An accident has occurred. Joe Chip and his colleagues—all but one of them—have narrowly escaped an explosion at a moon base. Or is it the other way round? Did Joe and the others die, and did the one fatality, Glen Runciter, actually survive? If Glen is dead and Joe alive, why does Joe keep getting weird messages from Glen? Is Joe’s experience of his post-accident life just a hallucination, played out as his flash-frozen body lies in suspended animation? Joe’s reality begins to fall apart, and a mysterious, vaguely mystical substance called Ubik—available in a handy spray can—appears to be the only thing that can stabilize it. From the stuff of space opera, Dick spins a deeply unsettling existential horror story, a nightmare you’ll never be sure you’ve woken up from.
Murdoch, a philosophy don at Oxford, was that rarity, a philosophical novelist who could create real characters, not premises with names attached. Born in Ireland, she revered Wittgenstein, who fostered her contempt for abstractions. (Her title refers to the “net” he believed language cast over truth.) She also wrote the first English-language elucidation of Sartre, whose existentialism was behind her sharp appreciation of the human potential for leaps into the void. But it was as a novelist that she will be remembered. Until she began sinking into Alzheimer’s in the mid-1990′s, she maintained a ferocious output. This was the first of her 26 novels, about a circle of bewildered and lovesick friends and acquaintances in London, with excursions into aesthetics and left-wing politics. Right out of the gate she displayed all her sinuous gifts — her questing mind, her comic skepticism, her wildly entangled plots.
Sue me, but I like Betty Draper/Francis as a character. The problem is that Mad Men doesn’t. Betty’s not the worst character on the show, but she’s probably the worst-served.