Ubik, by Philip K. Dick

  I tried reading some Philip K. Dick in my early years and didn't like it. But not I am older and wiser, ready to process the brilliant ideas in PKD's books. No longer will I feel that a paranoid stoner on a bad trip in the '60s is writing random stories about how reality is not real and consciousness creates new ones again and again and again, just to spite me personally. That's just the hubris and ecocentrism of youth. Right? Right?!

  No. Ubik took me forever to finish because I didn't like it. The writing was good, but inconsistent, moving from philosophical to direct, just like a stoner would when writing about unravelling reality. The characters were there just to push the plot, however flimsy, forward, while the scathing satire of the capitalist system was just caricaturesque and lacking any depth.

  Worst, this is one of those story types that I personally despise. You will understand when you get to the end, if you get to the end, what I mean, because I don't want to spoil the book. It was short and still I dragged myself to finish it. I am sure it was brilliant in 1969, but 55 years later it's just quirky. 

  To be fair, this is not supposed to be one of this best books, so maybe there are some that I will just love if I try hard enough. But I prefer other authors.