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What's his best short story?
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>>25059914
The one where he was a worthless crackhead who churned out scifi sloppa at a breakneck pact to feed his addictions and then died at a young age due to being a lifelong junkie. Oh wait that was just his life.
Faith of our Fathers I guess.
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>>25059914
The Hanging Stranger
https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41562
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>>25059914
the one with the really handsome guy made out of gold who is so autistic he cannot communicate but because of his autism can see every single outcome that he could do like a kind of precognition so he is effectively invincible and most of his plans for escaping are being alone in a room with random women who cannot control their lust and want to have sex with him because he is so handsome. PKD really red pills the reader on how superficial women are with that story.
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>>25059914
>What's his best short story?
The third kind.
>>25060277
That's >>>/tg/ not PKD
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>>25059914
I read one story where some tinkerer with a horse-cart is transported to the future and is able to fix complicated computer devices with his 19th century tools.
It was terrible. Does he not get good until he went full on degenerate and started banging runaway dope fiend girls and fried his brains with amphetamines and meth?
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>>25063104
he wrote one small story every 4-5 days to keep the lights on (at 50 usd per story, back in the 50s)
so he didn't really get the time to flesh them out
My favorite short story of his was the one about a tribe of humans far after into the future in a world that has been devastated by nuclear war. They send a member of the community to a god in a temple to ask him the most difficult questions they could think about (they do so once a year). The guy arrives in the temple and ask his questions, gets answers and has to sacrifice himself to "pay" for the answer, jumping in a vat of acid that converts his body into energy for the ancient war computer.
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>>25061898
It's from The Infinites, you philisitine board-hopper newfag.
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>>25059990
The thought, theoretical as it was, chilled him as he involuntarily, without the possibility of evasion, listened to the curious mixture of nonsense and—meaning. Of the highest order.
“. . . I think, though, I see why Zoobko lards, butters, marginates and otherwise fattens up the word ‘spore’ into the rather sinister male spore slogan. Their house brochure in Move-E 3-D kul-R is directed (heh-heh) at women consumers, to fumble lewdly a metaphor, ahem, no offense meant (gak). More fully articulated, it would read, ‘The male spore, my dears, is as we well know tireless in its half-crazed struggle—against all sanity and moral restraint— to reach the female egg. That’s the way men are. Right? We all realize it. Give a male (sic) spore half an inch and he’ll take seventy-two-and-a-sixth miles. BE PREPARED! ALWAYS READY! A HUGE, SLIMY, SLANT-EYED YELLOW-SKINNED MALE SPORE MAY BE WATCHING YOU THIS VERY MINUTE! And, considering his almost demonic ability to wiggle for miles upon miles, you may at this moment be in dire, severe danger! To quote Dry-den: ‘The trumpet’s loud clamor doth call us to arms,’ etc. (And don’t forget, ladies, the handsome prize awarded yearly by Zoobko Products, Incorporated for the greatest number of dead male (sic) spores mailed (pun) to our Callisto factory in an old Irish linen pillow case, attesting to (one) your tenacity in balking the evil damned things and (two) the fact that you’re buying our lather-like goo in one-hundred-pound squirt cans. Also remember: if you are unable to adequately prepare yourself with a generous, expensive portion of Zoobko patented goo in the proper place, ahem, in advance of marital lawful pawing, then merely squirt the spray can with nozzle directed directly into the grimacing fungiform’s ugly face as it hovers six feet high in the air above you. Best range—”
“Best range,” Gregory Gloch said aloud, against the din of the obsessive noise in his ears, “approximately two inches.”
“—‘two inches,’ ” the tinny, mechanical racket reeled off, accompanying him, “ ‘from his eyes. Zoobko’s patented goo is not only—’ ”
“—‘a top-drawer killer of male spores,’ ” Gloch murmured, “ ‘but it also blasts the tear-ducts out of existence. Too bad, fella.’ ” End brochure, he thought. End monolog. End sex. End of Zoobko, or zoob of Endko. Is this an ad or a contemplation of a squandered life? Check one. I know this discourse, he thought. By heart. Why? How? It’s as if, he thought, I said it; as if it’s happening inside my brain—not coming to me from the outside. What does this mean? I have to know."
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