"Burning Chrome"

[synchcola]

I bought a copy of William Gibson's short story collection, "Burning Chrome", and it's really good; certainly it's better than I remember it was. The book itself smells like volatile iron. I associate the smell with him; a lot of his books smell like that.

My own past had gone down years before, lost with all hands, no trace. I understood Fox's late-night habit of emptying his wallet, shuffling through his identification. He'd lay the pieces out in different patterns, rearrange them, wait for a picture to form. I knew what he was looking for. You did the same thing with your childhoods.

In New Rose, tonight, I choose from your deck of pasts.

I choose the original version, the famous Yokohama hotel-room text, recited to me that first night in bed. I choose the disgraced father, Hosaka executive. Hosaka. How perfect. And the Dutch mother, the summers in Amsterdam, the soft blanket of pigeons in the Dam Square afternoon.

Comments

[meta4mix.livejournal.com]

It would be so awesome if authors chose their publisher based on the smell of the books they made. Or perhaps based on what smells a publisher could potentially infuse in a book. Something like that. ;^>