About the Author<\/h4>\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/prodimage.images-bn.com\/lf?set=key%5Bresolve.pixelRatio%5D,value%5B1%5D&set=key%5Bresolve.width%5D,value%5B300%5D&set=key%5Bresolve.height%5D,value%5B10000%5D&set=key%5Bresolve.imageFit%5D,value%5Bcontainerwidth%5D&set=key%5Bresolve.allowImageUpscaling%5D,value%5B0%5D&set=key%5Bresolve.format%5D,value%5Bwebp%5D&product=path%5B\/cimages\/0000000283540_p0_v2%5D&call=url%5Bfile:common\/decodeProduct.chain%5D\")
<\/div>\n\nWilliam Gibson<\/b>\u2019s first novel, Neuromancer<\/i>, won the Hugo Award, the Nebula Award, and the Philip K. Dick Award. He is the New York Times<\/i>bestselling author of Count Zero<\/i>, Burning Chrome<\/i>, Mona Lisa Overdrive<\/i>, Virtual Light<\/i>, Idoru<\/i>, All Tomorrow\u2019s Parties<\/i>, Pattern Recognition<\/i>, Spook Country<\/i>, Zero History<\/i>, Distrust That Particular Flavor<\/i>, and The Peripheral<\/i>. He lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with his wife.<\/div>\n\n\nHometown:<\/p>\n
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada<\/span><\/div>\n\nDate of Birth:<\/p>\n
March 17, 1948<\/span><\/div>\n\nPlace of Birth:<\/p>\n
Conway, South Carolina<\/span><\/div>\n\nEducation:<\/p>\n
B.A., University of British Columbia, 1977<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\nRead an Excerpt<\/strong><\/h4>\nChapter 1\u00a0The sky\u00a0above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s not like I\u2019m using,\u201d Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. \u201cIt\u2019s like my body\u2019s developed this massive drug deficiency.\u201d It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ratz was tending bar, h is prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone\u2019s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. \u201cWage was in her early, with two joeboys,\u201d Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. \u201cMaybe some business with you, Case?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The bartender\u2019s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. \u201cYou are too much the artiste, Herr Case.\u201d Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. \u201cYou are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSure,\u201d Case said, and sipped his beer. \u201cSomebody\u2019s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn\u2019t you.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The whore\u2019s giggle went up an octave.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIsn\u2019t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he\u2019s a close personal friend of mine.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJesus,\u201d Case said, \u201cwhat kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can\u2019t have a drink?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHa,\u201d Ratz said, Kinyabbing the scarred wood with a rag, \u201cZone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment value.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore\u2019s giggle rang out, tinged with certain hysteria.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ratz grunted. \u201cAn angel has passed.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe Chinese,\u201d bellowed a drunken Australian, \u201cChinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate\u2026;\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNow that,\u201d Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, \u201cthat is so<\/i> much bullshit.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn\u2019t repair the damage he\u2019d suffered in that Memphis hotel.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he\u2019d taken and the corners he\u2019d cut in Night City, and still he\u2019d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void\u2026;The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he\u2019d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn\u2019t there.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI saw your girl last night,\u201d Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t have one,\u201d he said, and drank.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMiss Linda Lee.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case shook his head.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNo girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?\u201d The bartender\u2019s small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. \u201cI think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re breaking my heart, Ratz.\u201d He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale Kinyeat.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he\u2019d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He\u2019d been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He\u2019d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck hat projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, he\u2019d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He\u2019s made the classic mistake, the one he\u2019s Kinyorn he\u2019d never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still wasn\u2019t sure how he\u2019d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He\u2019d expected to die, then but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to need it. Because\u2013\u2013still smiling\u2013\u2013they were going to make sure he never worked again.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 For Case, who\u2019d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he\u2019d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through the closed circuit of the world\u2019s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In Japan, he\u2019d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he\u2019d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl\u2019s techno-criminal subcultures.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In Chiba, he\u2019d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he\u2019d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn\u2019t see the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and the Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky.\u00a0–Reprinted from Neuromancer by William Gibson by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright \u00a9 1984, William Gibson. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
\n(Continues\u2026)<\/p>\n\n
\n
\nExcerpted from “Neuromancer”
\nby .
