The Believer magazine, a subsidiary of McSweeney’s, has always been a font of amazing authors, artists, film-makers and musicians that pass under the radar. The magazine’s subtitle could be “A magazine for over-educated, over-articulate nerds.” Which might seem insulting if it didn’t describe so many of my friends and coworkers (and, of course, myself). Last month’s issue gave a list of recommended books, one of which included “The Cardboard Universe, A Guide To The World Of Phoebus K. Dank” by Christopher Miller. Being a huge fan of the life and work of Philip K. Dick, the obvious target of this parody, I was intrigued.

First, a few words about Philip K. Dick, who shall be henceforth referred to as PKD (to keep scatological references to a minimum). PKD started out as a pulp-science-fiction writer in the '50s, who wrote crazy, amphetamine-fueled stories, where the ideas were often grander then the plots he cranked out (pun intended). During the '60s PKD started honing his craft and the novels he created included two major facets. First, he started investigating the theme that reality is not what it seems to be. In “Time Out Of Joint” a character starts seeing items in his world, like a lemonade stand, being replaced by a note with the words “lemonade stand” written on it, as his world slowly dissolves. The main character in “Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said”, a famous singer and TV personality, wakes up in a strange hotel and goes on to discover that all traces of his life has been erased from the world and none of his friends or fans remember who he is. Second, he included a number of affecting personal anecdotes, probably taken from real life, that added a much needed sense of gravity to his increasingly surreal stories.

PKD is one of the rare science fiction writers whose work becomes more relevant every day. An increasing number of movies and TV shows (Lost, The Matrix, The Truman Show and more) have used PKD’s writings as a great foundation for their ideas and stories focusing on the shifting nature of “reality”. What’s more interesting and relevant to “The Cardboard Universe” (I swear, I’m getting to that), is that PKD had a number of personal experiences that confused the nature of HIS reality. Briefly, PKD, after a dose of sodium pentothal for a toothache, was hit by a mysterious pink light that somehow made him privy to hidden information, most notably, the fact that his newborn son had some sort of hernia that needed taking care of right away. After the vision, PKD told his wife that they must take their son to the hospital right away, which they did. He then gave the doctor an exact diagnosis (informed by the pink light), which turned out to be EXACTLY correct, thus saving his son’s life. All of this is independently verified by his wife and doctor.

After that experience, PKD’s work took a stranger turn. Since he found himself in situations reminiscent of his weirdest novels, he decided to take the extra step, and make himself an actual character in his novels. “Valis” and “Radio Free Albemuth” both have characters named Philip K. Dick, who have strange beams of light beamed at them, and spend the majority of the time theorizing with their close friends (closely based on PKD's actual friends) about the source of their strange new powers (theories include alien intervention, Russian spy technology, channeling ancient beings, and good, old-fashioned psychotic breakdown). He toyed with these themes until his untimely death a few years later.

Here’s where “The Cardboard Universe…” comes in. Christopher Miller’s book is a fake encyclopedia filled with descriptions and criticisms of his imaginary author, Phoebus K. Dank’s, short stories and novels. The listings are arranged alphabetically and are each written by one of two authors. Both are old friends of the author, but one is a sycophantic fan and self appointed “Dank Scholar” and the other an insulting aesthete, who has nothing but contempt for all things Dank. The listings for each author are in different fonts, so it’s easy to tell who is writing what. As explained, each contributor is allowed his own opinion on a particular story or novel, but they are allowed to rebut each other in the form of footnotes (and sometime dueling footnotes).

Philip K. Dick

Dank’s life and writing are a purposefully poor imitation and parody of PKD’s, set in the modern times and stripped of all talent, intelligence, and creativity. As you read through the increasingly ludicrous plot descriptions, both authors can’t resist including personal anecdotes of their biographical connections to the author. The tangents tend to overrun/override the plot descriptions. Eventually the reader discovers that Phoebus K. Dank was murdered and one of the two co-authors accuses the other one of the murder. The faux encyclopedia progresses and the who-dunnit clues build. Hints start slipping out that things aren’t as they seem.

One of my favorite literary conventions is the unreliable narrator. I love deciphering a first person narrative, filled with Freudian slips and self deceptions, that leads to a conclusion that the character him/herself often doesn’t even know, but the reader does. Nabakov uses this technique well and often, as does Ford Maddox Ford in his novel “Good Soldier”. For some reason, this has always seemed an apt metaphor for the way the majority of people live their lives. Or maybe it’s just me. PKD flips this device on its his head, using the unreliable reality technique.

“A Scanner Darkly”, one of PKD’s best books (and movies) about a futuristic narcotics officer, provides the most telling example of both unreliable narrator/reality and is an especially good lense to view Miller’s book. The main character, Agent Fred, the luckless narcotics officer, is trying to pin down drugged out Bob Arctor as a big time dealer. To provide anonymity for the narc, whenever he is at the police headquarters using extremely sophisticated surveillance equipment, Fred uses a scramble suit that disguises his body, face, and voice, even from himself. This prevents any incrimination for his alter ego who is involved in the case. The problem is that Agent Fred’s alter ego IS Bob Arctor. And Bob Arctor’s heavy drug use (all part of his disguise) is starting to cause a schism in his brain, slowly separating the the two personalities. One ingenious paragraph starts out as Agent Fred’s first person perspective, thinking about Bob’s situation. By the time you get to the end of the paragraph, it’s still first person, but from Bob’s perspective. Upon rereading, it’s extremely hard to tell where the switch happens. Imagine how Bob/Fred feels.

“The Cardboard Universe…” is a well crafted house of cards. The encyclopedia entries allow the book to move along at a nice, bite-sized pace. They are amusing themselves (and are occasionally overly-clever), and dole out hints in drips and drabs. Miller slowly builds up the details, like any good mystery author, and nestles within all of the silly plot recaps and authorial joustings the exacting details of a psychological breakdown and murder. The conclusion even gives "Fight Club" a run for it's money. Miller’s book is a loving tribute to Philip K. Dick--with a few well deserved tweeks thrown in for good measure. You don’t need to know anything about PKD to enjoy “The Cardboard Universe….”, but it is filled with inside jokes about his life and work that add to the overall enjoyment of the book. And if you haven’t read any of PKD’s books, the ones listed in this article are great places to start.