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Multilingual Tito engages in sensitive information transfers from his single-room apartment, while journalist Hollis frets over her start-up magazine's censure of its own promotions, and prescription drug addict Milgrim wonders about the military connections of an enigmatic benefactor.
A bit of a puzzle, this. Three characters: Tito is a young Cuban, Hollis was a star rock singer, Milgram is an addict Russian translator. They're all chasing a mysterious shipping container. Lots of extravagant whatever... probably the main thing here is just to exhibit how each character has such a different world.
Fun enough book... maybe there is a deeper point to the exercise, but it doesn't leap to mind. ( )
Slow to get started, and with anti-climactic ending, it's not Gibson's best for sure. He can get the adrenaline going and pique your curiosity, and I really enjoyed character Tito's daemon oddities, but somehow the hint of some kind of strange new cyber technology didn't quite live up to expectations or seem to involve more than tracking a shipping container full of money, which itself seemed to be unimportant in the great scheme of things. What were these characters all so worked up about? In the end it was hard to tell, or to care. ( )
I didn't bookmark it at time time, so I can no longer find it. But while reading Spook Country, I ran across a paragraph that just made me stop, savor it, and think to myself, "Now, this is why I read Gibson."
It is a near-certainty that I will re-read this book soon. (Re-reading is a rarity for me.) And I may well raise my rating to 5 stars at that point. Gibson's beautiful prose, quirky characters, and tech-rich plots just delight me. ( )
"This novel is a political thriller that is also a satire on advertising, music and the geekocracy, a finely machined mystery whose main pleasures lie in its rich store of miniature aesthetic jolts and unexpected textures."
"In Spook Country, Gibson takes another large step forward and reaffirms his position as one of the most astute and entertaining commentators on our astonishing, chaotic present."
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For Deborah
Første ord
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'Rausch,' said the voice in Hollis Henry's cell. 'Node,' it said.
Citater
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The strength of Juana's magic had faded, Tito knew, amid new technologies and an increasing governmental stress on "security", by which was meant control. [13]
The Curfew's fans were virtually the only people who knew the band had existed, today, aside from radio programmers, pop historians critics, and collectors. With the increasingly atemporal nature of music, though, the band had continued to acquire new fans. Those it did acquire, like Alberto, were often formidably serious. [25]
Cyberspace is everting. [22] And once it everts, then there isn't any cyberspace, is there? [66]
But what if, asked the upwardly burrowing voice, Brown was not really a government agent? ... what if Brown was just an asshole with a gun? [80]
Intelligence, Hollis, is advertising turned inside out. [108]
Organized religion, he saw, back in the day, had been purely a signal-to-noise proposition, at once the medium and the message, a one-channel universe. For Europe, that channel was Christian, and broadcasting from Rome, but nothing could be broadcast faster than a man could travel on horseback. There was a hierarchy in place, and a highly organized methodology of top-down signal dissemination, but the time lag enforced by tech-lack imposed a near-disastrous ratio, the noise of heresy constantly threatening to overwhelm the signal. [119]
Cities, in Milgrim's experience, had a way of revealing themselves in the faces of their inhabitants, and particularly on their way to work in the morning. There was a sort of basic fuckedness index to be read, then, in faces that hadn't yet encountered the reality of whatever they were on their way to do. [262]
Inchmale thought that America had developed Stockholm syndrome toward its own government, post 9/11. [312]
Sidste ord
Oplysninger fra den engelske Almen VidenRedigér teksten, så den bliver dansk.
She put the helmet on, turned it on, and looked up, to where Alberto's giant cartoon rendition of the Mongolian Death Worm, its tail wound through the various windows of Bigend's pyramidal aerie like an eel through the skull of a cow, waved imperially, tall and scarlet, in the night.
Multilingual Tito engages in sensitive information transfers from his single-room apartment, while journalist Hollis frets over her start-up magazine's censure of its own promotions, and prescription drug addict Milgrim wonders about the military connections of an enigmatic benefactor.
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Fun enough book... maybe there is a deeper point to the exercise, but it doesn't leap to mind. (