it doesn’t even matter what he writes about
William Gibson is the fucking god of going into detail and making you understand exactly the scenario he is presenting you with. guy could write cookbooks for all I care, he’d still be a hero to me
Idoru, William Gibson, p.189
There was a man on stilts at the intersection nearest the hotel. He wore a hooded white paper suit, a gas mask, and a pair of rectangular sign-boards. Messages scrolled down the boards in Japanese as he shifted his weight to maintain balance. Streams of pedestrian traffic flowed around and past him.
“What’s that?” Laney asked, indicating the man on stilts.
“A sect,” Arleigh McCraie said, ” ‘New Logic.’ They say the world will end when the combined weight of all the human nervous tissue on the planet reaches a specific figure.”
A very long multi-digit number went scrolling down.
“Is that it?” Laney asked.
“No,” she said, “that’s their latest estimate of the current total weight.”
Laney saw the man’s eyes through the transparent visor as they passed. A look of grim patience. The stilts were the kind workers wore to put up ceilings, articulated alloy sprung with steel. “What’s supposed to happen when there’s enough nervous tissue?”
“A new order of being. They don’t talk about it. Rez was interested in them, apparently. He tried to arrange an audience with the founder.”
“The founder declined. He said that Rez made his living through the manipulation of human nervous tissue, and that that made him untouchable.”
“Rez was unhappy?”
“Not according to Blackwell. Blackwell said it seemed to cheer him up a little.”
"She missed it by a fraction. She nearly cut it, but not quite. She went in just right, Case thought. The right attitude; it was something he could sense, something he could have have seen in the posture of another cowboy leaning into a deck, fingers flying across the board. She had it; the thing, the moves, and the she pull it all together for her entrance, pulled it together around the pain of in her leg and marched down 3Jane’s stairs like she owned the place, elbow of her gun arm at her hip, forearm up, wrist relaxed, swaying the muzzle of the fletcher with the studied nonchalance of a Regency duelist. It was a performance. It was like the culmination of a life-time’s observation of martial art tapes, cheap ones, for a few second, he knew, she was every bad-ass hero, Sonny Mao in the old Shaw videos, Mickey Chiba, the whole lineage to lee and Eastwood. She was walking it the way she talked it."
William gibson,neuromancer (via foxhole143)
Street Samurai and Razor Girls
I am an occupant of the Sprawl, a console cowboy who revels in neon and vice.
I’m a real technical boy
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
MOLLY’S MIRRORSHADES; ZEISS-IKON EYES
posted 12:27 PM
Readers, recently, ask: What are these things “really” like?
Well, really, you the reader are expected to do a bit of imagining on your own; you see black marks on white paper, interpret them, and form an image. Part of the writer’s task is in judging whether you’re being given too much information or too little. As a reader of sf, I often felt I was being given too little, and that the writer probably wasn’t bothering to form that detailed an image in her own mind. Part of my initial urge to write sf grew out of a frustration with that, leading to what Bruce Sterling (I believe) deemed “the hyperspecificity of the cyberpunk style”. With Molly Millions’ “implanted” glasses, though, I could never dream up a sufficiently convincing way to imagine them being attached. Were they “implanted” in skin, muscle, bone, all of these? How would any of these impact on the mobility of her features? What would the seam between skin and mirror look like? The character having emerged, very handily, in an early short story, when I hadn’t been much concerned with this particular detail, and not having expected to see her again, I found myself, as more Molly narratives emerged, concerned by my inability to satisfactorily envision the way in which the damned things were attached. My solution to this, ongoing, was to keep the “camera” off that troubling little detail. To blur around it with language. The “mirrored implants” worked wonders for the character, in fact largely *were* the character, but there was never, really, any “really” there. With the “Zeiss-Ikon eyes”, from “Burning Chrome”, which some readers evidently invision as (gack) German camera lenses, there was a “really”. I assumed they were vat-grown, genetically optically perfect organs, perhaps further tweaked to maximize them as, in effect, video cameras. The name of the company would be subtly worked into the patterning around each iris, and wouldn’t be very obvious at all, or readable, unless you were extremely close to the wearer (recipient? owner?) And this post has left me so otaku-OD’d that I wish I could retire for a coffee, to one of those joints in Akihabara where the waitresses wear Minnie Mouse shoes and bulbous three-fingered gloves!"