William Gibson

Multilingual Tito engages in sensitive information transfers from his single-room warehouse apartment, while investigative journalist Hollis frets over his start-up magazine's censure of its own promotions, and prescription drug addict Milgrim wonders about the military connections of an enigmatic benefactor. 250,000 first printing.

Spook Country

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Fifteen minutes later, having done the best she could with all that had never been quite right, she descended to the lobby in a Philippe Starck elevator, determined to pay its particulars as little attention as possible. She’d once read an article about Starck that said the designer owned an oyster farm where only perfectly square oysters were grown, in specially fabricated steel frames. The doors slid open on an expanse of pale wood. The Platonic ideal of a small oriental carpet was projected across part of this from somewhere overhead, stylized squiggles of light recalling slightly less stylized squiggles of dyed wool.

Odile was the least chic Frenchwoman Hollis could recall having met, though in a kind of haute-nerd Euro way that only made her more annoyingly adorable.

It was like shoes and accessories, Milgrim thought; someone does alligator, the next week they’re all doing it.

she walked back to the Mondrian through that weird, evanescent moment that belongs to every sunny morning in West Hollywood, when some strange perpetual promise of chlorophyll and hidden, warming fruit graces the air, just before the hydrocarbon blanket settles in.

Artists or the military. That’s something that tends to happen with new technologies generally: the most interesting applications turn up on the battlefield, or in a gallery.’

And it hadn’t hurt that Bobby was himself a musician, though not in the old plays-a-physical-instrument-and/ or-sings modality. He took things apart, sampled them, mashed them up. This was fine with her, though like General Bosquet watching the charge of the Light Brigade, she was inclined to think it wasn’t war. Inchmale understood it, though, and indeed had championed it, as soon as it was digitally possible, pulling guitar lines out of obscure garage chestnuts and stretching them, like a mad jeweler elongating sturdy Victorian tableware into something insectile, post-functionally fragile, and neurologically dangerous.

‘She drove past me in a very nice-looking car. Headed in the direction of Beverly Hills.’ ‘She’s been headed in that direction since the birth canal.’

They passed a Brobdingnagian futon, in whose squishy depths a covey of vicious, asshole-chewing, hyena-like, and exceptionally pretty young people reclined with their drinks.

The door opened like some disturbing hybrid of bank vault and Armani evening purse, perfectly balanced bombproof solidity meeting sheer cosmetic slickness.

The pop star, as we knew her’–and here he bowed slightly, in her direction–‘was actually an artifact of preubiquitous media.’ ‘Of–?’ ‘Of a state in which "mass" media existed, if you will, within the world.’ ‘As opposed to?’ ‘Comprising it.’

‘Intelligence, Hollis, is advertising turned inside out.’ ‘Which means?’ ‘Secrets,’ said Bigend, gesturing toward the screen, ‘are cool.’ On the screen appeared their images, standing beside the table, Bigend not yet seated, captured by a camera somewhere above. The Bigend on the screen took a pale blue cloth from his pocket, pulled out a chair, and began to dust its arms and back and seat. ‘Secrets,’ said the Bigend beside her, ‘are the very root of cool.’

‘Hubertus wants you to have anything you might need. That’s rather literally anything, by the way, since you’re working on one of his special projects.’ ‘" Special"?’ ‘No explanations, no goals cited, no budgetary cap, absolute priority in whatever queue. He describes it as a species of dreaming, the company’s equivalent of REM sleep. He believes it’s essential.’

She wore what Hollis took to be Girbaud, a sort of Bladerunner soccer-mom look, probably less out of place in this lobby than many things would be.

‘" Referencing." Laurence says he’s referencing Hitchcock.’ She made it sound sexually transmissible.

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.

Cultural Marxism was what other people called political correctness, according to Brown, but it was really cultural Marxism, and had come to the United States from Germany, after World War II, in the cunning skulls of a clutch of youngish professors from Frankfurt.

‘A nation,’ he heard himself say, ‘consists of its laws. A nation does not consist of its situation at a given time. If an individual’s morals are situational, that individual is without morals. If a nation’s laws are situational, that nation has no laws, and soon isn’t a nation.’

