What an absolutely brilliant, incongruent piece. In the first part of his essay PKD breaks down all the myriad ways we ourselves as well as third parties create fictional narratives, only to jump into one of those narratives in the second part, balls deep.
PKD was a mad genius, with the balance tilting in both directions frequently. The central questions of this piece are: "what is real?" and "what does it mean to be an authentic being?", and the piece seems to fold itself & encompass itself like a piece of recursive code.
Was PKD describing the reality as he understood it, giving an authentic description of the world through the lenses of his schizophernic mind, or was he illustrating the point he made in the first part of this piece? I know too little about him to make up my mind, and I wonder if he himself could. Thank you for posting this brillianty insane piece