Zero History, William Gibson’s new novel, has been released today. I’m a littler over a hundred pages into it, and WG is making the prose sing in a way equal to Pattern Recognition, my favorite of his novels to date.
Really? you say cautiously, looking askance at me, ready to be dismissive of any fanboy worship you detect. Except there isn’t any because none is needed. In terms of prose style, Gibson has mashed Banville into Ballard to often wondrous effect:
In the amusement arcades, he judged, some of the machines were older than he was. And some of his own angels, not the better ones, spoke of an ancient and deeply impacted drug culture, ground down into the carnival grime of the place, interstitial and immortal; sundamaged skin, tattoos unreadable, eyes that peered from faces suggestive of gas-station taxidermy.He was meeting someone here.
‘Nuff said . . .
CultureHack 