By William Gibson
Rydell is on his as far back as near-future San Francisco. A stint as a safety guy in an all-night la comfort shop has confident him his profession goes nowhere, yet his good friend Laney, phoning from Tokyo, says there's extra fascinating paintings for him in Northern California. and there's, even though it will ultimately contain his former female friend, a Taoist murderer, the secrets and techniques Laney has been hacking out of the depths of DatAmerica, the CEO of the PR company that secretly runs the area and the apocalyptic technological transformation of, good, every thing. William Gibson's new novel, set within the soon-to-be-fact international of "Virtual Light" and "Idoru", completes a gorgeous, brilliantly imagined trilogy concerning the post-Net international.
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Additional resources for All Tomorrow's Parties
I had known she would finally put me at risk. I tried to pay no attention when she stole things and presented them to me, because they were little things and of no use. A Mexican embroidered nightshirt, whereas I like to sleep in the altogether, or a silver money clip in the shape of an L for Lester, like I was some downtown lawyer, or an antique music box, for Christ’s sake, that plays “Columbia the Gem of the Ocean,” as if anyone would want to hear it more than once. Totally the wrong things for me, if it was me she was stealing for, whereas I was hard pressed to get a decent meal in this household.
I had seen enough. I woke up Karen and hustled her and the baby and all the Kmart paraphernalia into the Durango. Why, whatever is the matter, Lester? Karen said. She was still half asleep. Are we going somewhere? She looked frightened for a moment until I put Baby Wilson in her arms. I ran back to the house and grabbed some clothes and things for each of us. Then I ran back again and turned off the lights and locked the door. I could imagine them any minute coming up the road and through the woods around us at the same time.
She stood listening, Brenda, and shook her head. Lester, she said, your brains are in your balls. That is the way you are and the way you’ll always be. Goddamnit, Brenda, it’s not something I’ve done, you understand. Is this what I need to hear from you right now? She was squinting at me from the smoke drifting up into her eyes. I said, And you sometimes haven’t minded if that’s where my brain is, as I recall. Brenda is as unlike Karen as two women can be. Sturdier in mind, and shaped as if for the Bluebird clientele in her powder blue uniform with the Brenda stitched on the bosom pocket.