La intromisión de la máquina

   Con alguna demora, retomamos acá el hilo que veníamos tendiendo en las entradas tituladas "Las prolongaciones del hombre".

   La homologación de entidades que supone el paradigma informático, dominante desde mediados del siglo XX, pone en tensión el entendimiento de las tecnologías como extensiones del hombre. La compatibilidad entre máquinas y humanos propiciada por la noción de información puede interpretarse como un facilitador de la prolongación de aptitudes, es decir, de la tradicional función protésica. Pero la compatibilidad también ha instrumentado un proceso de endocolonización del hombre, de intrusión del artefacto en la carne humana que resulta difícil de acotar a la idea de extensión de facultades: “Habiendo ya contribuido durante mucho tiempo a la colonización de la extensión geográfica del cuerpo territorial y del corazón geológico de nuestro planeta, el reciente progreso en las ciencias y tecnociencias ha causado hoy una colonización gradual de los órganos y las entrañas del cuerpo animal del hombre, la invasión de la conclusión microfísica del trabajo que comenzó la invasión geofísica. Esta es la última figura política de un proceso de domesticación que, habiendo alterado genéticamente especies animales y condicionado socialmente poblaciones humanas, ahora anuncia la era de los componentes personales. Hoy, en efecto, el lugar donde sucede el estado del arte de la tecnología ya no es tanto el espacio ilimitado de un ambiente planetario o cósmico infinitamente vasto, sino el espacio infinitesimal de nuestros órganos internos, de las células que componen la materia viva de nuestros órganos”, escribió Virilio.

La noción de que todas las entidades existentes son sistemas de información permite concebir el diseño y la recreación no sólo de los seres vivos y del mismo hombre -cortesía de la ingeniería genética-, sino también de la completa realidad. En su interacción con el hombre, las máquinas infotécnicas alumbran un mundo virtual. Para Baudrillard, “la simulación no corresponde a un territorio, a una referencia, a una sustancia, sino que es la generación por los modelos de algo real sin origen ni realidad: lo hiperreal. El territorio ya no precede al mapa ni le sobrevive. En adelante será el mapa el que preceda al territorio -precesión de los simulacros- y el que lo engendre (...) Lo real es producido a partir de células miniaturizadas, de matrices y de memorias, de modelos de encargo- y a partir de ahí puede ser reproducido un número indefinido de veces”.

¿Involucra entonces el proceso infotécnico una transformación del hombre y su relación con la tecnología? Las respuestas posibles pueden ser, en ciertos aspectos, contradictorias. En un sentido, la evolución del hombre es concomitante al desarrollo tecnológico; su apropiación de conocimientos y procedimientos modificó el ambiente y a los seres vivos, mediante la producción agropecuaria, la explotación de minerales, la medicina humana, por dar ejemplos evidentes. Desde esta perspectiva, se puede entender que el proceso que aquí se denomina “fase infotécnica” implica una continuidad histórica en la relación del hombre, las tecnologías y el medioambiente, aun cuando instrumenta una endocolonización: “Si hay hombre es porque una tecnología lo ha hecho evolucionar a partir de lo prehumano; entonces ella es la verdadera productora de seres humanos, o el plano sobre el cual puede haberlos. De modo que los seres humanos no se encuentran con nada nuevo cuando se exponen a sí mismos a la subsiguiente creación y manipulación, y no hacen nada perverso si se cambian a sí mismos autotecnológicamente”, anotó Sloterdijk

En un sentido contrario, otras interpretaciones consideran que los desarrollos infotécnicos de la computación digital y las biotecnologías, “con sus potencialidades demiúrgicas (...) estarían inaugurando algo fundamentalmente nuevo en la historia humana”, que gracias a una homologación universal supera las limitaciones preexistentes y configura una vasta capacidad generativa: “La rigidez característica del mundo analógico, constituido por átomos frecuentemente incompatibles entre sí, restringía las posibilidades de variación dentro de los límites finitos, discretos y perfectamente cuantificables. Ahora, bajo la perspectiva de la digitalización universal, y con el horizonte de conversión de todos los átomos en bits, eso también está cambiando”, planteó Sibilia. El paradigma de la información inmaterial y la digitalización universal habilitan a las nuevas tecnociencias a romper la continuidad con la historia precedente en múltiples ámbitos: por ejemplo, con la ingeniería genética y la realidad virtual.

El corolario de estas interpretaciones es la emergencia del posthumano, el ser humano modificado por la infotécnica: “En adelante, los hombres serían asumidos, por sobre todo, como entidades que procesan información, esencialmente similares a las máquinas inteligentes” -propuso Katherine Hayles- y, además compatibles con las computadoras. El cuerpo humano resultaría apenas la prótesis original, una de las posibles encarnaciones contingentes del patrón informático fundante, y la conciencia -hasta entonces eje de la identidad occidental moderna- resultaría escasamente su epifenómeno. “En el posthumano -según la misma Hayles-, no hay diferencias esenciales ni demarcaciones absolutas entre la existencia corporal y la simulación computarizada, entre el mecanismo cibernético y el organismo biológico, entre la teleología de robot y los objetivos humanos.”

