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empty streets, human faces that are borrowed masks, and lenses for a
peering Eye. And when a given face has served its purpose, it crumbles,
frail as ash, bursting into a dry foam of data, its constituent bits and
motes. But new fabrics of conjecture are knitted in the City's shining
cores, swift tireless spindles flinging off invisible loops in their
millions, while in the hot unhuman dark, data melts and mingles, churned by
gear-work to a skeletal bubbling pumice, dipped in a dreaming wax that
forms a simulated flesh, perfect as thought--
It is not London--but mirrored plazas of sheerest crystal, the avenues
atomic lightning, the sky a super-cooled gas, as the Eye chases its own
gaze through the labyrinth, leaping quantum gaps that are causation,
contingency, chance. Electric phantoms are flung into being, examined,
dissected, infinitely iterated.
In this City's center, a thing grows, an auto-catalytic tree, in
almost-life, feeding through the roots of thought on the rich decay of its
own shed images, and ramifying, through myriad lightning-branches, up, up,
toward the hidden light of vision,
Dying to be born.
The light is strong,
Myself . . .
I see,
!
William Gibson, Bruce Sterling. The difference engine читать книгу.">
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