I’ve just finished reading Spook Country, the latest book by William Gibson - the ‘father of cyberpunk’. To be frank, this book reminded me why I don’t read much fiction any more.
Spook Country, set in the present day, is peopled by an assortment ex secret service types, thugs, drug addicts, fraudsters, ex rock stars, artists, cyberpunks (of course), adventurers, and fashionable hangers-on. And a billionaire.
But pretty soon I wondered if the title of the book was ironic or something, since all of these characters are so uniformly bloodless they may as well be ghosts. Or perhaps avatars. Attempts by Gibson to flesh them out with some personal details and back stories end up looking like mere skins mapped onto their polygonal forms. In fact, it’s sometimes hard to distinguish the human characters from their technologies. Network servers, wireless broadband, domestic robots, virtual reality helmets, blogs, iPods, Bluetooth, GPS and Powerbooks constantly crop up, like minor characters in their own right. With almost as much personality.
Oh, and did I mention the brandnames? In Spook Country, people don’t just finish their beer, pop on a jacket and throw some stuff into a bag before driving to their hotel. They finish their Asahi Draft, put on a Pendleton, throw stuff into their Barneys, and drive their Phaeton to the Mondrian where the Philippe Starke designed elevator takes them up to their room. It’s like The Devil Wears Prada with GPS.
Maybe this is all deliberate – showing us how the new 24/7 unwired world has stripped us all of our humanity. Or maybe it’s just poor writing. Either way, the cumulative effect over 371 pages is distinctly enervating. I would have been perfectly happy if they’d all bought their gear at Lowes and got on with the plot.
Ah yes, the plot.
The plot, such as it is, involves a rogue shipping container and it’s mysterious cargo, which everyone is tracking. But it’s not so much a plot as an inventory of technologies. It’s purpose seems to be the vehicle for a 59-year-old Gibson to assure his legion of fans that he’s still hip to the future tech beat daddy-o. Except that, sadly, he isn’t quite. This book appears to have been assembled with one eye firmly fixed on the dreaded Google/Wikipedia. As a research tool this can be a mixed blessing or, as my dear late mum would say, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing”. Gibson sometimes gets the factoids right, but their common usage completely wrong. As a case in point, one character plays music keyboard. Gibson consistently (and somewhat proudly) refers to this as a MIDI keyboard. Now, since the mid 80s, virtually every keyboard ever made has come equipped with MIDI, so it’s not something you’d bother mentioning these days. It’s about as naff as constantly referring to the electric vacuum cleaner. But it gets worse. At one point, the room is described as being lit by the blue glow of the MIDI lamp. Excuse me? What the hell is a MIDI lamp?
Poor bugger, you can’t help feeling sorry for him. No ordinary author would feel so obligated to cram this much ‘cool stuff’ into one novel. Gibson should have just said: “Fuck it! This time, I think I’ll just write a historical romance.”
And, by the way, I think cyberspace is bullshit.