Vintage Pkd

"Vintage PKD" by Philip K. Dick, published by Vintage. A master of science fiction, a voice of the changing counterculture, and a genuine visionary, Philip K. Dick wrote about reality, entropy, deception, and the plight of being alive in the modern world. Through his remarkable career Dick has established himself as a writer of the first order and his dreams of the future have proven to be eerily prophetic and even more prescient than when he wrote them. Vintage PKD features extracts from The Man in the High Castle, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Ubik, A Scanner Darkly, VALIS, and stories including “The Days of Perky Pat,” “A Little Something for Us Tempunauts,'' and “I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon,” along with essays and letters currently unavailable in book form.Vintage Readers are a perfect introduction to some of the great modern writers, presented in attractive, affordable paperback editions.From Publishers WeeklyProlific science-fiction writer Philip K. Dick's novels and short stories have inspired films like Blade Runner and Minority Report. Excerpts from seminal novels A Scanner Darkly, Ubik, The Man in the High Castle and others, and complete stories including ''The Days of Perky Pat'' are collected with a selection of his essays and letters in this wide-ranging haute sci-fi taster's menu.Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.Review“A brilliant, idiosyncratic, formidably intelligent writer. . . . Dick illuminates. He casts light. He gives off a radiance.” – The Washington PostAbout the AuthorPhilip K. Dick was born in Chicago in 1928 and lived most of his life in California. He briefly attended the University of California, but dropped out before completing any classes. In 1952 he began writing professionally, going on to write thirty-six novels, including Martian Time-Slip , A Scanner Darkly , and Ubik , and five short-story collections. He won the 1963 Hugo Award for best novel for The Man in the High Castle and the 1975 John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel of the year for Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. Philip K. Dick died in 1982.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.Chapter One from The Man in the High Castle For a week Mr. R. Childan had been anxiously watching the mail. But the valuable shipment from the Rocky Mountain States had not arrived. As he opened up his store on Friday morning and saw only letters on the floor by the mail slot he thought, I'm going to have an angry customer. Pouring himself a cup of instant tea from the five-cent wall dispenser he got a broom and began to sweep; soon he had the front of American Artistic Handcrafts Inc. ready for the day, all spick and span with the cash register full of change, a fresh vase of marigolds, and the radio playing background music. Outdoors along the sidewalk businessmen hurried toward their offices along Montgomery Street. Far off, a cable car passed; Childan halted to watch it with pleasure. Women in their long colorful silk dresses . . . he watched them, too. Then the phone rang. He turned to answer it. ''Yes,'' a familiar voice said to his answer. Childan's heart sank. ''This is Mr. Tagomi. Did my Civil War recruiting poster arrive yet, sir? Please recall; you promised it sometime last week.'' The fussy, brisk voice, barely polite, barely keeping the code. ''Did I not give you a deposit, sir, Mr. Childan, with that stipulation? This is to be a gift, you see. I explained that. A client.'' ''Extensive inquiries,'' Childan began, ''which I've had made at my own expense, Mr. Tagomi, sir, regarding the promised parcel, which you realize originates outside of this region and is therefore-'' But Tagomi broke in, ''Then it has not arrived.'' ''No, Mr. Tagomi, sir.'' An icy pause. ''I can wait no furthermore,'' Tagomi said. ''No sir.'' Childan gazed morosely through the store window at the warm bright day and the San Francisco office buildings. ''A substitute, then. Your recommendation, Mr. Childan?'' Tagomi deliberately mispronounced the name; insult within the code that made Childan's ears burn. Place pulled, the dreadful mortification of their situation. Robert Childan's aspirations and fears and torments rose up and exposed themselves, swamped him, stopping his tongue. He stammered, his hand sticky on the phone. The air of his store smelled of marigolds; the music played on, but he felt as if he were falling into some distant sea. ''Well . . .'' he managed to mutter. ''Butter churn. Ice-cream maker circa 1900.'' His mind refused to think. Just when you forgot about it; just when you fool yourself. He was thirty-eight years old, and he could remember the prewar days, the other times. Franklin D. Roosevelt and the World's Fair; the former better world. ''Could I bring various desirable items out to your business location?'' he mumbled. An appointment was made for two o'clock. Have to shut store, he knew as he hung up the phone. No choice. Have to keep goodwill of such customers; business depends on them. Standing shakily, he became aware that someone-a couple had entered the store. Young man and girl, both handsome, well-dressed. Ideal. He calmed himself and moved professionally, easily, in their direction, smiling. They were bending to scrutinize a counter display, had picked up a lovely ashtray. Married, he guessed. Live out in City of the Winding Mists, the new exclusive apartments on Skyline overlooking Belmont. ''Hello,'' he said, and felt better. They smiled at him without any superiority, only kindness. His displays-which really were the best of their kind on the Coast-had awed them a little; he saw that and was grateful. They understood. ''Really excellent pieces, sir,'' the young man said. Childan bowed spontaneously. Their eyes, warm not only with human bond but with the shared enjoyment of the art objects he sold, their mutual tastes and satisfactions, remained fixed on him; they were thanking him for having things like these for them to see, pick up and examine, handle perhaps without even buying. Yes, he thought, they know what sort of store they are in; this is not tourist trash, not redwood plaques reading Muir Woods, Marin County, PSA, or funny signs or girly rings or postcards or views of the Bridge. The girl's eyes especially, large, dark. How easily, Childan thought, I could fall in love with a girl like this. How tragic my life, then; as if it weren't bad enough already. The stylish black hair, lacquered nails, pierced ears for the long dangling brass handmade earrings. ''Your earrings,'' he murmured. ''Purchased here, perhaps?'' ''No,'' she said. ''At home.'' Childan nodded. No contemporary American art; only the past could be represented here, in a store such as his. ''You are here for long?'' he asked. ''To our San Francisco?'' ''I'm stationed here indefinitely,'' the man said. ''With Standard of Living for Unfortunate Areas Planning Commission of Inquiry.'' Pride showed on his face. Not the military. Not one of the gum-chewing boorish draftees with their greedy peasant faces, wandering up Market Street, gaping at the bawdy shows, the sex movies, the shooting galleries, the cheap nightclubs with photos of middle-aged blondes holding their nipples between their wrinkled fingers and leering . . . the honkytonk jazz slums that made up most of the flat part of San Francisco, rickety tin and board shacks that had sprung up from the ruins even before the last bomb fell. No-this man was of the elite. Cultured, educated, even more so than Mr. Tagomi, who was after all a high official with the ranking Trade Mission on the Pacific Coast. Tagomi was an old man. His attitudes had formed in the War Cabinet days. ''Had you wished American traditional ethnic art objects as a gift?'' Childan asked. ''Or to decorate perhaps a new apartment for your stay here?'' If the latter . . . his heart picked up. ''An accurate guess,'' the girl said. ''We are starting to decorate. A bit undecided. Do you think you could inform us?'' Book details: published 2006. Order now on BookShops.in with fast, reliable delivery across India.