~~ Ebook Free A Scanner Darkly [Graphic Novel], by Philip K. Dick

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A Scanner Darkly [Graphic Novel], by Philip K. Dick

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A haunting graphic version of one of Philip K. Dick’s most popular and best-selling novels.

Bob Arctor is a dealer of the lethally addictive drug Substance D, which he also takes in massive quantities. Fred is the police agent assigned to tail and eventually bust him. What Fred doesn’t know is that Substance D gradually splits the user’s brain into two distinct, combative entities, and that he is, in fact, in frantic pursuit of himself.

A Scanner Darkly is caustically funny and razor sharp in its depiction of drug-induced paranoia and madness; it’s an industrial-strength stress test of identity as unnerving as it is riveting. The novel is captured in this brilliant graphic vision, composed entirely of stills from the movie.

Writer/Director Richard Linklater shot a live-action film, starring Keanu Reeves, Robert Downey Jr., Woody Harrelson, and Winona Ryder, and then animated over the underlying images. The result is an eerily lifelike, richly detailed animation that translates beautifully to the page.

• Sales Rank: #1304692 in Books
• Published on: 2006-07-04
• Released on: 2006-07-04
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 6.20" h x 1.00" w x 8.90" l,
• Binding: Hardcover
• 200 pages

From Publishers Weekly
Described as being "like a graphic novel come to life," the 2006 film version of Dick's classic 1977 novel A Scanner Darkly is a full-length animated feature directed by Richard Linklater using rotoscope visual technique. In rotoscoping, filmed actors are digitally transformed into drawings. The graphic novel version of the film consists mostly of direct screen grabs from the animated version. Harvey Pekar has added some narration that has been adapted from the novel. The books and film tell the story of a futuristic Southern California in which drugs are rampant and identity mutable. Keanu Reeves plays an undercover cop who has to spy on and understand the druggy circles around him. The film looks intriguing, but the graphic novel version falls asleep instead of coming to life. Simply arranging film stills on a page to resemble comic book panels does not a narrative make. And while the dialogue seems mostly drawn from the film, the narration, intended to bridge the gap between watching action unfold and reading it, is incongruous and sometimes nonsensical in this setting. This bizarre hybrid is no substitute for Dick's original and will serve best as a reminder of the film. (Feb.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

About the Author
Philip K. Dick’s published works include forty novels and more than one hundred short stories. Many films have been made from his work, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, Minority Report, and A Scanner Darkly. 

The Hugo–Award–winning author died in 1982 at the age of fifty–three.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Once a guy stood all day shaking bugs from his hair. The doctor told him there were no bugs in his hair. After he had taken a shower for eight hours, standing under hot water hour after hour suffering the pain of the bugs, he got out and dried himself, and he still had bugs in his hair; in fact, he had bugs all over him. A month later he had bugs in his lungs.

Having nothing else to do or think about, he began to work out theoretically the life cycle of the bugs, and, with the aid of the Britannica, try to determine specifically which bugs they were. They now filled his house. He read about many different kinds and finally noticed bugs outdoors, so he concluded they were aphids. After that decision came to his mind it never changed, no matter what other people told him ... like "Aphids don't bite people."

They said that to him because the endless biting of the bugs kept him in torment. At the 7-11 grocery store, part of a chain spread out over most of California, he bought spray cans of Raid and Black Flag and Yard Guard. First he sprayed the house, then himself. The Yard Guard seemed to work the best.

As to the theoretical side, he perceived three stages in the cycle of the bugs. First, they were carried to him to contaminate him by what he called Carrier-people, which were people who didn't understand their role in distributing the bugs. During that stage the bugs had no jaws or mandibles (he learned that word during his weeks of scholarly research, an unusually bookish occupation for a guy who worked at the Handy Brake and Tire place relining people's brake drums). The Carrier-people therefore felt nothing. He used to sit in the far corner of his living room watching different Carrier-people enter--most of them people he'd known for a while, but some new to him--covered with the aphids in this particular nonbiting stage. He'd sort of smile to himself, because he knew that the person was being used by the bugs and wasn't hip to it.

"What are you grinning about, Jerry?" they'd say.

He'd just smile.

