Am now quite certain that I've never read Philip K Dick's Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said before, and even more certain that I'm on a roll reading it now. It's utterly disorienting in the best possible way. I'm guessing, with a quarter of the novel to go, that the writer is playing tricks with time in relation to his protagonist's confounding dilemma of no longer existing except in brief, uncanny glimpses of his former famous self. But in a way I don't care as to what might be actually taking place - it's the sublimely crazy reality of impossible conversations with generally pretty crazy people that makes it all so gripping.
I've also realised, after scanning the list of Dick's works, dated by year of publication, that the publishers handily provide that I definitely haven't read anything after 1981's Valis. Which means I've got one heck of a fictive good time ahead of me once I get my hands and eyes on the later novels.
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