\nCopyright \u00a9 2000 William Gibson.
\nExcerpted by permission of Penguin Publishing Group.
\nAll rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
\nExcerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n\nWhat People are Saying About This<\/strong><\/h4>\n\n\nFrom the Publisher<\/b><\/div>\n“A mind-bender of a read.”\u00a0\u2014The Village Voice<\/b><\/p>\n
“Freshly imagined, compellingly detailed, and chilling in its implications.” \u2014New York Times<\/b><\/p>\n
“Kaleidoscopic, picaresque, flashy and decadent…an amazing virtuoso performance.” \u2014Washington Post<\/b>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Product Details<\/h4>\n
Hometown:<\/p>\n
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada<\/span><\/div>\n Date of Birth:<\/p>\n March 17, 1948<\/span><\/div>\n Place of Birth:<\/p>\n Conway, South Carolina<\/span><\/div>\n Education:<\/p>\n B.A., University of British Columbia, 1977<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n Chapter 1\u00a0The sky\u00a0above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s not like I\u2019m using,\u201d Case heard someone say, as he shouldered his way through the crowd around the door of the Chat. \u201cIt\u2019s like my body\u2019s developed this massive drug deficiency.\u201d It was a Sprawl voice and a Sprawl joke. The Chatsubo was a bar for professional expatriates; you could drink there for a week and never hear two words in Japanese.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ratz was tending bar, h is prosthetic arm jerking monotonously as he filled a tray of glasses with draft Kirin. He saw Case and smiled, his teeth a webwork of East European steel and brown decay. Case found a place at the bar, between the unlikely tan on one of Lonny Zone\u2019s whores and the crisp naval uniform of a tall African whose cheekbones were ridged with precise rows of tribal scars. \u201cWage was in her early, with two joeboys,\u201d Ratz said, shoving a draft across the bar with his good hand. \u201cMaybe some business with you, Case?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case shrugged. The girl to his right giggled and nudged him.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The bartender\u2019s smile widened. His ugliness was the stuff of legend. In an age of affordable beauty, there was something heraldic about his lack of it. The antique arm whined as he reached for another mug. It was a Russian military prosthesis, a seven-function force-feedback manipulator, cased in grubby pink plastic. \u201cYou are too much the artiste, Herr Case.\u201d Ratz grunted; the sound served him as laughter. He scratched his overhang of white-shirted belly with the pink claw. \u201cYou are the artiste of the slightly funny deal.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cSure,\u201d Case said, and sipped his beer. \u201cSomebody\u2019s gotta be funny around here. Sure the fuck isn\u2019t you.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The whore\u2019s giggle went up an octave.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIsn\u2019t you either, sister. So you vanish, okay? Zone, he\u2019s a close personal friend of mine.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She looked Case in the eye and made the softest possible spitting sound, her lips barely moving. But she left.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cJesus,\u201d Case said, \u201cwhat kinda creepjoint you running here? Man can\u2019t have a drink?\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHa,\u201d Ratz said, Kinyabbing the scarred wood with a rag, \u201cZone shows a percentage. You I let work here for entertainment value.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 As Case was picking up his beer, one of those strange instants of silence descended, as though a hundred unrelated conversations had simultaneously arrived at the same pause. Then the whore\u2019s giggle rang out, tinged with certain hysteria.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Ratz grunted. \u201cAn angel has passed.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThe Chinese,\u201d bellowed a drunken Australian, \u201cChinese bloody invented nerve-splicing. Give me the mainland for a nerve job any day. Fix you right, mate\u2026;\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNow that,\u201d Case said to his glass, all his bitterness suddenly rising in him like bile, \u201cthat is so<\/i> much bullshit.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The Japanese had already forgotten more neurosurgery than the Chinese had ever known. The black clinics of Chiba were the cutting edge, whole bodies of technique supplanted monthly, and still they couldn\u2019t repair the damage he\u2019d suffered in that Memphis hotel.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he\u2019d taken and the corners he\u2019d cut in Night City, and still he\u2019d see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void\u2026;The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he\u2019d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn\u2019t there.