In the next stage the bugs grew wings or something, but they really weren't precisely wings; anyhow, they were appendages of a functional sort permitting them to swarm, which was how they migrated and spread--especially to him. At that point the air was full of them; it made his living room, his whole house, cloudy. During this stage he tried not to inhale them.

Most of all he felt sorry for his dog, because he could see the bugs landing on and settling all over him, and probably getting into the dog's lungs, as they were in his own. Probably--at least so his empathic ability told him--the dog was suffering as much as he was. Should he give the dog away for the dog's own comfort? No, he decided: the dog was now, inadvertently, infected, and would carry the bugs with him everywhere.

Sometimes he stood in the shower with the dog, trying to wash the dog clean too. He had no more success with him than he did with himself. It hurt to feel the dog suffer; he never stopped trying to help him. In some respect this was the worst part, the suffering of the animal, who could not complain.

"What the fuck are you doing there all day in the shower with the goddamn dog?" his buddy Charles Freck asked one time, coming in during this.

Jerry said, "I got to get the aphids off him." He brought Max, the dog, out of the shower and began drying him. Charles Freck watched, mystified, as Jerry rubbed baby oil and talc into the dog's fur. All over the house, cans of insect spray, bottles of talc, and baby oil and skin conditioners were piled and tossed, most of them empty; he used many cans a day now.

"I don't see any aphids," Charles said. "What's an aphid?"

"It eventually kills you," Jerry said. "That's what an aphid is. They're in my hair and my skin and my lungs, and the goddamn pain is unbearable--I'm going to have to go to the hospital."

"How come I can't see them?"

Jerry put down the dog, which was wrapped in a towel, and knelt over the shag rug. "I'll show you one," he said. The rug was covered with aphids; they hopped up everywhere, up and down, some higher than others. He searched for an especially large one, because of the difficulty people had seeing them. "Bring me a bottle or jar," he said, "from under the sink. We'll cap it or put a lid on it and then I can take it with me when I go to the doctor and he can analyze it."

Charles Freck brought him an empty mayonnaise jar. Jerry went on searching, and at last came across an aphid leaping up at least four feet in the air. The aphid was over an inch long. He caught it, carried it to the jar, carefully dropped it in, and screwed on the lid. Then he held it up triumphantly. "See?" he said.

"Yeahhhhh," Charles Freck said, his eyes wide as he scrutinized the contents of the jar. "What a big one! Wow!"

"Help me find more for the doctor to see," Jerry said, again squatting down on the rug, the jar beside him.

"Sure," Charles Freck said, and did so.

Within half an hour they had three jars full of the bugs. Charles, although new at it, found some of the largest.

It was midday, in June of 1994. In California, in a tract area of cheap but durable plastic houses, long ago vacated by the straights. Jerry had at an earlier date sprayed metal paint over all the windows, though, to keep out the light; the illumination for the room came from a pole lamp into which he had screwed nothing but spot lamps, which shone day and night, so as to abolish time for him and his friends. He liked that; he liked to get rid of time. By doing that he could concentrate on important things without interruption. Like this: two men kneeling down on the shag rug, finding bug after bug and putting them into jar after jar.

"What do we get for these," Charles Freck said, later on in the day. "I mean, does the doctor pay a bounty or something? A prize? Any bread?"

"I get to help perfect a cure for them this way," Jerry said. The pain, constant as it was, had become unbearable; he had never gotten used to it, and he knew he never would. The urge, the longing, to take another shower was overwhelming him. "Hey, man," he gasped, straightening up, "you go on putting them in the jars while I take a leak and like that." He started toward the bathroom.

"Okay," Charles said, his long legs wobbling as he swung toward a jar, both hands cupped. An ex-veteran, he still had good muscular control, though; he made it to the jar. But then he said suddenly, "Jerry, hey--those bugs sort of scare me. I don't like it here by myself." He stood up.

"Chickenshit bastard," Jerry said, panting with pain as he halted momentarily at the bathroom.

"Couldn't you--"

"I got to take a leak!" He slammed the door and spun the knobs of the shower. Water poured down.

"I'm afraid out here." Charles Freck's voice came dimly, even though he was evidently yelling loud.

"Then go fuck yourself!" Jerry yelled back, and stepped into the shower. What fucking good are friends? he asked himself bitterly. No good, no good! No fucking good!

"Do these fuckers sting?" Charles yelled, right at the door.