‘If you are, you let the terrorist win. Because that is exactly, specifically, his goal, his only goal: to frighten you into surrendering the rule of law. That’s why they call him "terrorist." He uses terrifying threats to induce you to degrade your own society.’ Brown opened his mouth. Closed it. ‘It’s based on the same glitch in human psychology that allows people to believe they can win the lottery. Statistically, almost nobody ever wins the lottery. Statistically, terrorist attacks almost never happen.’

She studied the pattern of potato grease on her empty paper plate. If you knew enough Greek, she thought, you could assemble a word that meant divination via the pattern of grease left on a paper plate by broasted potatoes. But it would be a long word.

The houses themselves seemed to belong less to another time than to another country; Belfast perhaps, after some sectarian biological attack. The shells of Japanese cars in the streets, belly down on bare rims.

Spook Country - a gripping spy thriller by William Gibson, bestselling author of Neuromancer What happens when old spies come out to play one last game? In New York a young Cuban called Tito is passing iPods to a mysterious old man. Such activities do not go unnoticed, however, in these early days of the War on Terror and across the city an ex-military man named Brown is tracking Tito's movements. Meanwhile in LA, journalist Hollis Henry is on the trail of Bobby Chombo, who appears to know too much about military systems for his own good. With Bobby missing and the trail cold, Hollis digs deeper and is drawn into the final moves of a chilling game played out by men with old scores to settle . . . 'A cool, sophisticated thriller' Financial Times 'Among our most fascinating novelists ... unmissable' Daily Telegraph 'I'd call the book brilliant and original if only I were certain I understood it' Literary Review 'Superb, brilliant. A compulsive and deeply intelligent literary thriller' New Statesman 'A neat, up-to-the-minute spy thriller' Metro William Gibson is a prophet and a satirist, a black comedian and an outstanding architect of cool. Readers of Neal Stephenson, Ray Bradbury and Iain M. Banks will love this book. Spook Country is the second novel in the Blue Ant trilogy - read Pattern Recognition and Zero History for more. William Gibson's first novel Neuromancer sold more than six million copies worldwide. Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive completed his first trilogy. He has since written six further novels, moving gradually away from science fiction and futuristic work, instead writing about the strange contemporary world we inhabit. His most recent novels include Patter Recognition, Spook Country and Zero History, his non-fiction collection. Distrust That Particular Flavor, compiles assorted writings and journalism from across his career.

I read this book quickly. It was good, but it had an air of ‘same old’ about it. Maybe that’s just me. And where I am, mentally. The central premise is certainly interesting, the pace is fast, and the take well-spun. 

I fine it four stars because I enjoyed it. And anything with containers is good 😁 

Jan Jackson

I read this book quickly. It was good, but it had an air of ‘same old’ about it. Maybe that’s just me. And where I am, mentally. The central premise is certainly interesting, the pace is fast, and the take well-spun. 

I fine it four stars because I enjoyed it. And anything with containers is good 😁 

Gibson is the master of Vibe Creation. This one, like reading a le Carré spy thriller set entirely in Wired magazine.

Frederik De Bosschere

Nat Welch

An interesting book, no where near Gibson's best, but very well written and a good read.

If you enjoyed this book than you will really like  Pattern Recognition, an earlier work of his.

Zack

What happens when old spies come out to play one last game? In New York a young Cuban called Tito is passing iPods to a mysterious old man. Such activities do not go unnoticed, however, in these early days of the War on Terror and across the city an ex-military man named Brown is tracking Tito�s movements. Meanwhile in LA, journalist Hollis Henry is on the trail of Bobby Chombo, who appears to know too much about military systems for his own good. With Bobby missing and the trail cold, Hollis digs deeper and is drawn into the final moves of a chilling game played out by men with old scores to settle �

Hannah Swithinbank

Ashley McFarland

Rosie Yakob 

Patrick Toomey

Cindy Lieberman

Bob Simone

What happens when old spies come out to play one last game? In New York a young Cuban called Tito is passing iPods to a mysterious old man. Such activities do not go unnoticed, however, in these early days of the War on Terror and across the city an ex-mi

Spook Country

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