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI saw your girl last night,\u201d Ratz said, passing Case his second Kirin.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cI don\u2019t have one,\u201d he said, and drank.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMiss Linda Lee.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case shook his head.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cNo girl? Nothing? Only biz, friend artiste? Dedication to commerce?\u201d The bartender\u2019s small brown eyes were nested deep in wrinkled flesh. \u201cI think I liked you better, with her. You laughed more. Now, some night, you get maybe too artistic; you wind up in the clinic tanks, spare parts.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019re breaking my heart, Ratz.\u201d He finished his beer, paid and left, high narrow shoulders hunched beneath the rainstained khaki nylon of his windbreaker. Threading his way through the Ninsei crowds, he could smell his own stale Kinyeat.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Case was twenty-four. At twenty-two, he\u2019d been a cowboy, a rustler, one of the best in the Sprawl. He\u2019d been trained by the best, by McCoy Pauley and Bobby Quine, legends in the biz. He\u2019d operated on an almost permanent adrenaline high, a byproduct of youth and proficiency, jacked into a custom cyberspace deck hat projected his disembodied consciousness into the consensual hallucination that was the matrix. A their, he\u2019d worked for other, wealthier thieves, employers who provided the exotic software required to penetrate the bright walls of corporate systems, opening windows into rich fields of data.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He\u2019s made the classic mistake, the one he\u2019s Kinyorn he\u2019d never make. He stole from his employers. He kept something for himself and tried to move it through a fence in Amsterdam. He still wasn\u2019t sure how he\u2019d been discovered, not that it mattered now. He\u2019d expected to die, then but they only smiled. Of course he was welcome, they told him, welcome to the money. And he was going to need it. Because\u2013\u2013still smiling\u2013\u2013they were going to make sure he never worked again.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 For Case, who\u2019d lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. In the bars he\u2019d frequented as a cowboy hotshot, the elite stance involved a certain relaxed contempt for the flesh. The body was meat. Case fell into the prison of his own flesh.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 His total assets were quickly converted to New Yen, a fat sheaf of the old paper currency that circulated endlessly through the closed circuit of the world\u2019s black markets like the seashells of the Trobriand islanders. It was difficult to transact legitimate business with cash in the Sprawl; in Japan, it was already illegal.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In Japan, he\u2019d known with a clenched and absolute certainty, he\u2019d find his cure. In Chiba. Either in a registered clinic or in the shadowland of black medicine. Synonymous with implants, nerve-splicing, and microbionics, Chiba was a magnet for the Sprawl\u2019s techno-criminal subcultures.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In Chiba, he\u2019d watched his New Yen vanish in a two-month round of examinations and consultations. The men in the black clinics, his last hope, had admired the expertise with which he\u2019d been maimed, and then slowly shaken their heads.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Now he slept in the cheapest coffins, the ones nearest the port, beneath the quartz-halogen floods that lit the docks all night like vast stages; where you couldn\u2019t see the lights of Tokyo for the glare of the television sky, not even the towering hologram logo of the Fuji Electric Company, and the Tokyo Bay was a black expanse where gulls wheeled above drifting shoals of white styrofoam. Behind the port lay the city, factory domes dominated by the vast cubes of corporate arcologies. Port and city were divided by a narrow borderland of older streets, an area with no official name. Night City, with Ninsei its heart. By day, the bars down Ninsei were shuttered and featureless, the neon dead, the holograms inert, waiting, under the poisoned silver sky.\u00a0–Reprinted from Neuromancer by William Gibson by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright \u00a9 1984, William Gibson. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. “A mind-bender of a read.”\u00a0\u2014The Village Voice<\/b><\/p>\n “Freshly imagined, compellingly detailed, and chilling in its implications.” \u2014New York Times<\/b><\/p>\n “Kaleidoscopic, picaresque, flashy and decadent…an amazing virtuoso performance.” \u2014Washington Post<\/b>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Read an Excerpt<\/strong><\/h4>\n
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\nExcerpted from “Neuromancer”
\nby .
\nCopyright \u00a9 2000 William Gibson.
\nExcerpted by permission of Penguin Publishing Group.
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