Philip K. Dick: Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said

There's a reason why Philip K. Dick is in my trinity of science fiction, alongside Vonnegut and Asimov.  While he can match the other two for creativity and vision, the latter are simply better writers--more consistent, more unified, and more erudite in every way.  But unlike Vonnegut and Asimov, the power of Dick (phrasing!) is that somehow he reaches beyond the page and reads you back.  Every time I read something by him, I find it reflected in my own life, and his books answer the questions that you didn't even think to speak aloud. 

This book, like all of Dick's, is flawed.  My reaction the first time I read it holds true six years later: that it could have done with a whole lot less explaining.  But this second reading finds me in a less analytical mood.  I forgive the author for caving to what were no doubt the demands of his publisher and tying things up at the end in a way that doesn't seem to match the rest of the book.  I forgive him because the other 90% is a work of breathing, staring philosophy, and it would not surprise me at all if it grew a pair of legs and walked off my desk of its own accord.