Doomed patterns that lead nowhere

An analysis of A Scanner Darkly

After his fourth wife left him, author Philip K. Dick invited several street people to live in his empty house. He soon adopted their lifestyle and became addicted to amphetamines. Not long after, he began suffering hallucinations, paranoia, and schizophrenic episodes.

This stygian experience inspired his novel A Scanner Darkly. The story portrays the terrifying descent into addiction, but more than that, it uses addiction as a lens to examine a much bigger issue — the problem of identity. This is something I've personally wrestled with, and I've come to understand it as a problem that applies to all of us, even though our circumstances may be very different from Dick's, or his characters'.

A Scanner Darkly is set in a dystopian future where most of the population is hopelessly addicted to the hardcore street drug known only as "Substance Death." The protagonist, Bob Arctor, is an undercover police officer, codenamed "Fred" when he is in uniform. Bob/Fred is assigned to infiltrate a group of junkies and find their source. In doing so, he becomes himself addicted to Substance Death, and gradually starts to forget who he really is — is he the addict or the officer?

How many Bob Arctors are there? A weird and fucked-up thought. Two that I can think of, he thought. The one called Fred, who will be watching the other one, called Bob. The same person. Or is it? Is Fred actually the same as Bob? Does anybody know? I would know, if anyone did, because I'm the only person in the world that knows that Fred is Bob Arctor. But, he thought, who am I? Which of them is me?

What am I actually? he asked himself.

Though this situation may be foreign, the problem is familiar. We are not just one person, but an amalgamation of personas. Our identity changes dramatically depending on our context: where we are, who we are with, how we happen to feel in that moment. When these different identities conflict, we often feel bewildered. Sometimes trying to understand ourselves can be its own dystopia.

Over the last decade, I have lived many different lives, and often wondered which was the real me. I have been a straight-A student at a prestigious East coast university, an unemployed loser wasting his days playing video games in his parents’ house, a salaryman in a custom suit consulting for private equity funds, a vanlife vagabond roaming the country and playing guitar in public parks. I have been a tutor, an EMT, a line cook, a firefighter, and a writer.

Who the fuck am I?

Trying to understand ourselves is difficult, if not impossible, because we are within the dilemma. We are part of the problem. But when we observe someone else (say, a character like Bob/Fred), we can better understand the predicament, which then allows us to reflect on our own with more clarity.

A Scanner Darkly depicts a struggle with the problem of identity — the one Dick was forced to face after his life collapsed.

The Underworld of Addiction

In the opening lines of the story, we are introduced to the dark underworld that Bob inhabits, and the people who populate it:

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.

The passage describes one of Bob's junkie friends, Charles Freck, who has deteriorated rapidly. What's worse, everyone is headed toward the same sad state, sooner or later. Bob joins their ranks, accepting this risk, because has to "fit in" in order to find their source.

Some of his associates are worse, even treacherous, like the eccentric and unpredictable Barris who likes to shoot off handguns in the middle of the night. He also likes to dismantle Bob's equipment and reassemble it incorrectly — first his VR headset, and later his car.

Barris starts to suspect Bob is up to something, and Bob is scared shitless of being discovered:

What an undercover narcotics agent fears most is not that he will be shot or beaten up but that he will be slipped a great hit of some psychedelic that will roll an endless horror feature film in his head for the remainder of his life... which will nearly kill him but not completely... He will try to shake the aphids off him day and night... And all this will occur deliberately.

This is the nightmare world that Bob inhabits. You might think the dangers too severe, the conditions too grim; that Bob would ask for a reassignment, or simply quit. But actually, he likes it.

Before he was an undercover cop, Bob led a very vanilla life. That all changed after a traumatic accident (or was it even an accident?). Years ago, he hit his head on a kitchen cabinet, which cut deep into his scalp:

It flashed on him instantly that he didn't hate the kitchen cabinet: he hated his wife, his two daughters, his whole house, the back yard with its power mower, the garage, the radiant heating system, the front yard, the fence, the whole fucking place and everyone in it. He wanted a divorce; he wanted to split...

