the full activities of “mind”—that is, consciousness—even as the mechanism of the biological brain yields itself increasingly to our understanding.
Dick’s pursuit of the truth of 2-3-74 was destined, like Zeno’s arrow, for no destination. Years before his death, it became apparent that these activities would not cease until the pen fell from his hands, no matter his periodic attempts at closure. “Here ends four years and six months of analysis and research,” Dick wrote. “Time is unmasked as irreal; 1,900 years are disclosed as aspect of one underlying matrix . . . my 27 years of writing the same themes over and over again fits into place; 2-74 and 3-74 is comprehensible, as is the overthrow of Nixon; the transtemporal constants have been explicated . . . perhaps I should destroy the Exegesis. It is a journey that reached its goal.” Dick wrote those words in 1978; they occur on the first page of an entry that would continue for sixty-two more.
In the end the Exegesis can be viewed as a long experiment in mind-regarding-itself. The puzzle that Dick can never solve in this effort is that of his own exegetical efforts. This mind writes—why? More and more it may seem as if in describing the macrocosm Dick describes the Exegesis: the two are coextensive. Each falls victim to repetition and entropy; each grows by reticulating and arborizing; each, for its renewal, requires divine intervention in the form of language. The same questions apply to both: What saves the universe from running in useless circles until it drops? What separates the living spark of meaning from the “inferior bulk” of chaos and noise? Does the universe evolve or devolve? If the system is closed, then where does “the new” originate?
We found ourselves struck by the notion that Philip K. Dick was, for all his garrulous explications, an aphoristic writer, in the vein of E. M. Cioran or Blaise Pascal. What disguises his aphoristic gift is, simply, the scaffolding he left in place. Every impulse, every photon of thinking collects on the page; it is left for the reader to isolate the spires.
“What lies hiding within each object? A garden, so to speak.”
“There are no gold prisons.”
“The schizophrenic is a leap ahead that failed.”
“To remember and to wake up are absolutely interchangeable.”
“All that is colossal is fraud.”
“The physical universe is plastic in the face of mind.”
“Reality lacks discretionary power.”
“What’s got to be gotten over is the false idea that an hallucination is a private matter.”
“ ‘One day the masks will come off, and you will understand all’—it came to pass, and I was one of the masks.”
Each of these fine provocations is embedded somewhere in the Exegesis’s pages, together with more extensive sequences of aphoristic invention and self-contained parables too lengthy to quote here. We invite readers to discover their own.
Editors’ Note
Your humble scholars have wandered into a land that makes a mockery of scholarship. Dick’s own centrifugal and chaotic methodology was more than infectious; it rewrote our attempts to rewrite it. This volume, then, reflects an enthusiastic foray on the reader’s behalf. The larger purposes of archival scholarship could only have been answered with a completely transcribed and fully cross-referenced Exegesis—a thing not bindable into the pages of a book. In the name not of apology but of transparency, we offer an account of our compromises and the decisions that made them possible.