  

Las huellas del género: hoy y acá

  Una de las tantas cuestiones que quedaron afuera de aquella Historia de la CF fue la manifestación del género en la Argentina. La trayectoria descripta en el librito corresponde a la expresión industrial global de la ciencia ficción. Ahora no vamos a meternos con el consabido resumen de lo que hicieron o aludieron creadores del siglo XIX (Holmberg) y del siglo XX (Bioy, Gandolfo, Gorodischer), sino que vamos a ocuparnos de la relación de la  CF con la llamada nueva literatura argentina.
  En la historia de la literatura argentina es difícil sistematizar un diagnóstico, porque la CF nunca logró consolidarse, pese a que tuvo y tiene muchos adeptos y a que incluso escritores reconocidos la ensayaron. Con la nueva narrativa, la escena apenas ha cambiado. Más allá de algunas incursiones esporádicas y de unos pocos cultores consecuentes, entre los escritores de hasta cuarenta años la CF pervive como un horizonte imaginario siempre latente pero al que nunca se arriba (ni se desea arribar), como un rastro ocasional aunque no infrecuente, una aparición que rompe con la monotonía del realismo. Pero si en los textos de la generación de escritores nacidos en los '70 y '80, tomados en conjunto, no hay un desarrollo explícito del género, en muchos escritos sí hay un repertorio de recursos que remiten a la ciencia ficción, como la irrupción del desvío fantástico, la relación de otros mundos posibles, casi siempre apocalípticos, distopías o ucronías (las utopías hace rato que fueron desterradas), con reminiscencias paródicas, la emergencia de simulacros, la fundación mítica de tiempos alternativos, de un ritmo vertiginosamente alucinado, la omnipresencia de la vigilancia y el control... Pensamos, para unos pocos nombres, en Pedro Mairal, Hernán Vanoli, algo de Félix Bruzzone, Samanta Schweblin o -forzando el vínculo para destacar a un escritor muy interesante- en Pablo Katchadjian.

   Si bien se trata de recursos de diversa procedencia y ninguno de ellos caracterizó por sí solo al género, éste, al configurarse, supo reunirlos y conjugarlos como atributos de su identidad. Es a través de la ciencia ficción que estos recursos llegan a la nueva narrativa y ahora, en una suerte de reversión, son desmenuzados y recuperados. A diferencia de la ciencia ficción clásica, pero así como ocurre en las expresiones que se pueden atribuir a la última etapa del género, en los textos de esta generación no suele haber ni maquinaciones tecnológicas ni justificaciones científicas. Tampoco el intento de imaginar futuros distantes, una perspectiva que parece obturada. En cambio, en la particular exploración de estos recursos se pueden leer otros modos de interpretar pasado y presente, el terror no tan lejano y sus secuelas, la existencia fantasmagórica de los años neoliberales, las nuevas modalidades de vivir y morir durante el estallido social, la poscrisis y una actualidad siempre inestable; y también, en ciertos casos, una acuciante atemporalidad.

   Entre los motivos de la pervivencia de este legado de la ciencia ficción acaso se pueda pensar, tentativamente, en que se trata de la primera generación que puede desembarazarse de la culpa y permitirse, aunque sea en forma incidental, subvertir el realismo. Fuera del campo de lo legible quedan hoy, además, las implicancias de una singularidad, una mediación respecto de las nuevas tecnologías dominantes que opera sobre estos escritores: la generación de los nacidos entre los '70 y '80 es la última que consumió ciencia ficción, la última que pudo leer de Verne y Wells a Dick, Gibson y Priest antes de haber experimentado su propia conexión a la red informática, antes de haber presenciado el diseño de seres vivos.

Las prolongaciones del hombre II

Junto al entendimiento general de las tecnologías como extensiones siguió germinando la concepción específica de las tecnologías de la comunicación, y los medios masivos, como prolongaciones del sistema nervioso del hombre, idea ya presente en el siglo XIX. Nuevos rastros pueden ubicarse hacia la década iniciada en 1920 cuando, desde campos disciplinarios diversos, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Edouard Le Roy y Vladimir Vernadsky formularon el concepto de noosfera, una suerte de medio ambiente transformado por el conocimiento y las prácticas de la humanidad. Teilhard de Chardin incluía en el concepto un nuevo y alto estadio evolutivo hegemonizado por una mente global que, como una membrana electrónica, cubriría el planeta mediante la comunión de condiciones espirituales y tecnológicas. En un texto publicado en 1947 proponía examinar “el órgano ‘cerebroide’ de la noosfera”: “¿Cómo no ver el papel constructor desempeñado por (la máquina) en la eclosión de una conciencia verdaderamente colectiva? La máquina liberadora, sin duda, liberando al pensamiento, tanto individual como social, de cuanto pudiera lastrar su ascensión. Pero la máquina, constructiva también, ayudando a que los elementos reflexivos de la Tierra se anuden sobre sí y se concentren bajo forma de un organismo cada vez más penetrante. Y aquí, naturalmente, pienso, en primer lugar, en la extraordinaria red de comunicaciones radiofónicas y televisuales que nos ligan ya a todos, actualmente, en una especie de co-conciencia etérea, anticipando acaso una sintonización directa de los cerebros mediante las fuerzas todavía desconocidas de la telepatía”.

