Quotes from William Gibson

I didn't come out here to be abused by vintage product from the Hefty toy department.

Getting Heidi the last-minute appointment had required epic stylist-suckery, but Hollis was a firm believer in the therapeutic power of the right haircut.

Interface evolves toward transparency. The one you have to devote the least conscious effort to, survives, prospers.

That annoying thing that tourists did, opening a feed into London's sea of blue plaques.

But she still didn't get what the United States did either, in Wilf's world. He made it sound like the nation-state equivalent of Conner, minus the sense of humor, but she supposed that might not be so far off, even today.

To hire someone willing to undertake an unspecified task, likely involving violence.

The biosphere only survives, today, by virtue of what prosthetic assistance we can afford it. The assemblers might keep that going, were the klept to founder. But I don't trust that some last convulsive urge to short-term profit, some terminal short-sightedness, mightn't bring an end to everything.

Foley, he began to suspect, studying the mouth under the black rectangle, might be the kind of scary that was about meanness, rather than strength. Though he'd also seen the two coexist, more or less, in the same individual, and that hadn't been good at all.

like a shark cruising a swimming pool thick with caviar.

The machine, the structure, was there, was real. Virek's money was a sort of universal solvent, dissolving barriers to his will . . .

Seated here, none too comfortably, on a truncated stalagmite, he could at least be glad the place made a decent flat white.

The best thing about having had all that done, aside from getting a new mouth, was that he'd gotten to see a little bit of Basel, going out for the treatments. Otherwise, he'd stayed in the clinic, per his agreement.

The Moderns were mercenaries, practical jokers, nihilistic technofetishists.

he was more than a dolphin, but from another dolphin's point of view he might have seemed like something less.

Centered in the square carpet of green plastic turf, a Japanese teenager sat behind a C-shaped console, reading a textbook. The white fiberglass coffins were racked in a framework of industrial scaffolding. Six tiers of coffins, ten coffins on a side.

And then you pushed through into a dim space inhabited by a faintly confusing sense of the half-dozen other bars that had tried and failed in the same room under different managements.

Case turned back, in time to catch the briefest flash of a black rose, its petals sheened like leather, the black stem thorned with bright chrome.

As the jackpot got seriously going, after the first wave of pandemics, without EU membership to buffer anything, England started looking a lot like a competitive control area.

Stone killer," said Carlos, like that might be his favorite flavor of pie.

Laney had recently noticed that the only people who had titles that clearly described their jobs had jobs he wouldn't have wanted. If people asked him what he did, he said he was a quantitative analyst. He didn't try to explain the nodal points, or Kathy Torrance's theories about celebrity.

You could buy a burrito there, a lottery ticket, batteries, tests for various diseases. You could do voice-mail, e-mail, send faxes. It had occurred to Laney that this was probably the only store for miles that sold anything that anyone ever really needed; the others all sold things that he couldn't even imagine wanting.

Addictions, he thought, turning right, toward Seven Dials' name-sake obelisk, started out like magical pets, pocket monsters. They did extraordinary tricks, showed you things you hadn't seen, were fun. But came, through some gradual dire alchemy, to make decisions for you. Eventually, they were making your most crucial life-decisions. And they were, his therapist in Basel had said, less intelligent than goldfish.

Not hungry,' Case managed. His brain was deep-fried. No, he decided, it had been thrown into hot fat and left there, and the fat had cooled, a thick dull grease congealing on the wrinkled lobes, shot through with greenish-purple flashes of pain. 'You

Kevin watched as Rydell removed the helmet and wrote an address and telephone number on the back of last week's People. The magazine belonged to Monica, the Chinese girl in the garage; she always got hers printed out so there was never any mention of scandal or disaster, but with a triple helping of celebrity romance, particularly anything to do with the British royal family.