Cult American sci-fi author, who lives in Canada, and has been called the father of the cyberpunk movement. He famously coined the term cyberspace. He was born 17 March 1948 in Conway, South Carolina, USA.
Most of his work is about helping people, such as his play, "The Miracle Worker", based on Helen Keller s teacher, Anne Sullivan.
Won two Tony Awards in 1960 for "The Miracle Worker:" as Best Author and as author of the Best Play winner. He was also nominated two other times: in 1958 as author of Best Play nominee "Two for the Seesaw," and in 1965 as co-author, with Clifford Odets , of the book for Best Musical nominee "Golden Boy."
Emigrated from the US to Canada in 1968, after being rejected for the draft. Lived in Toronto at first, but since 1972 in Vancouver.
His novel Neuromancer and its sequels Count Zero and Mona Lisa Overdrive are generally considered the definitive works of the "cyberpunk" science-fiction subgenre.
His novel "Neuromancer" earned him a Nebula Award, a Hugo Award and the Philip K. Dick award - the Holy Trinity of science-fiction writing
Coined the phrase "cyberspace" in his novel "Neuromancer".
Before diagnosing yourself with depression or low self esteem, make sure,that you are not in fact surrounded by assholes.
To present a whole world that doesn’t exist and make it seem real, we have to more or less pretend we’re polymaths. That’s just the act of all good writing.
Time moves in one direction, memory another. We are that strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.
His smile was the nightmare in my back pocket. (Speaking about Ronald Reagan),And, for an instant, she stared directly into those soft blue eyes and knew, with an instinctive mammalian certainty, that the exceedingly rich were no longer even remotely human.
When I began to write fiction that I knew would be published as science fiction, [and] part of what I brought to it was the critical knowledge that science fiction was always about the period in which it was written.
The future is there," Cayce hears herself say, "looking back at us. Trying to make sense of the fiction we will have become. And from where they are, the past behind us will look nothing at all like the past we imagine behind us now.
There must be some Tommy Hilfiger event horizon, beyond which it is impossible to be more derivative, more removed from the source, more devoid of soul.
The future is there. . . looking back at us. Trying to make sense of the fiction we will have become.
There are tumults of the mind, when, like the great convulsions of Nature, all seems anarchy and returning chaos; yet often, in those moments of vast disturbance, as in the strife of Nature itself, some new principle of order, or some new impulse of conduct, develops itself, and controls, and regulates, and brings to an harmonious consequence, passions and elements which seem only to threaten despair and subversion.
His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines.
Case shuffled into the nearest door and watched the other passengers as he rode. A pair of predatory-looking Christian Scientists were edging toward a trio of young office techs who wore idealized holographic vaginas on their wrists, wet pink glittering under the harsh lighting. The techs licked their perfect lips nervously and eyed the Christian Scientists from beneath lowered metallic lids. The girls looked like tall, exotic grazing animals, swaying gracefully and unconsciously with the movement of the train, their high heels like polished hooves against the gray metal of the car’s floor. Before they could stampede, take flight from the missionaries, the train reached Case’s station.
She held out her hands, palms up, the white fingers lightly spread, and with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four-centimeter scalpel blades slid from their housings beneath the burgundy nails. She smiled. The blades slowly withdrew.
Language is to the mind more than light is to the eye.
That’s what money will buy you, in America,” Brown had said, firmly. “People say Americans are materialistic. But do you know why?” “Why?” asked Milgrim, more concerned with this uncharacteristically expansive mode of expression on Brown’s part. “Because they have better stuff,” Brown had replied. “No other reason.
Paranoia, he said, was fundamentally egocentric, and every conspiracy theory served in some way to aggrandize the believer. But he was also fond of saying, at other times, that even paranoid schizophrenics have enemies.
She hung up before he could say goodbye. Stood there with her arm cocked, phone at ear-level, suddenly aware of the iconic nature of her unconscious pose. Some very considerable part of the gestural language of public places, that had once belong to cigarettes, now belonged to phones.
Lost, so small amid that dark, hands grown cold, body image fading down corridors of television sky.
Secrets. . . are the very root of cool.
She looks after him, feeling a wave of longing, loneliness. Not sexual particularly but to do with the nature of cities, the thousands of strangers you pass in a day, probably never to see again.
Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts. . . A graphic representation of data abstracted from banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding. . .
Language is to the mind more than light is to the eye.
I think the least important thing about science fiction for me is its predictive capacity.
Time moves in one direction, memory in another.
The box was a universe, a poem, frozen on the boundaries of human experience.
Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts.
