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.