El mismo entramado de nociones, ese acumulado clima de época, alimenta los planteos de McLuhan sobre las tecnologías como prolongaciones del cuerpo y también sobre la aldea global configurada por los mass media. Tras esbozarlo ya en La Galaxia Gutenberg, de 1962, de este modo lo planteó famosamente en La comprensión de los medios como extensiones del hombre, de 1964: “Después de tres mil años de explosión por medio de técnicas fragmentarias y mecánicas, el mundo de Occidente entra en implosión. Durante las eras mecánicas prolongamos nuestros cuerpos en el espacio. Hoy en día, después de más de un siglo de técnica eléctrica, hemos prolongado nuestro propio sistema nervioso central en un alcance total, aboliendo tanto el espacio como el tiempo. Con una perspectiva similar, la computadora pudo ser entendida como una externalización de nuestra conciencia. Pero en aquel mismo párrafo, sin refutar la función extensiva de las tecnologías, McLuhan advertía: “Estamos acercándonos rápidamente a la fase final de las prolongaciones del hombre, o sea la simulación técnica de la conciencia (...) del mismo modo en que ya hemos prolongado nuestros sentidos y nuestros nervios valiéndonos de los distintos medios”.

Del paso a esa nueva fase vamos a ocuparnos próximamente...

Las prolongaciones del hombre I

Una cuestión poco desarrollada y que merece un análisis detallado es el devenir de las ideas filosóficas relacionadas con el itinerario de la CF que pasa de narrar a la tecnología como extensión del hombre a narrar la endocolonización humana por la tecnología.

A lo largo de la civilización técnica, los diversos modos en que el hombre se ha relacionado con las tecnologías, con objetos, herramientas y artefactos, fueron interpretados desde diferentes y hasta antagónicas perspectivas teóricas como una busca de prolongación o perfección de facultades orgánicas y sensoriales, corporales o mentales. La concepción de la tecnología como extensión o intensificación de aptitudes humanas, y el vínculo de su origen con el cuerpo del hombre, reconoce antiguas fuentes en el pensamiento occidental. Una se remonta hasta Aristóteles: “La mano es un instrumento de instrumentos”, escribió. De esa fuente tomó y desarrolló la idea Ralph Waldo Emerson, hacia 1870: “El cuerpo humano es el almacén de las invenciones, la oficina de patentes donde están los modelos que sugirieron todos los aparatos. Todas las herramientas y las máquinas de la tierra son sólo extensiones de sus extremidades y sentidos”. También Aristóteles sugirió la noción a Ernst Kapp, uno de los fundadores del campo específico de la filosofía de la tecnología. En su obra Líneas fundamentales de una filosofía de la técnica, publicada en 1877, analiza y enumera diversas tecnologías como proyecciones de órganos del cuerpo humano, trazando analogías entre funciones corporales y funciones artefactuales desarrolladas por el hombre para enfrentar su entorno. Para Kapp, como para el filósofo griego, “la mano es la herramienta natural de cuya actividad procede lo artificial, los instrumentos. Suministra, a partir de todos los modos imaginables de su disposición y movimiento, las protoformas orgánicas según las cuales el hombre ha conformado inconscientemente sus primeras y necesarias herramientas (...) Partiendo de las herramientas primitivas, el concepto se amplía, ascendiendo hasta las herramientas de los diferentes oficios, las máquinas de la industria, el armamento de la guerra, los instrumentos y aparatos del arte y de la ciencia, y engloba, bajo una única palabra, artefacto, todo el sistema de las necesidades pertenecientes al ámbito de la técnica”. Kapp empieza asociando cuerpo e instrumentos: “Al igual que la cabeza del martillo está prefigurada en el puño, el filo de las herramientas lo está en las uñas de los dedos y en los incisivos”. Sigue con “los órganos sensoriales, que, situados en el umbral del mundo exterior y el mundo interior de los nervios, intermedian entre ambos (…) El ojo es el órgano de la luz y el modelo de cualquier aparato óptico”. Explícitamente relaciona medios de transporte y medios de comunicación: “Los poderosos medios culturales que, como el ferrocarril y el telégrafo, mantienen hoy las distintas partes del mundo, por no decir la tierra entera, abrazadas mediante una conexión ininterrumpida y que desbordan la denominación de aparatos, resultando ser sistemas”. Y, al pasar, se refiere a “la ya usual comparación del sistema nervioso con el telégrafo eléctrico”.

