>>8544Philip K. Dick is overrated. He'd mainline methamphetamine and crank out a fifty thousand word novel in a weekend, tripping balls the whole time. Before he became a famous "sci-fi literatchoor" name the editors at the big publishing houses were able to force him to bend his unhinged visions into something like a coherent story. Once he became skiffy famous he could, and did, tell the editors to fuck off, and his printed work, never great, got much worse for it.
Another problem with his work is that it wasn't just the drugs. He really was crazy, bipolar and depressive. He made multiple suicide attempts in the 1960s and 1970s, some of them while fucked up out of his head on very nearly anything he could get his hands on, from speed to psylocybin mushrooms, singly or in combination. He was institutionalized a number of times. And his much-abused heart gave out on him in 1982. He was just fifty-three when he died.
Anyway. Most of his novels after around 1974 were not stories in the conventional sense at all, but, rather, recountings of psychotic episodes where he believed, for example, that God was a satelllite in orbit above his house, zapping divine knowledge into his head with brilliant pink laser beams that were invisible to everyone but him. VALIS was incoherent but the publishers printed it anyway, because he was famous enough and had enough fanboys who would buy whatever he shat onto the page. There is the same problem with Heinlein's work after around 1965.
One of the things that irritates me the most about Dick's work, either the early, relatively tame stuff, or the late incoherent stuff, was that in his stories he was constantly flirting with ontological weird shit, but only flirting, and was never willing to embrace the weird and commit to it. Like, the protagonist would see a guy on the corner with a hot dog cart. And he'd turn away to look at something. And he'd look back and there'd be just a slip of paper on the ground, and he'd pick it up and it'd just say "HOT DOG STAND" written in a shaky hand in pencil. And he'd carry the note around for the rest of the story, thinking to himself, "This is the Logos. This is the Word of God that I have here in my hands." And it'd turn out, no, government agents were just drugging and hypnotizing him for some kind of convoluted bullshit you can't bring yourself to care about. You read the story and you think "oh boy, this is gonna get WEIRD, this is gonna be good, I wonder if it's gonna be as good as that Rudy Rucker story I read last week," as Cthulhu rises out of the Pacific Ocean to glare down disapprovingly at Los Angeles. And then, gotcha! It's not Cthulhu at all. It's a guy in a rubber suit. It's not the Logos. It's just a conspiracy. It's not a coherent story. It's just Dick typing up what he thought he saw when he was tweeking on meth for two straight weeks without sleeping and had a psychotic break. It is perhaps ironic that a guy named Dick always leaves the reader with blue balls.
If you want to read 20th Century science fiction the three authors that come immediately to mind for me are Poul Anderson, H. Beam Piper, and Cordwainer Smith. Maybe also Larry Niven and Gordon R. Dickson.