The Man in the High Castle

by Philip K. Dick

It was a good thing to see the Nazi rockets go by overhead and not stop, not take any interest of any sort in Canon City, Colorado. Nor in Utah or Wyoming or the eastern part of Nevada, none of the open empty desert states or pasture states. We have no value, she said to herself. We can live out our tiny lives. If we want to. If it matters to us.

I know you East Americans, she thought. You like the big time. Dreaming your big schemes.

I’ve gone a long way, Frink said to himself. In the last ten minutes. But he did not feel apprehensive; he felt, now, excitement. It sure happened fast, he thought as he walked over to his bench and began collecting his tools. I guess that’s how those kinds of things happen.

There has been, since I got here this evening, a sort of . . . gnomish quality about everything. A smaller-than-life quality, with a dash of the droll.

“One cannot judge by book being best seller,” he said. “We all know that. Many best sellers are terrible trash. This, however—” He faltered. Betty said, “Most true. Average taste really deplorable.” “As in music,” Paul said. “No interest in authentic American folk jazz, as example.

It is therapeutic to meet these people who have intimidated you. And to discover what they are really like. Then the intimidation goes.