Planteos vinculados o vinculables son recuperados ya en el siglo XX. Hacia 1930, en El malestar en la cultura, escribió Freud: “Con las herramientas el hombre perfecciona sus órganos -tanto los motores como los sensoriales- o elimina las barreras que se oponen a su acción. Las máquinas le suministran gigantescas fuerzas, que puede dirigir, como sus músculos, en cualquier dirección; gracias al navío y al avión, ni el agua ni el aire consiguen limitar sus movimientos. Con la lente corrige los defectos de su cristalino y con el telescopio contempla las más remotas lejanías (…) Con la ayuda del teléfono oye a distancia (…) La escritura es, originalmente, el lenguaje del ausente (…) Diríase que es un cuento de hadas esta realización de todos o casi todos sus deseos fabulosos, lograda por el hombre con su ciencia y su técnica, en esta tierra que lo vio aparecer por primera vez como débil animal (…) El hombre ha llegado a ser, por así decirlo, un dios con prótesis: bastante magnífico cuando se coloca todos sus artefactos, pero éstos no crecen de su cuerpo y a veces aun le procuran muchos sinsabores”.

La mención de la debilidad original del animal humano alude a la teoría evolucionista, presupuesta también por Kapp. La relación teórica es desarrollada en 1954 por el antropólogo Weston La Barre: postula que las tecnologías modernas producen un nuevo tipo de evolución en el hombre, prolongando su cuerpo y su sistema sensorial. “Hace mucho tiempo (el hombre) ha ido más allá de su propia piel individual en su relación funcional con el mundo. Ahora, la verdadera unidad evolutiva no es el mero cuerpo del hombre, sino el complejo del cerebro de la humanidad junto a todos los materiales extracorporales manipulados por su mano”. Otro antropólogo, Edward T. Hall, especifica la prolongación tecnológica en un texto de 1959: “Hoy el hombre ha desarrollado extensiones para realizar casi todos los actos que solía realizar con su cuerpo. La evolución de las armas comienza en los dientes y el puño y termina en la bomba atómica. Las ropas y las casas son extensiones del mecanismo biológico humano para controlar la temperatura. Los muebles han reemplazado al agacharse o sentarse en el suelo. Las herramientas eléctricas, las lentes, la televisión, los teléfonos y los libros, que transmiten la voz a través del tiempo y del espacio, son ejemplo de extensiones materiales. El dinero es una vía para extender y almacenar trabajo. Nuestras redes de transporte hacen ahora lo que solían hacer nuestros pies y espaldas. De hecho, todas las cosas materiales hechas por el hombre pueden considerarse como extensiones de lo que alguna vez el hombre hizo con su cuerpo o con alguna parte especializada de él”.

Entrevista con W. Gibson

Para empezar, quiero compartir una muy interesante entrevista realizada a William Gibson por Larry McCaffery, publicada en 1991 en el libro Storming the Reality Studio: a casebook of cyberpunk and postmodern science fiction. El padre del cyberpunk da acá algunos datos clave para entender su obra

 

An Interview with William Gibson

by Larry McCaffery

In 1984 William Gibson's first novel, Neuromancer, burst onto the science fiction scene like a supernova. The shock waves from that explosion had an immediate impact on the relatively insular SF field. Neuromancer became the first novel to win the triple crown - Hugo, Nebula, and Philip K. Dick awards - and, in the process, virtually single-handedly launched the cyberpunk movement. Neuromancer, with its stunning technopoetic prose surface and its superspecific evocation of life in a sleazed-out global village of the near future, has rapidly gained unprecedented critical and popular attention outside SF.

Prior to the publication of Neuromancer, Gibson had published only a half- dozen stories (since collected in Burning Chrome [1986b]). Although several of these display flashes of his abilities- and two of them, "Johnny Mnemonic" and "Burning Chrome," introduce motifs and elements elaborated upon in the later novels- clearly Neuromancer was a major imaginative leap forward for someone who had not even attempted to write a novel previously. The sources of all the white light and white heat being generated by this new kid on the block are immediately apparent from the opening words of the novel: "The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." Dense, kaleidoscopic, fast-paced, full of punked-out, high-tech weirdos, Neuromancer depicts with hallucinatory vividness the desperate, exhilarating feel of life in our new urban landscapes.

A number of critics have pointed out Gibson's affinities with certain earlier innovative SF authors: comparisons with Alfred Bester's early novels, with Philip K. Dick's midperiod fiction, and with Samuel R. Delany's Nova (1968); Gibson's reliance on the cut-up methods and quickfire stream of dissociated images characteristic of William S. Burroughs and J. G. Ballard are also noted. But equally significant are the influences from sources either wholly outside SF- the hard-boiled writing of Dashiell Hammett, 1940s film noir, the novels of Robert Stone- or only nominally connected with the field- the garishly intense, nightmarish urban scenes and pacings in the work of rock musicians like Lou Reed; or the sophisticated blend of science, history, pop culture, hip lingoes, and dark humor in Thomas Pynchon's work.

