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Keep book. Read reviews from world's largest community for readers. Surrounded by Extinction, the Keep is enclosed within a fifty foot wall. Only desert.
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Then it happened, and I was basically paralyzed in the composition of the book. This was something else. Gibson has a bemused, gentle, curious vibe. He is not a dystopian writer; he aims to see change in a flat, even light. Photographs of Gibson have tended to find him in dark rooms, surrounded by wires and gizmos—a seer in his cyber cave. In fact, he has spent his writing life in a series of increasingly pretty houses on the arboreal streets of suburban Vancouver. Wandering around the first floor, I could find only one futuristic object: a small glass-and-aluminum cylinder, lit from within by warm L.

Gibson had a distinctly American upbringing. Born in , he told me that his earliest memories are of a farmhouse in Tennessee. The family lived there while his construction-manager father, William Ford Gibson, Jr. Later, they occupied the red-brick model house of a Levittown-style suburban development in North Carolina.

Like, if someone had known to squeeze him the right way, he might have survived. And then I went to this place which, from many angles, looked like the early nineteen-hundreds. The mid-twentieth century leaked in, like light through the blinds. Fatherless and quiet, Gibson was often alone. One day, he crawled through the window of an abandoned house and found a calendar from the Second World War. Each month had a picture of a different fighter plane—a sleek machine, yellowed by time. Meanwhile, from the wire rack at the Greyhound bus station, he bought science-fiction novels by H.

Wells, Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, and others. He noticed that their stories also supposed the existence of histories—real ones that were being reconsidered the myths of empire and the American West , or prospective ones that seemed unlikely to come true world government, the brotherhood of man. His mother was literary and progressive; she helped establish a library in Wytheville.

In the fall of his sophomore year, when he was seventeen, his mother died. She fell down dead walking somewhere—in those days, if an older person died, no one did an autopsy. Now she had.

Instead of finishing high school, he took a bus to Toronto; he slept outdoors for a night and then found a job at a head shop, where he could sleep on the floor. In his early twenties, in Washington, D. He kept the Vietnam draft board apprised of his whereabouts but was never called up. Instead, he perused the ruins of the sixties, reading Pynchon and Borges, going to punk shows. Back in Toronto, he enrolled in art school and met Deborah, a former fashion model; they moved to Vancouver, her home town.

For a while, he made ends meet as a vintage picker, buying undervalued objects—antique toys, Art Deco lamps, chrome ashtrays—from thrift shops and reselling them to dealers. Some speculative writers are architects: they build orderly worlds. The plugs on appliances are huge, triple-pronged, for a species of current that only powers electric chairs, in America. Cars are reversed, left to right, inside; telephone handsets have a different weight, a different balance.

All their bits and pieces were different.

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He took a class taught by the feminist sci-fi pioneer Susan Wood; she suggested that, instead of writing an analytical paper, he might turn in a story of his own. He began writing science fiction in earnest only when Graeme was on the way, and it seemed to him that his career had to start, or else. He learned to work iteratively. Having shown a technology used properly in one scene, he might show someone misusing it in another. His plots are Tetris-like, their components snapping together at the last possible moment until the space of the novel is filled.

She discovers that the artist is an artificially intelligent computer built by an unimaginably rich family. The A. But his collages contain ugly materials, too. Gibson settled on a hard-backed chair, adjusting the cuffs of his perfectly reproduced mid-century chambray workshirt. It never quit! Gibson was in the process of sorting through his basement archive, which he planned to donate to U.

Biggles accompanied us down the stairs; beneath a set of head-height windows, an old desk and table were covered with neatly piled manuscripts, some typewritten, others dot-matrix. In the end, an entirely different story was used. A paperweight on top of it turned out to be a claw—a memento from the film.

Biggles meowed, twining around my legs. The movie had been adapted from his short story of the same name, about a courier who carries stolen corporate data on a chip in his head. He leaned over to open a green wooden cabinet, containing dozens of mementos: a marmoset skull, a smooth rock, a teacup from Japan. Gingerly, from behind the skull, he removed a small metal ray gun. Like Gore-Tex or something.

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I was certainly aware of them as the onset of something new. They cost practically nothing. But no one had any idea what a disaster we were all witnessing. Now the oceans are full of it. I hefted it, weightless, in my palm—an antique bit of misread future. In the nineties, he achieved maximum fame for a sci-fi writer.

Movies borrowed liberally from his fiction. Droll, chilled out, and scarily articulate, Gibson talked about the future on television. He appeared on the cover of Wired , did some corporate consulting, and met David Bowie and Debbie Harry. The plan never came to fruition, but Gibson got to know the band; the Edge showed him how to telnet. He pointed out that his noir vision of online life had little in common with the early Web.

Still, he had captured a feeling—a sense of post-everything information-driven transformation—that, by the nineties, seemed to be everywhere. He was fascinated, though, by the people who did. They seemed to grow hungrier for the Web the more of it they consumed. Policing, as performance, could be monetized. Instead of fantasizing about virtual worlds, Gibson inspected the real one. Storefronts in some Vancouver neighborhoods were strangely empty—the drawback before the tsunami of global capital, as though the city itself anticipated the future.

Addiction, prostitution, street crime. Gibson thought he detected an uptick in the number of private security guards. He registered the increased presence of bike messengers—a new punk-athlete precariat—and began reading their zines.

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They are set in California and Tokyo in the two-thousands. Squatters, homeless after a pre-earthquake housing crisis, have used high- and low-tech materials—tarps, plywood, aircraft cable—to turn its decks and towers into a cool suspended shantytown. Culture is globalized and high-def. Virtual celebrities are replacing real ones, and patrons in a bar called Cognitive Dissidents dance to the evangelical Islamic band Chrome Koran. Fashion is retrofitted: Chevette, a bike messenger, wears a vintage horsehide motorcycle jacket with bar codes affixed to its lapels.

He wrote improvisationally, without knowing how his novels would end. The trilogy culminates, obscurely, with the introduction of consumer nanotechnology through a chain of convenience stores. No one knows what to make of it; an atmosphere of WTF prevails. You do this extrusion-molding thing and watch it harden. Meanwhile, in a room on the Bay Bridge—at the top of the east tower, above the fog—Chevette reads old issues of National Geographic and marvels at the size of the old countries, long since broken up.