Scan barcode
A review by savaging
Neuromancer by William Gibson
2.0
I don't mean to shock everyone, but I didn't fall in love with Gibson's hypermasculine cyberpunk classic.
I didn't swoon when Case experienced a personal emotional tragedy, and responded invariably with an astute observation, such as: "Shit." Nor did I salivate with the reliable two- or three-word sentence that ended each section ("He flipped." "Case jacked out.")
I didn't nod along elatedly when basically every female character (each of them sssssmmmokin of course -- who's gonna read about ugly girls?) wants to fall in love with and help along our main character -- a character who has the emotional vocabulary of a bran flake and a physical description little beyond 'generic.' Also the people of color want to help, but that's probably the doing of their mystical dub-step Rasta-god.
My poor little heart did not pitter-pat when I learned that the motivations of every character appear to center on more money and a wobbly drive to self-destruction (even though that's oh so tough-gritty!).
And if Gibson invented cyberspace it only makes my head ache a little bit, to think that someone could see his fictional account of a vacuous, meaningless, ugly world, and try to make a part of it real. This book was especially stark when read alongside [b:Station Eleven|20170404|Station Eleven|Emily St. John Mandel|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1451446835s/20170404.jpg|28098716]: while dudely-dude Gibson creates a future dystopia where the main features are affordable plastic surgery and the extinction of most other species, Emily St. John Mandel has created a postapocalypse that centers on a Shakespearean troupe / symphony traveling through forests. Call me a girl, but when reading Gibson I found myself longing for beauty and humor and a world beyond tedious, drug-hyped corporate intrigue.
So yes, he's smart, he's creative, he's got some interesting technology questions, he can craft a (terse, athletic, stoic, manly) sentence -- but I'm done with Gibson. I'm sure I was never the sort he was writing for anyway.
I didn't swoon when Case experienced a personal emotional tragedy, and responded invariably with an astute observation, such as: "Shit." Nor did I salivate with the reliable two- or three-word sentence that ended each section ("He flipped." "Case jacked out.")
I didn't nod along elatedly when basically every female character (each of them sssssmmmokin of course -- who's gonna read about ugly girls?) wants to fall in love with and help along our main character -- a character who has the emotional vocabulary of a bran flake and a physical description little beyond 'generic.' Also the people of color want to help, but that's probably the doing of their mystical dub-step Rasta-god.
My poor little heart did not pitter-pat when I learned that the motivations of every character appear to center on more money and a wobbly drive to self-destruction (even though that's oh so tough-gritty!).
And if Gibson invented cyberspace it only makes my head ache a little bit, to think that someone could see his fictional account of a vacuous, meaningless, ugly world, and try to make a part of it real. This book was especially stark when read alongside [b:Station Eleven|20170404|Station Eleven|Emily St. John Mandel|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1451446835s/20170404.jpg|28098716]: while dudely-dude Gibson creates a future dystopia where the main features are affordable plastic surgery and the extinction of most other species, Emily St. John Mandel has created a postapocalypse that centers on a Shakespearean troupe / symphony traveling through forests. Call me a girl, but when reading Gibson I found myself longing for beauty and humor and a world beyond tedious, drug-hyped corporate intrigue.
So yes, he's smart, he's creative, he's got some interesting technology questions, he can craft a (terse, athletic, stoic, manly) sentence -- but I'm done with Gibson. I'm sure I was never the sort he was writing for anyway.