What made Neuromancer's debut so auspicious, however, was not its debts to earlier authors, but its originality of vision, especially the fresh, rush- of-oxygen high of Gibson's prose, with its startling similes and metaphors drawn from computers and other technologies, and its ability to create a powerfully resonant metaphor- the cyberspace of the computer matrix- where data dance with human consciousness, where human memory is literalized and mechanized, where multi-national informations systems mutate and breed into startling new structures whose beauty and complexity are unimaginable, mystical, and above all nonhuman. Probably as much as any first novel since Pynchon's V. (1963), Neuromancer seemed to create a significant synthesis of poetics, pop culture, and technology.

Although often overlooked by critics and reviewers in this regard, Neuromancer is also deeply rooted in human realities. Gibson's presentation of the surface textures of our electronic age re-creates the shock and sensory overload that define our experience of contemporary life, of having grown up with VCRs, CDs, terrorists broadcasting messages on fifty-channel video monitors, designer drugs, David Bowie and the Sex Pistols, video games, computers. Both disturbing and playful, he also explores much deeper questions about the enormous impact of technology on the definition of what it means to be human. After reading Neuromancer for the first time, I knew I had seen the future of SF (and maybe of literature in general), and its name was William Gibson.

Gibson's second novel, Count Zero (1986a), is set seven years in the future of Neuromancer's world, and to some degree it retains the earlier novel's focus on the underbelly world of computer cowboys, black market drugs, and software. But the pace is somewhat slower, allowing Gibson more time to develop his characters- a mixture of eccentric lowlifes and nonconformists who find themselves confronting representatives of egomaniacal individuals whose vast wealth and power result directly from their ability to control information. More tightly controlled and easier to follow than Neuromancer, Count Zero is nevertheless as extraordinarily rich in suggestive neologisms and other verbal pyrotechnics; it's also a fascinating evocation of a world in which humanity seems to be constantly outshone by the flash and appeal of the images and machines that increasingly seem to push people aside in their abstract dance toward progress and efficiency.

When we spoke in August 1986 at his home in Vancouver, British Columbia, William Gibson was working on the screenplay for Aliens III and on his third novel, Mona Lisa Overdrive (1988), which completes his cyberspace trilogy. Mona Lisa Overdrive expands some of the implications of the two earlier novels- for instance, the interface between the human social world and cyberspace is now sufficiently permeable that humans can actually die in cyberspace; Angie Mitchell (who appeared in Count Zero) is able to tap into the matrix without a computer; and, once again, we witness people (including Molly from Neuromancer) struggling against having their bodies and imaginations manipulated by international corporations who control information and images to suit their own purposes. While these overlaps seem to make Mona Lisa Overdrive less startlingly original than the earlier works, Gibson's experiments with prismatic storytelling methods, his ongoing stylistic virtuosity, and his presentation of characters possessing deeper emotional resonances all point to a growing maturation and versatility.

* * *

Larry McCaffery: There are so many references to rock music and television in your work that it sometimes seems your writing is as much influenced by MTV as by literature. What impact have other media had on your sensibility?

William Gibson: Probably more than fiction. The trouble with "influence" questions is that they're usually framed to encourage you to talk about your writing as if you grew up in a world circumscribed by books. I've been influenced by Lou Reed, for instance, as much as I've been by any "fiction" writer. I was going to use a quote from an old Velvet Underground song- "Watch out for worlds behind you" (from "Sunday Morning")- as an epigraph for Neuromancer.

LM: The breakdown of distinctions- between pop culture and "serious" culture, different genres, different art forms- seems to have had a liberating effect on writers of your generation.

WG: The idea that all this stuff is potentially grist for your mill has been very liberating. This process of cultural mongrelization seems to be what postmodernism is all about. The result is a generation of people (some of whom are artists) whose tastes are wildly eclectic- people who are hip to punk music and Mozart, who rent these terrible horror and SF videos from the 7-11 one night and then invite you to a mud wrestling match or a poetry reading the next. If you're a writer, the trick is to keep your eyes and ears open well enough to let all this in but also, somehow, to recognize intuitively what you should let emerge in your work, how effective something might be in a specific context. I know I don't have a sense of writing as being divided up into different compartments, and I don't separate literature from the other arts. Fiction, television, music, film- all provide material in the form of images and phrases and codes that creep into my writing in ways both deliberate and unconscious.

LM: Our culture is being profoundly transformed by technology in ways most people are only dimly starting to realize. Maybe that's why the American public is so fascinated with SF imagery and vocabulary- even people who don't even know what SF stands for are responding to this stuff subliminally, in ads and so on.

WG: Yeah, like Escape from New York never made it big, but it's been redone a billion times as a rock video. I saw that movie, by the way, when I was starting "Burning Chrome" and it had a real influence on Neuromancer. I was intrigued by the exchange in one of the opening scenes where the Warden says to Snake: "You flew the wing-five over Leningrad, didn't you?" It turns out to be just a throwaway line, but for a moment it worked like the best SF, where a casual reference can imply a lot.

