 We Can Build You (1972)
As with many Philip K. Dick novels, and indeed the author's life itself, We Can Build You begins with great promise, presents intriguing and intrepid ideas along the way, and winds up spinning off into a completely unexpected direction. What seems like it's going to be a good ol' sci-fi treatise on cloning ends up as an experiment in mentally-ill interior narration—and it's none the worse for the twist. The book concerns Louis Rosen, a salesman of high-end pianos and organs, whose business takes a strange turn when his partner introduces a new product: a perfect simulacrum of Civil War-era politico Edward M. Stanton. This development leads Louis and his company into dealings with a Bill Gates-ish techie entrepreneur who wants to utilize the technology to flesh out his hairbrained scheme to populate the moon. Problem is, the simulacra's designer, a schizophrenic girl named Pris (nubile daughter of Louis's business partner), envisions the potential re-enactment of the Civil War itself with real live reconstructions of all involved participants. She complicates matters by introducing a simulacrum of Abraham Lincoln. Much wry humor is wrung from the anachronism of Lincoln and Stanton existing in modern times, thinking and talking like they know how, and adjusting to the new era awkwardly. The Lincoln is particularly funny, particularly a scene wherein Louis takes him to see a blues singer of note, and Lincoln remarks, "That Negro's got music in his bones." Louis falls for Pris, who invites and refutes his advances willy-nilly, and as the business dealings become complicated, so does their relationship. When she leaves him for the entrepreneur, Louis gradually slips into schizophrenia himself. Here, the entire setup becomes mere stage dressing for what is a pretty well-done exploration of mental health treatment, done in the first person, so that reality and fantasy blur even more than with the initial story. All the previous issues raised (concerning the ethics of cloning; intellectual and physical ownership of humankind, the thin line between genius and madness) end up serving a much more personal and intimate theme as Louis tries to rebuild his own frayed psyche. It's a good read, a quick one, like most other Dick books. (Hm, that sounded different from how I intended.) I couldn't help but think that the author cranked through it as he did so many other books, fueled by speedy narcotics, losing focus and ultimately settling on something more interesting … as with any self-respecting coked conversation. And I wondered how much better it might have been had Dick been able to just stick to the subject … whichever subject, it didn't matter which. But that's not Philp K. Dick. His books are cool, though rarely great. Always worthwhile, but ultimately greatly underachieving their potential. Then again, maybe I shouldn't talk; here I am wasting my Great American Novel time on internet book reviews … with no cocaine around to blame, either.
Review by Domingo Doyle |