Quotes from William Gibson

You are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.

As individuals steadily lose degrees of privacy, so too do corporations and states.

Branch plant made the call. He's infosec. And he's in your existing trust network, so that puts him in mine. Not that I didn't do due diligence. He's qualified.

Navy stuff," she said, and her grin gleamed in the shadows. "Navy stuff. I got a friend down here who was in the navy, name's Jones. I think you'd better meet him. He's a junkie, though. So we'll have to take him something." "A junkie?" "A dolphin.

I have important information for you." The vowel in you suggested a siren dopplering past, then gone.

Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts . . . A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data.

Lev's entranceway was cluttered with parenting equipment. Miniature Wellingtons, coatrack clumped with bright rainwear, a push-bike reminding Netherton of the patchers, things to hit balls with, many balls themselves. A few stray bits of Lego edged fitfully about among lower strata, like bright rectilinear beetles.

you can`t recycle wasted time

What flavor, though? Chinese? Indian? I'm not even convinced it's offshore. Maybe it starts here, goes out, comes back in." "I wouldn't know about that. Company's Colombian." "Columbia S.C., for all I know

He woke with the impression of light fading, but the room was dark. Afterimages, retinal flares. The sky outside hinted at the start of a recorded dawn. There were no voices now, only the rush of water, far down the face of the Intercontinental. In

The box was nearly finished now, she thought, although it moved so quickly, in the padded claws, that it was difficult to see... Abruptly, it floated free, tumbling end over end, and she sprang for it instinctively, caught it, and went tumbling past the flashing arms, her treasure in her arms.

They both knew she knew this was bullshit, but she guessed that was the way it went, when somebody you knew killed some people and you didn't want them to get caught for it. They were teaching her the story as it needed to be told, and telling it to her in a way that wouldn't require her to tell anything but the truth about what they'd told her.

Damien maintains, half-seriously, that followers of the footage comprise the first true freemasonry of the new century.

She realized then that she was screaming. Not words or anything, just screaming.

You just had to know how to do it, and when to do it, and most important of all, why to do it. Powerful substance like this, Lowell would explain, it wasn't there just for any casual jack-off recreational urge. It was there to allow you to do things. To empower you, he said, so you could do things and, best of all, finish them.

Don't," she said, "fingerprints.

As I luxuriate in the discovery that I am no special sponge for sorrow, but merely another fallible animal in this stone maze of a city, I come simultaneously to see that I am the focus of some vast device fueled by an obscure desire.

Listen to the fear. Maybe it's your friend.

In the nearly total darkness of a Nighttown noon, who notices a few dozen mad children lost in the rafters?

Más que la tierra o el dinero, más que la cuna. Información. Eso es lo que importa.

Night City was like a deranged experiment in social Darwinism, designed by a bored researcher who kept one thumb permanently on the fast-forward button.

I very much doubt that our grandchildren will understand the distinction between that which is a computer and that which isn't. Or, to put it another way, they will not know "computers" as any distinct category of object or function. This, I think, is the logical outcome of genuinely ubiquitous computing: the wired world. The wired world will consist, in effect, of a single unbroken interface. The

For some reason, now, she saw the panel in the Roberts, all those faces. Read Us the Book of the Names of the Dead. All the Marlys, she thought all the girls she'd been through the long season of youth.

The act of connection produces a fork in causality, the new branch causally unique. A stub, as we call them.