LM: In theory MTV could be an interesting new art form, a combination of advertising and avant-garde film, though it seems to be getting worse.

WG: We don't get MTV up here, but from what I've seen of it in the States, there was initially a feeling of adventure that you don't find in the established forms. But you're right- it's getting worse. So is most SF.

LM: How conscious are you about systematically developing an image or a metaphor when you're writing? For example, the meat puppet image in Neuromancer seems like the perfect metaphor for how the soft machine of our living bodies is manipulated by outside forces. I assume you arrived at that metaphor from listening to the cow-punk band Meat Puppets.

WG: No, I got it from seeing the name in print. I like accidents, when an offhand line breezes by and you think to yourself, Yes, that will do. So you put it in your text and start working with it, seeing how it relates to other things you've got going, and eventually it begins to evolve, to branch off in ways you hadn't anticipated. Part of the process is conscious, in the sense that I'm aware of working this way, but how these things come to be embedded in the text is intuitive. I don't see how writers can do it any other way. I suppose some pick these things up without realizing it, but I'm conscious of waiting for them and seeing where they lead, how they might mutate.

LM: Sounds like a virus.

WG: It is- and only a certain kind of host is going to be able to allow the thing to keep expanding in an optimal way. As you can imagine, the structure of a book like Neuromancer becomes very complicated at a certain point. It wasn't complicated in the "admirably complex" way that you find in Pynchon's novels, but simply in the sense that all these odds and ends started to affect and infect one another.

LM: Does knowing that most readers won't recognize many of these references bother you? Obviously, they don't have to know that "Big Science" is a song by Laurie Anderson in order to catch the drift of what you're suggesting; but if they do know the song, it might broaden the nature of their response.

WG: I enjoy the idea that some levels of the text are closed to most readers. Of course, writers working in popular forms should be aware that readers aren't always going to respond to subtleties- thought that isn't as weird as finding out that people are missing the whole point of what you think you're doing, whether it's thinking you're being ironic when you're not, or being serious when you're trying to make fun of something. When I was in England in February, I noticed that the response to my work was markedly different; people were referring to me as a humorist. In England they think what I'm doing is funny- not that I'm only being funny, but they can see that there's a certain humor in my work.

LM: Clearly, in "Johnny Mnemonic" and "Burning Chrome" you were laying the foundation for what you would do later on in Neuromancer.

WG: Yes, although I didn't think in those terms when I wrote those stories. Actually, "Johnny Mnemonic" was the third piece of fiction I wrote, and the only basis I had for gauging its success was that it sold. "Burning Chrome" was written later on, and even though it got more attention than anything I'd done before, I still felt I was four or five years away from writing a novel. Then Terry Carr recruited me to write a book, which turned out to be Neuromancer. He was looking for people he thought had some promise- he'd offer them contracts and say, "Do you want to write a book?" I said "Yes" almost without thinking, but then I was stuck with a project I wasn't sure I was ready for. In fact I was terrified once I actually sat down and started to think about what I meant. I didn't think I could fill up that many pages; I didn't even know how many pages the manuscript of a novel was "supposed" to have. It had been tkaing me something like three months to write a short story, so starting a novel was really a major leap. I remember going around asking other writers things like, "Assuming I double space everything, how long is a novel?" When somebody told me 300 pages, I thought, My God!

LM: What got you going with the book?

WG: Panic. Blind animal panic. It was a desperate quality that I think comes through in the book pretty clearly: Neuromancer is fueled by my terrible fear of losing the reader's attention. Once it hit me that I had to come up with something, to have a hook on every page, I looked at the stories I'd written up to that point and tried to figure out what had worked for me before. I had Molly in "Johnny Mnemonic"; I had an environment in "Burning Chrome." So I decided I'd try to put these things together. But all during the writing of the book I had the conviction that I was going to be permanently shamed when it appeared. And even when I finished it I had no perspective on what I'd done. I still don't, for that matter. I always feel like one of the guys inside those incredible dragons you see snaking through the crowds in Chinatown. Sure, the dragon is very brightly colored, but from the inside you know the whole thing is pretty flimsy- just a bunch of old newspapers and papier-mache and balsa struts.

LM: The world you evoke in Neuromancer struck me as being a lot like the underworld we find in the work of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett- sleazy, intensely vivid, full of colorful details and exotic lingoes that somehow seem realistic and totally artificial.

WG: It's probably been fifteen years since I read Hammett, but I remember being very excited about how he had pushed all this ordinary stuff until is was different- like American naturalism but cranked up, very intense, almost surreal. You can see this in the beginning of The Maltese Falcon (1930), where he describes all the things in Spade's office. Hammett may have been the guy who turned me on to the idea of superspecificity, which is largely lacking in most SF description, SF authors tend to use generics- "Then he got into his space suit"- a refusal to specify that is almost an unspoken tradition in SF. They know they can get away with having a character arrive on some unimaginably stange and distant planet and say, "I looked out the window and saw the air plant." It doesn't seem to matter that the reader has no idea what the plant looks like, or even what it is. I think Hammett may have given me the idea that you don't have to write like that, even in a popular form. But with Chandler- I never have read much of his work, and I never enjoyed what I did read because I always got this creepy puritanical feeling from his books. Although his surface gloss is very brilliant, his underlying meaning is off-putting to me.

