Thursday, March 12, 2009

Gibsonísme (51)


by Bill

"Like entering a game, a layout, something flat and mazed, arbitrarily but fractally constructed from beautifully detailed but somehow unreal buildings, its code perhaps reshuffled since the last time he’d been here. The pixels that comprised it were familiar, but it remained only provisionally mapped, a protean territory, a box of tricks, possibly benign. This last owing, he suspected, to his having relatively little history here, prior to Basel."

Question: At what point does prose become poetry?

(Via GibsonBlog.)

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