Mona Lisa Overdrive (The Neuromancer Trilogy)

by William Gibson

Her father was dead, seven years dead, and the record he’d kept of his life had told her little enough. That he’d served someone or something, that his reward had been knowledge, and that she had been his sacrifice.

“The Count and his fucking LF,”

The Chinese cook spoke to her in Spanish;

They had a sad smell, old books.

a vast generic tumble that was her century’s paradigm of urban reality.

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you always?’ ‘To the extent that I know it, yes.’

Christ, we’ve still got a government here. Not run by big companies. Well, not directly . . .’