LM: The other reason I thought of Hammett has to do with your rich, poetic vocabulary- the futuristic slang, the street talk, the technical and professional jargon.

WG: I suppose I strive for an argot that seems real, but I don't invent most of what seems like exotic or strange in the dialogue- that's just more collage. There are so many cultures and subcultures today that if you're willing to listen, you can pick up different phrases, inflections, and metaphors everywhere. A lot of the language in Neuromancer and Count Zero that people think is futuristic is probably just 1969 Toronto dope dealer's slang, or biker talk.

LM: Some of the phrases you use in Neuromancer- "flatlining" or "virus program"- manage to evoke some response beyond the literal.

WG: They're poetry! "Flatlining," for example, is ambulance driver slang for "death." I heard it in a bar maybe twenty years ago and it stuck with me. A drunken, crying ambulance driver saying, "She flatlined." I use a lot of phrases that seem exotic to everyone but the people who use them. Oddly enough, I almost never get new buzzwords from other SF writers. I heard about "virus program" from an ex-WAC computer operator who had worked in the Pentagon. She was talking one night about guys who came in every day and wiped the boards of all the video games people had built into them, and how some people were building these little glich-things that tried to evade the official wipers- things that would hide and then pop out and say, "Screw you!" before vanishing into the framework of logic. (Listening to me trying to explain this, it immediately becomes apparent that I have no grasp of how computers really work- it's been a contact high for me.) Anyway, it wasn't until after the book came out that I met people who knew what a virus program actually was.

LM: So your use of computers and science results more from their metaphoric value or from the way they sound than from any familiarity with how they actually operate.

WG: I'm looking for images that supply a certain atmosphere. Right now, science and technology seem to be very useful sources. But I'm more interested in the language of, say, computers than I am in the technicalities. On the most basic level, computers in my books are simply a metaphor for human memory: I'm interested in the hows and whys of memory, the ways it defines who and what we are, in how easily memory is subject to revision. When I was writing Neuromancer, it was wonderful to be able to tie a lot of these interests into the computer metaphor. It wasn't until I could finally afford a computer of my own that I found out there's a drive mechanism inside- this little thing that spins around. I'd been expecting an exotic crystalline thing, a cyberspace deck or something, and what I got was a little piece of a Victorian engine that made noises like a scratchy old record player. That noise took away some of the mystique for me; it made computers less sexy. My ignorance had allowed me to romanticize them.

LM: What many readers first notice in Neuromancer are all the cyberpunk elements- exotic lingoes, drugs, cyber-realities, clothes, and so on. In many ways, though, the plot is very traditional: the down-and-out gangster who's been jerked around and wants to get even by pulling the big heist. Did you make a conscious decision to attach this punked-out cyber-reality to the framework of an established plot?

WG: When I said earlier that a lot of what went into Neuromancer was the result of desperation, I wasn't exaggerating. I knew I was so inexperienced that I would need a traditional plot armature that had proven its potential for narrative traction. I had these different things I wanted to use, but since I didn't have a preset notion of where I was going, the plot had to be something I already felt comfortable with. Also, since I wrote Neuromancer very much under the influence of Robert Stone- who's a master of a certain kind of paranoid fiction- it's not surprising that what I wound up with was something like a Howard Hawkes film.

LM: First novels are often the most autobiographical. Were you drawing on a lot of things from your own past in Neuromancer?

WG: Neuromancer isn't autobiographical in any literal sense, but I did draw on my sense of what people are like to develop these characters. Part of that came from accessing my own screwed-up adolescence; and another part of it came from watching how kids reacted to all the truly horrible stuff happening all around them- that unfocused angst and weird lack of affect.

LM: Did the book undergo significant changes once you knew the basic structure was in place?

WG: The first two-thirds was rewritten a dozen times- a lot of stylistic changes, once I had the feel of the world, but also a lot of monkeying around to make the plot seem vaguely plausible. I had to cover up some of the shabbier coincidences, for example. Also, I never had a very clear idea of what was going to happen in the end, except that the gangsters had to score big.

LM: Do you look for specific effects when you revise your prose?

WG: My revisions mainly involve looking for passages that "clunk." When I first started to write, I found that in reading for pleasure I'd become suddenly aware that a beat had been missed, that the rhythm was gone. It's hard to explain, but when I go over my own writing I look for places where I've missed the beat. Usually I can correct it by condensing my prose so that individual parts carry more weight, are charged with more meaning; almost always the text gets shorter. I'm aware that this condensation process winds up putting off some readers. "Genre" SF readers say that Neuromancer and Count Zero are impossibly dense, literally impossible to read; but other SF readers who ordinarily have no patience for "serious" fiction seem to be turned on by what I'm doing. Now that I've gained some experience writing, revisions take up less of my time; in fact, it's become easier to hit a level I'm satisfied with and stay there. One of the big problems with Neuromancer was that I had so much stuff- all this material that had been accumulating- that it was hard to get it into a manageable book.