Probably he should have regretted his decision. He had not. That life had been one without excitement, with no adventure. It had been too safe. All the elements that made it up were right there before his eyes, and nothing new could ever be expected.

But in this dark world where he now dwelt, ugly things and surprising things and once in a long while a tiny wondrous thing spilled out at him constantly; he could count on nothing.

Like Philip K Dick, Bob had had it all: the American dream, the white picket fence, the perfect little family. And yet, whether he realized it consciously or not, he wanted out.

Sadly, I can relate to this. I once had a safe and pleasant job as an accountant — thirty-five hours a week in an air-conditioned office, two-hour lunch breaks, five weeks paid vacation, and more money than I could count. But I was bored out of my mind and miserable. I felt like a dead man walking. I had to get out.

After I quit, I was completely directionless. I had just spent the last eight years of my life on one path, only to realize I was headed the wrong way. Now I was lost. I had no other skills, no strong inclinations, no one to guide me. So I had to figure it out the hard way, through trial and error.

Since then, I have lived in dozens of places around the world, and held just as many jobs. My new life is more chaotic and uncertain, but also... more interesting. Despite all its difficulties, I still prefer it over my old life.

This is the gamble that Bob took when he left his comfortable life and entered the underworld of drugs. It's dark, disgusting, and dangerous, but also... deliciously unpredictable.

There are also some enticing parts to his new life — such as the beautiful, dark-eyed Donna, a fellow junkie (and a suspect). She is charming and playful, yet elusive — always flirting with Bob but never fully giving herself to him. She is just one enthralling element of this dark dance with drugs. But how long can he keep going?

Because time is in short supply: the side-effects of Substance Death accelerate with every passing day. He must find the source before everything slips away — his leads and his mind. The threat of insanity is real. See, for example, his friend Charles Freck with the aphid problem.

This is how Bob describes the sad destiny of the addict:

One more in a long line, a dreary entity among many others like him, an almost endless number of brain-damaged retards. Biological life goes on, he thought. But the soul, the mind — everything else is dead. A reflex machine. Like some insect. Repeating doomed patterns, a single pattern, over and over now. Appropriate or not.

Thus, in the first part of the story, we are introduced to the theme of addiction. But Dick doesn't just stop there, and instead uses it as a lens to examine another topic — the problem of identity.

Every addict notices multiple identities operating within themselves: one persona swears to God they will get sober (for the thousandth time), and another persona desperately wants to get high (just one more time). One wants to stop, one wants to go. It is like trying to drive a car while pressing both the gas and the brakes. The only thing that’s happening is damage to the vehicle.

And so the addict is caught in a trap — doomed to compulsive patterns that lead nowhere, signifying nothing. If this goes on long enough, Bob/Fred says these addicts become "damaged beyond repair," destined only for the trash can.

But he might soon become one of them.

The Scanner as an Observer

In the second part of the story, we watch as Bob succumbs to his addiction to Substance Death, and gradually becomes confused as to his real identity. In response, he starts searching frantically for something that can help him sort it out, to get a grip on reality.

As Fred the undercover agent, part of his job is to review the footage captured by hidden cameras, called "scanners." But as Bob the junkie, he must pretend that he is unaware of the presence of these scanners, to protect his cover.

In his desperation, Bob/Fred grasps at the scanners as some sort of objective viewpoint that can help him make sense of the insanity of his life. In one of the most memorable scenes, Bob arrives home and has a terrifying epiphany.

"Nobody home, I guess," he stated aloud as usual, and was aware that the scanners had picked that up. But he had to take care always: he wasn't supposed to know they were there. Like an actor before a movie camera, he decided, you act like the camera doesn't exist or else you blow it. It's all over. And for this shit there are no take-two's...

He is suddenly afflicted with a strong sense of paranoia, and wonders — who is actually watching him? No one right now, but later Fred will see it. But is Fred the same as Bob? That other person feels a universe away.

