just finished reading one of Philip K. Dick’s rare non-sci-fi novels, Confessions of a Crap Artist.
a domestic drama of a crackpot family and their friends in 50’s Marin, told by a quartet of narrators (a device more often used by the various contemporary overrated New Yorker fiction writers, but here used much more deftly and darkly, and presciently 50 years earlier), PKD’s sense of narrative voice is worthy of the best of Raymond Carver.
a surprisingly moving book.
PKD is the best.
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