The science-fiction writer Philip K. Dick was a madman, an agoraphobic amphetamine addict periodically hospitalized for mental problems and profoundly psychotic for the last eight years before his death in 1982 at the age of 53. He was a clumsy prose stylist, whose disorganized, maniacal, and slipshod work was unsuitable for a generation of writers like John Updike and J. D. Salinger — masters of the meticulous and the careful. While they thrived under the patronage of the New Yorker’s fastidious editor William Shawn, Dick made a hardscrabble living by hacking out pulp as fast as he could type. Between 1952 and 1960 alone, Dick published 89 stories in magazines like Astounding, Worlds of If, Galaxy, and Thrilling Wonder Stories, as well as a half-dozen novels. He wrote 40 books in all, most of them out of print at the time of his death.

Philip K. Dick was also brilliant, and in the 15 years since his passing, he has proved a more influential writer than his meticulous and careful contemporaries ever were. Ask a young would-be artist or a garage-band guitarist what he thinks of Updike and the rest of the old New Yorker crowd, and you’re likely to get a blank stare. Ask about Philip K. Dick and be prepared for a long conversation.