Whatever it is that's watching, it is not a human. Not by my standards, anyhow. Not what I'd recognize.

[Everything in my life is unfolding] within the sight of some thing. Which, unlike little dark-eyed Donna, does not ever blink.

What does a scanner see? he asked himself. I mean, really see? Into the head? Down into the heart? Does [a scanner] see into me—into us—clearly or darkly? I hope it does, he thought, see clearly, because I can't any longer these days see into myself. I see only murk.

Bob/Fred is no longer an objective observer of his own situation. Things are too fucked up — his world, his lifestyle, and now his mind. But it is also worth pondering whether he ever was — whether any of us ever are — objective.

This passage makes me consider: do I see myself clearly? Do I understand myself? Or do I, like Bob, put on one face for the scanner — for the world — and wear another face when I am alone? Actually, there are multiple faces, each struggling within me at various times. Which one is the real me?

Am I still the white-collar professional with a nice car, nice home, and nice clothes? If not, why do I keep comparing myself to those standards of success?

Am I the nomad, wandering endlessly in search of meaning? I don't feel as lost anymore, but then why do I still long to return to "the road"?

Am I the first responder? But I haven't worked a shift since May... And yet I love the work.

Am I the writer? At times I know with unquestionable certainty that it is my calling, and at other times I feel I have no talent, and everything I put down on paper is imperfect and ultimately pointless.

I can imagine Dick felt the same confusion in the wake of his latest divorce. Four ex-wives, lined up in his mind, each of them symbolic of a separate phase of his life — some happy, some sad, but each of them significant in some way. Whose husband was he now? Where was he to go next? Perhaps that is why he retreated into amphetamines.

This is the uncertainty that people fear when they consider any change — good or bad. It is why people stay in terrible jobs, unhappy marriages, dirty apartments, dangerous neighborhoods. Things could get better — but they could also get much worse. And then, how would they define themselves? Sometimes those identities are so closely connected to the old things that moving on would be like leaving behind a limb.

No, better to stay in the known, even if it is imperfect, even if it is full of doomed patterns, than to face the terror of the unknown.

Dick's plight, as well as Bob/Fred's, is very different from my own. But the problem is the same: How can I see myself objectively? I have no scanner that can see me clearly, at least not into my head or heart. And how can I find the way forward when everything around me feels like murk?

Well, at least I have these stories. At least I have my words. At least I have my friends and family, and all the other people around me. And maybe through each of these perspectives I can begin to see myself clearly, I can begin to figure out who I really am — or could be.

I believe that it is impossible to see ourselves clearly except through others. We need other people — some in the flesh, some in fiction — to help us understand the human condition, our own condition. And then to go from there boldly into change, despite the uncertainty and the possibility that things might get worse. We have to embark if we are to leave behind dead patterns — old ways of life that no longer serve us.

Perhaps it is possible to have a flash of inspiration — what alcoholics call "a moment of clarity" — such as when Bob hit his head on the kitchen cabinet. Some people have had visions from God (some of them while on drugs… go figure). I myself have experienced similar crises during traumatic accidents.

For example, just last month, when my dream of becoming a firefighter was shattered by an injury. Back in July of last year, I wrote about my determination to become a firefighter.¹ At the time, it was just a dream, something I could only imagine. Then, finally, it happened. I was accepted into a fire academy and began my training in June of this year. I was crushing it, until all of a sudden, I wasn’t. I injured my hip (tore my labrum), and couldn’t continue. Devastation. Years of work, gone in a second. Now I need surgery and it will take months to recover. Where do I go next?

These kinds of accidents are impossible to control or predict, are usually extremely uncomfortable, and don’t always lead to a revelation. So I wouldn't recommend throwing yourself down the stairs just yet. Much safer and more sustainable to use the people and the stories around us.

The consequences of failing to do this are not merely confusion and discomfort. They are much worse, as we see in the end of Bob/Fred's life.

