An interesting novel about the ways in which ideology colors one's grasp of reality. Given that the book was published in 1957, Dick's brand of progressivism comes of as more than a little dated -- which isn't a bad thing insofar as it adds another layer to the dominant theme of the novel; by writing a book that's (inescapably) colored by the ideology of his own time, Dick unconsciously underscores his main point: we're all creatures of our own beliefs. Or, to borrow a phrase from Jacques Derrida, there's nothing outside of text -- especially when the text in question is the story each of us invents to make sense of the world around us.