LM: Has Thomas Pynchon had an influence on your work?

WG: Pynchon has been a favorite writer and a major influence all along. In many ways I see him as almost the start of a certain mutant pop culture imagery with esoteric historical and scientific information. Pynchon is a kind of mythic hero of mine, and I suspect that if you talk with a lot of recent SF writers you'll find they've all read Gravity's Rainbow (1973) several times and have been very much influenced by it. I was into Pynchon early on- I remember seeing a New York Times review of V. when it first came out- I was just a kid- and thinking, Boy, that sounds like some really weird shit!

LM: What was the inspiration for your cyberspace idea?

WG: I was walking down Granville Street, Vancouver's version of "The Strip," and I was looking into one of the video arcades. I could see in the physical intensity of their postures how rapt the kids inside were. It was like one of those closed systems out of a Pynchon novel: a feedback loop with photons coming off the screens into the kids' eyes, neurons moving through their bodies, and electrons moving through the video game. These kids clearly believed in the space games projected. Everyone I know who works with computers seems to develop a belief that there's some kind of actual space behind the screen, someplace you can't see but you know is there.

LM: From a purely technical standpoint, the cyberspace premise must have been great to hit on simply because it creates a rationale for so many different narrative "spaces."

WG: When I arrived at the cyberspace concept, while I was writing "Burning Chrome," I could see right away that it was resonant in a lot of ways. By the time I was writing Neuromancer, I recognized that cyberspace allowed for a lot moves, because characters can be sucked into apparent realities- which means you can place them in any sort of setting or against any backdrop. In some ways I tried to downplay that aspect, because if I overdid it I'd have an open-ended plot premise. That kind of freedom can be dangerous because you don't have to justify what's happening in terms of the logic of character or plot. In Count Zero, I wanted to slow things down a bit and learn how to do characterization. I was aware that Neuromancer was going to seem like a roller coaster ride to most readers- you've got lots of excitement but maybe not much understanding of where you've been or why you were heading there in the first place. I enjoyed being able to present someone like Virek in Count Zero, who apparently lives in any number of "realities"- he's got the city of Barcelona if he wants it, and an array of other possibilities, even though he's actually a pile of cells in a vat somewhere.

LM: Philip K. Dick was always writing about people like Virek who have so many "reality options," so many different reproductions and illusions, that it's difficult to know what reality is more real- the one in their heads or the one that seems to exist outside. That's a powerful notion.

WG: Yeah, it is powerful- which is why it's such a temptation to keep pushing once you've got a concept like cyberspace that creates an instant rationale. I probably was a little heavy-handed in Count Zero with Bobby's mother, who's hooked on the soaps, who lives in them, but it was just too much to resist. Everybody asks me about Dick being an influence, but I hadn't read much of his work before I started writing- though I've imagined a world in which Pynchon sold his early stories to Fantasy and Science Fiction and became an alternate Dick.

LM: One of the issues your work raises is the way information- this "dance of data," as you refer to it- not only controls our daily lives but may be the best way for us to understand the fundamental processes that control the universe's ongoing transformation. It seems significant that mostly SF writers are tuned to this.

WG: Information is the dominant scientific metaphor of our age, so we need to face it, to try to understand what it means. It's not that technology has changed everything by transforming it into codes. Newtonians didn't see things in terms of information exchange, but today we do. That carries over into my suspicion that Sigmund Freud has a lot to do with steam engines- both seem to be similar metaphors.

LM: The various ways you use the dance metaphor in Neuromancer suggests a familiarity with the interactions between Eastern mysticism and modern physics.

WG: I was aware that the image of the dance was part of Eastern mysticism, but a more direct source was John Shirley, who was living in the East Village and wrote me a letter that described the thing about proteins linking. That's just another example of how pathetically makeshift everything looks from inside the papier-mache dragon. It was the same thing with the voodoo gods in Count Zero: a copy of National Geographic was lying around that had an article about Haitian voodoo in it.

LM: Back in the '60s and early '70s, most of the important New Wave SF took a pessimistic stance toward technology and progress. Although your work has sometimes been described as glorifying technology. I'd say it offers a more ambivalent view.

WG: My feelings about technology are totally ambivalent- which seems to me to be the only way to relate to what's happening today. When I write about technology, I write about how it has already affected our lives; I don't extrapolate in the way I was taught an SF writer should. You'll notice in Neuromancer that there's obviously been a war, but I don't explain what caused it or even who was fighting it. I've never had the patience or the desire to work out the details of who's doing what to whom, or exactly when something is taking place, or what's become of the United States. That kind of literalism has always seemed silly to me; it detracts from the reading pleasure I get from SF. My aim isn't to provide specific predictions or judgments so much as to find a suitable fictional context in which to examine the very mixed blessings of technology.