The Scanner as a Dead Man

In the final part of the story, the term "scanner" acquires another significance. Bob/Fred finally loses his mind to Substance Death and can no longer control even his bodily functions. Hanging by his last thread, Donna drags him to the rehab center. There, he hears an interesting theory:

"If you could see out from inside a dead person you could still see, but you couldn't operate the eye muscles, so you couldn't focus... All you could do would be wait until some object passed by... If a leaf or something floated over your eye, that would be it, forever. Only the leaf. Nothing more; you couldn't turn."

This is an impossible scenario. But upon reflection, this is also the reality of an addict. As the speaker explains, an addict is "sentient but not alive." Whatever is looking out from that person's eyes may have died long ago. The body continues going through the motions, but the brain no longer reacts to new inputs... it just keeps repeating the same doomed patterns. Like forever shaking off invisible aphids.

This is the second sense of the scanner — a camera that can see, but cannot respond, cannot even choose what it sees. So it is with the addict — the rest of the world goes out of focus, the people around him, the scenery, the cats and dogs. As another addict explains, "all I saw was dope."

In rehab, Bob/Fred is so brain-damaged that he cannot remember anything from the past. So they call him "Bruce," and he develops his third persona. What's worse, he cannot think into the future either, cannot even think beyond the present moment. Like a child, he believes the world disappears when his eyes are covered. Thus, Bob/Fred/Bruce is condemned to the lowest circle of the hell of drug addiction — the never-ending present.

For many spiritual seekers, the present is the highest nirvana. The ultimate goal of their transcendent journey is to shed the “distractions” of past regrets and future expectations. Ironically, for an addict like Bob/Fred/Bruce, this never-ending present is a prison. He is a dead man walking, looking out from dull, lifeless eyes, accepting only the demands of his drug, or the commands of another. He has lost all his identities and become instead a mindless machine, a scanner.

I have no examples to add here from my own life, because — thank God — I have never personally experienced this kind of decay. But I have seen it enough in others, during my work on the ambulance, to know it is not just a fiction, nor just one author’s experience. I have seen Fentanyl destroy hundreds of lives in my community — and not all of them have died yet.

But the consequences are still real, because addiction is not limited to substance abuse— addiction is merely doomed patterns that lead nowhere: bad habits, bad attitudes.

Conclusion

A Scanner Darkly is a descent into the hell of addiction, one that serves as a strong reminder of the dangers of slipping too far into chaos. It's dramatization of Dick's life enables me to examine the important question of identity, from a necessary distance. And thus I can see myself more clearly.

Here's what I have come to understand: identity is neither simple nor static; it is multidimensional and ever-changing. We are not who we think we are — we have multiple personas, each bleeding into the other from one moment to the next.

Some of our personas need to die, and some need to thrive, if we are to go on living purposefully. Figuring out which ones are which requires that we understand ourselves, despite the slippery nature of such a problem. But we can do this through the help of people in our lives, and the stories of others.

Adopting a new persona is a normal part of life, but it requires us to dance with chaos (if only temporarily), in order to leave behind our old ways of life that no longer serve us, to move out of the murk and into the light.

The consequences of failing to do this are steep. We may even become scanners — sentient, but not alive — endlessly repeating doomed patterns that lead nowhere.

Postscript

There is some good news, too.

In the process of writing and re-writing this piece (dozens of times), the answer is obvious, always has been — of course, I am the writer.

The thing that finally convinced me to quit my cushy accounting job was a book. Well not the book, but the words within it. And words continue to drive me to this day.

All those years of wandering, exploring, and seeking to understand myself — it all led me here. And I feel more qualified at this than anything I have ever attempted. Regardless of whatever else I do in life, whether I return to firefighting or business or teaching or wandering, I will always keep writing.

I know who I am. The only question that remains is: do I have it in me to be who I am? Or will I settle for my lesser identities? Will I be a passive observer, a scanner, watching my life unfold before me? Or will I take the leading role and continue to live out my dreams?

That remains to be answered, day by day, word by word.

Footnotes

1. My essay about wanting to become a firefighter.