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It’s deliberately never mentioned as such, and one vaguely gathers that it’s somehow gone sideways in a puff of what we today would call globalization, to be replaced by some less dangerous combine of large corporations and city-states.
My real sympathy, though, is with the bright thirteen-year-old, curled on a sofa somewhere, twenty pages into the book and desperate to get to the root of the mystery of why cell phones aren’t allowed in Chiba City. Hang in there, friend. It can only get stranger.
still he’d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void.
He’d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck that projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix.
It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.
her upper lip like the line children draw to represent a bird in flight.
burgeoning technologies require outlaw zones, that Night City wasn’t there for its inhabitants, but as a deliberately unsupervised playground for technology itself.
Sexless and inhumanly patient, his primary gratification seemed to lie in his devotion to esoteric forms of tailor-worship.
Why bother with the surgery, he found himself thinking, while sweat coursed down his ribs, when you could just carry the thing around in your pocket?
He’d lived for so long on a constant edge of anxiety that he’d almost forgotten what real fear was.
he’d never slept in Cheap Hotel. He slept in cheaper places.
Home was BAMA, the Sprawl, the Boston-Atlanta Metropolitan Axis.
“THE MATRIX HAS its roots in primitive arcade games,” said the voice-over, “in early graphics programs and military experimentation with cranial jacks.”
In the nonspace of the matrix, the interior of a given data construct possessed unlimited subjective dimension; a child’s toy calculator, accessed through Case’s Sendai, would have presented limitless gulfs of nothingness hung with a few basic commands.
Twenty minutes, then gravity came down on him like a great soft hand with bones of ancient stone.
It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop; it was worship,
“Doesn’t hurt?” The bright eyes met his. “Of course it does. That’s part of it, isn’t it?”
She was gone. The weight of memory came down, an entire body of knowledge driven into his head like a microsoft into a socket.
pallor
Every AI ever built has an electromagnetic shotgun wired to its forehead.”
“We cause the brain to become allergic to certain of its own neurotransmitters, resulting in a peculiarly pliable imitation of autism.”
