Gibson: Spook Country. Reviewed.

There's something very personal that happens when a beloved author puts out a book that just doesn't deliver. Betrayal. Hurt - right in the gut, a stabbing feeling halfway between your wings on the back.
Perhaps its due in part to the semiotic relationship of reader-engagement where we put in so much more than just the hours it takes to read, and sometimes it is the irrational and unfair hope that the author will continue to provide exactly the escape, antidote, passion or buzz that we've mainlined so many times before. I'm not working up into a rant here, just setting the scene for what is really hard to say.
William Gibson's new novel "Spook Country" is kinda dull and it's derivative.
It's not a great book, it's far from his best work.
It rehashes some good themes from his seminal early series, and patisches from his earlier pastiches (such as the nuanced "Pattern Recognition"). Okay - he's earned the right to coast along a little, and you can see it in the recent quote "I think reality these days is so much like a science-fiction novel. Now all I have to do is just import all that is around me into my novels."

Those are the words of a man who has lived to see his visions fulfilled. Visions that were scoffed by the mainstream, and are now that mainstreams own language. I sometimes wonder how George Orwell would have responded to our Noughties culture where political spin is what we call re-writing history, and we've had nearly a decade of entertainment from a show called Big Brother. Gibson *was* the voice of cyberpunk - go back and look at the Mirrorshades anthology (only in geek friends' libraries) and see what in the 80s we thought would be a wild future, and now Gibson is caught in a singularity.

"Spook Country" ought to have been bold, unsuspected, exciting. Instead it is Gibson-by-the-numbers, and misunderstood and badly packaged by his publishers. Why did Penguin ever take him onto their list? They have done nothing but misunderstand him and his audience since the atrocious handling of "Pattern Recognition" (was it two or three years between the hardcover selling out and the first paperback editions?!), and now it seems that they feel he'll sell better if his fans can't recognise him, and if crime readers mistake this for a thriller. There is no suspense in this book. None. There's barely even any crime (as most people would recognise it).

Gibson-by-the-numbers still has its moments of pleasure. His voice and cadence are unmistakeable, desirable and oft striven for. Here's a taste:

"Bigend stopped the car. A ball-capped guard in black uniform shorts and matching short-sleeved shirt regarded them from behind mirrored glasses. A laden, multicompartmented black holster was strapped to his right thigh.
She felt a sudden intense desire to get out of the Maybach, and acted on it.
The door opened like some disturbing hybrid of bank vault and Armani evening purse, perfectly balanced bombproof solidity meeting sheer cosmetic slickness. The gritty concrete floor, blotched with crumbs of gypsum, felt comforting in contrast. The guard gestured with a remote. She heard segmented steel start to rattle down behind them."

Classic. But if I just wanted classic Gibson, I'd re-read Neuromancer.

People change, the world moves on. As an ardent fan, I was looking forward to the new visions from Gibson. Frankly, I could do with some help dealing with this world, and in the past I've found many good tips and much solace in the worlds of SF. That this book didn't deliver owes some to my own idealistic hero-worship, but mostly to an author coasting on his (considerable) momentum.

Not That Much of Any One Thing

I've been tumbling one or two words around in my mental spinner and rather than getting polished, they got kinda dry and withered. So that stuffed that post idea.

Yesterday was a big day - a lot busier at work than I had hoped for and weird oversized taffic on the road (the ARMY was on the move in oversize Aliens-inspired things that I can only guess were APCs) then late at night huge trucks all with the weird super-yellow flashing lights and OVERSIZE oversize signs. One had a yaht with a keel as high as the mast (heading inland!) and of course the invasion of the watertanks proceeds apace and half a house (not as unusual as it sounds). It's in the car when I see things like this, or hear something on the radio that clashes well against something in my head that I most miss having the linked, clever tools i now associate the keyboard with (god, remember the grim days when you used to have to know what a modem was?).

I did have a notebook in the car up until recently and would scribble things as I could grab them. After one day a car passed me with the whole load of the passengers utterly loosing it watching me driving and writing I did have a minor re-think. Audrey has a much differently shaped steering wheel than the road monster - it was kinda bench-like but the drawback was that I would be beeping the horn and not realise it. So in Audrey, I can't get any traction. I think I need to find one of those little pad setups that cabbies mount on the dash to the right of the wheel just next to the side mirror area. Anyway. writing and driving don't really mix.

So I'm feeling pretty good for no apparent reason, but I'll take that (thank you very much universe) and if there is some credit, we can chalk it up to dark chocolate (Jamacian Rum today) and just knowing that Neil Gaiman is out there in the world (go now, and feel the love) and that there is half of a new William Gibson novel waiting for me at home tonight (review, yes, I've promised a review. Stay tuned, or stay "Feeded").
Yeah. Life is good!