The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

On the screen bloomed now lovely, tranquil features, the pale skin and dark, intelligent eyes, the wise and yet pert face of the woman who had come to monopolize their attention, on whom an entire nation, almost an entire planet, dwelt obsessively.

To be realistic would be to give up, to die. Illusion, of an infantile nature, was essential for the tiny firm’s survival, or at least so it seemed to him and Maury. In any case both of them had adopted this attitude. Their simulacra—the adult ones—disapproved of this; their cold, logical appraisal of reality stood in sharp contrast, and Chic always felt a little naked, a little embarrassed, before the simulacra; he knew he should set a better example for them.

“Good grief—don’t you understand, Janet? At this point I’m thoroughly delusional. I’m as mentally ill as it’s humanly possible to be! It’s incredible that I can communicate with you at all. It’s a credit to my ego-strength that I’m not at this point totally autistic. Anyone else in my situation would be.” He felt momentary, justified pride. “It’s an interesting situation that I’m facing, this phobic body odor. Obviously, it’s a reaction-formation to a more serious disorder, one which would disintegrate my comprehension of the Umwelt, Mitwelt and Eigenwelt. What I’ve managed to do is—”

“My ability to adjust is just too precarious. This is turning into a nightmare; Luke controls the papoola and maybe Nicole is old—what’s the point of our going on? Can’t we go back to just seeing her on the TV screen? That’s good enough for me, now. I want that, the image. Okay?”

“Pretty soon if this keeps up I’m going to have to envelop the entire universe and everything in it, and the only thing that’ll be outside me will be my internal organs—and then most likely I’ll die!”