"Yeah, they sting," Jerry said as he rubbed shampoo into his hair.

"That's what I thought." A pause. "Can I wash my hands and get them off and wait for you?"

Chickenshit, Jerry thought with bitter fury. He said nothing; he merely kept on washing. The bastard wasn't worth answering ... He paid no attention to Charles Freck, only to himself. To his own vital, demanding, terrible, urgent needs. Everything else would have to wait. There was no time, no time; these things could not be postponed. Everything else was secondary. Except the dog; he wondered about Max, the dog.

Charles Freck phoned up somebody who he hoped was holding, "Can you lay about ten deaths on me?"

"Christ, I'm entirely out--I'm looking to score myself. Let me know when you find some, I could use some."

"What's wrong with the supply?"

"Some busts, I guess."

Charles Freck hung up and then ran a fantasy number in his head as he slumped dismally back from the pay phone booth--you never used your home phone for a buy call--to his parked Chevy. In his fantasy number he was driving past the Thrifty Drugstore and they had a huge window display; bottles of slow death, cans of slow death, jars and bathtubs and vats and bowls of slow death, millions of caps and tabs and hits of slow death, slow death mixed with speed and junk and barbiturates and psychedelics, everything--and a giant sign: YOUR CREDIT IS GOOD HERE. Not to mention: LOW LOW PRICES, LOWEST IN TOWN.

But in actuality the Thrifty usually had a display of nothing: combs, bottles of mineral oil, spray cans of deodorant, always crap like that. But I bet the pharmacy in the back has slow death under lock and key in an unstepped-on, pure, unadulterated, uncut form, he thought as he drove from the parking lot onto Harbor Boulevard, into the afternoon traffic. About a fifty-pound bag.

He wondered when and how they unloaded the fifty-pound bag of Substance D at the Thrifty Pharmacy every morning, from wherever it came from--God knew, maybe from Switzerland or maybe from another planet where some wise race lived. They'd deliver probably real early, and with armed guards--the Man standing there with Laser rifles looking mean, the way the Man always did. Anybody rip off my slow death, he thought through the Man's head, I'll snuff them.

Probably Substance D is an ingredient in every legal medication that's worth anything, he thought. A little pinch here and there according to the secret exclusive formula at the issuing house in Germany or Switzerland that invented i...

Most helpful customer reviews

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
A Book of Stills from the Animated Movie
By John Matlock
Phillip K. Dick was one of the classic science fiction writers. His 44 novels and numerous short shories have been made into at least seven films. This film, pioneers a new production technique where the movie was shot using live actors and then converted to animation using an advanced technique called interpolated rotoscoping.

The story, in company with the title, is pretty dark. The leading character, Bob Arctor is a drug dealer, going progressively insane from the new drug he is taking himself. The policeman chasing him is himself in another alter ego.

This book is produced using screen shots from the movie itself. It serves mainly as a keepsake/reminder of the movie along with giving you time to look at the pictures seeing things that you don't see as the movie flys by. For instance in the coffee drinking scene, show in the book on pages 178 - 181 sometimes the girl has earings, sometimes she doesn't.

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
PK Dick in Living Color
By Tim Niland
Hmmmm... so this is the comic of a movie of a book? Actually it works pretty well, bringing together Philip K. Dick's strange story of narcotic paranoia with Richard Linkletter's unique cinematic vision. A federal agent (or is he?) must discover who is flooding the streets with the dangerous drug Substance D. We follow a bumbling band of hallucinating addicts and morally bankrupt agents that are chasing them in one of Dick's darkest and most autobiographical tales. The artwork is well drawn using vivid colors to enhance the story. Fans of comics or of quirky tales will find a lot to enjoy here.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
If you are a movie fan, you gotta have this!!
By Amazon Customer
Like someone else said, this is a graphic novel based on a movie which in turn is based on a novel by Philip K. Dick. I have also read the novel (check out my review of that) and but somehow this graphic novel works better and I loved it (Maybe because I loved the movie to begin with)!! Its a bit pricey (even here) but worth it for me. I wanted something like this as part of my collection. The translation from screen to a graphic novel format is very smooth and handled very well indeed (believe me when I say they could have messed this up big time!). All in all , highly recommended!! Seller packaged this very well and delivery was speedy!!

See all 13 customer reviews...

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