The faces he woke with in the world's hotels were like God's own hood ornaments.
And, for an instant, she stared directly into those soft blue eyes and knew, with an instinctive mammalian certainty, that the exceedingly rich were no longer even remotely human.
Actually seeing Cornell boxes in the flesh (Seattle Art Museum) was a let-down after the evocative descriptions in the book.
The box was a universe, a poem, frozen on the boundaries of human experience.Gibson is off the scale on this book, especially on the third re-reading when you've learned the maze in Neuromancer and assembled the fragments in MLO. And although it lacks the classic CP edge, it has the best pure action sequence of all the books, heck, of anything made out of ASCII characters!
And then he was in the cockpit, breathing the new-car smell of long-chain monomers, the familiar scent of newly minted technology, and the girl was behind him, an awkward doll sprawled in the embrace of the g-web that Conroy had paid a San Diego arms dealer to install behind the pilot's web. The plane was quivering, a live thing, and as he squirmed deeper into his own web, he fumbled for the interface cable, found it, ripped the microsoft from his socket, and slid the cable-jack home.
Knowledge lit him like an arcade game, and he surged forward with the plane-ness of the jet, feeling the flexible airframe reshape itself for jump-off as the canopy whined smoothly down on its servos. The g-web ballooned around him, locking his limbs rigid, the gun still in his hand. "Go, motherfucker." But the jet already knew, and g-force crushed him down into the dark.Bit too log for a
.sig though.