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“Boy,” the Flatline would tell him, months later in Miami, “I’m like them huge fuckin’ lizards, you know? Had themself two goddam brains, one in the head an’ one by the tailbone, kept the hind legs movin’. Hit that black stuff and ol’ tailbrain jus’ kept right on keepin’ on.”
I love the Flatline
“What’s that smell?” he asked Molly, wrinkling his nose. “The grass. Smells that way after they cut it.”
He’s right. The smell of grass sucks
“See, those things, they can work real hard, buy themselves time to write cookbooks or whatever, but the minute, I mean the nanosecond, that one starts figuring out ways to make itself smarter, Turing’ll wipe it. Nobody trusts those fuckers, you know that. Every AI ever built has an electromagnetic shotgun wired to its forehead.”
Take notes, guys
His brain was deep-fried.
Felt
Case jacked out. — INTO MAELCUM’S STARE. “You dead awhile there, mon.” “It happens,” he said. “I’m getting used to it.”
Surely that can’t be good for you
“Wonderful,” the Flatline said, “I never did like to do anything simple when I could do it ass-backwards.”
Again, I love the Flatline
“A Turing code’s not your name.” “Neuromancer,” the boy said, slitting long gray eyes against the rising sun. “The lane to the land of the dead. Where you are, my friend.
You know I gotta highlight the title
Neuro from the nerves, the silver paths. Romancer. Necromancer. I call up the dead. But no, my friend,” and the boy did a little dance, brown feet printing the sand, “I am the dead, and their land.”
Yeah okay he’s cool
“CHRIST ON A crutch,” the Flatline drawled, “you do believe in takin’ your own good time, don’t you, boy?” “Kuang’s ready?” “Hot to trot.”
I need to start using hot to trot in my daily vernacular
His mouth filled with an aching taste of blue. His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines.
Books published in the 2020s truly could never
A sense of the Finn’s presence surrounded him, smell of Cuban cigarettes, smoke locked in musty tweed, old machines given up to the mineral rituals of rust.
Wintermute was hive mind, decision maker, effecting change in the world outside. Neuromancer was personality. Neuromancer was immortality.
