Stuck In A Genre You Can't Get Out Of

I suspect that my relationship with the books of Philip K Dick is unusual in that I have only read his non-science fiction work.  Actually, that is not strictly true, I have read The Man In The High Castle but I think that novel's classification as SF is tenuous to say the least.  Come to think of it, I've read The Valis Trilogy as well, but even that doesn't really strike me as particularly sci-fi in retrospect. 

So perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was introduced to Philip K Dick through his traditional fiction and have yet to really explore his proper science fiction.

PKD is revered as one of the the finest science fiction writers ever.  Many of his books are considered to be classics of the genre.  His stories have inspired numerous movies.  Most famously, Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep? (such a great title) became Bladerunner.  Total Recall, Paycheck, Minority Report and A Scanner Darkly have all made the transition to the big screen.  These may have been of varying quality but all of them had at their core a great story concept.  All of them have a central theme or a final twist that has the potential to fuck with your brain.  A PKD trademark.

As I've said, I came to his work from a completely different angle.  As a young man I was very keen on 1950s American design and architecture.  Still am, actually.  So when I saw this book in the Southend branch of Waterstones (a long-dead concession located on the top floor of Keddies department store, just along from bedding and haberdashery as I recall) I knew I had to have it.  Always judging a book by its cover back then.  At the time I was being paid £90 a week in cash out of the till so, after rent, food, travel and the like, £4.50 on a book was a bit of luxury spending.  £4.50 RRP?  Blimey.  This would have been late 80s.  No discounting back then of course due to price fixing the Net Book Agreement.  Interesting word that, 'agreement'.  Don't recall customers being asked if they agreed.  Anyway, it is long gone now.

Sorry, where was I?  Hypnotised by a retro cover I bought my first PKD.  I had no idea at the time that it was part of a series of reissues of his non-SF novels, some of which were appearing in print for the first time.  Neither did I have any inkling that I was about to read a book that would become one of my favourites, taking up residency in my all-time Top 10.  It hasn't left yet.

Jack Isidore is an eccentric loner.  When he loses his job and proves himself pretty much incapable of looking after himself he is taken in by his sister, joining her husband and children in the family home.  His arrival proves to be the catalyst for a colossal marriage breakdown as PKD dissects 50s suburban life with phenomenal, unflinching skill.  In my opinion it should be a modern classic but, sadly, it is a largely unread work from an author better known for writing in another genre.

The title Confessions Of A Crap Artist may put off a British reader.  It harks back to the dodgy sex comedy movies of the 70s and the word 'crap' immediately makes us think of 'shit'.  In fact 'crap artist' doesn't really mean a great deal to a British audience, not being a phrase that has ever been in use.  I am not sure it is all that common in the States actually, but perhaps someone can enlighten me there.

Title aside, the content is remarkable.  I read this book for the first time in 1989, a full fifteen years before I would become aware of, or read any Richard Yates.  When I read Revolutionary Road, considered the masterpiece of Yates' work, I was repeatedly reminded of Crap Artist.  PKD is just as good at getting to the ugly, diseased heart of a relationship.  He says more in a glance, or a gesture, or an aside, than most authors can manage in a chapter.

I am convinced that anyone who has read and enjoyed the novels of Richard Yates would love Confessions Of A Crap Artist.  I consider it to be PKD's finest non-SF book (although I clearly have lots more of his stuff to read) and would be delighted if just a handful of Yates fans tried this wonderful novel.  His other traditional novels are also worth checking out.  I particularly enjoyed The Broken Bubble, about a classical music DJ and his wife who become embroiled in the lives of another couple, and Puttering About In A Small Land, more extra-marital shenanigans and a TV repair shop.

I think I am right in saying that all of PKD's non-SF novels were written in the 50s.  He had such bad luck in getting them published, already labeled as a promising sci-fi writer, that he pretty much gave up writing in that area and remained in SF from that point on.

Cinema's gain was literature's loss.

I went on a bit there, didn't I?  Sorry about that.  I was prompted to write something about PKD having watched A Scanner Darkly last week but have run out of room to say anything about the movie.  I will do that another time.

Comments

[John Lenahan]

As an American I would assume that Crap Artiest is a nice way of saying Bullshit Artist. A very common term of my youth. Make sense?

JL

[Howard Read]

Hi Scott. Just had an email bounce back from your normal address. Do you have a different one?

All good here. Great news about the book. Please drop us a line as a phone call will bankrupt everyone.

Howard

[chris simms]

Also just had an earlier email bounce back. Any other way to get through to you???
Chris Simms

[John Self]

Calling Yates fans? Oh all right then. Sold.

[Jon Evans]

There is a fine French film adaptation of Confessions of a Crap Artist, called Barjo: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0104003/

[Lee]

I am also a great fan of Yates, who writes nothing at all like PKD. Lots of writers deal in similar themes.

[Scott Pack]

But Lee, have you read any of PKD's books set in the 1950s? It is almost impossible not to see the similarities with Yates. The broken marriages, unhappy lives, damaged suburbia. Very similar indeed.