Best 253 quotes in «cyberpunk quotes» category

Non c'è luogo, in questo mondo, dove lo squallore e la crudeltà fioriscano lussureggianti come per le strade di Muspel. Vi si può trovare qualsiasi cosa, viva o morta, ma spesso si tratta più di una via di mezzo tra le due, perché dove la vita si assottiglia, fino a strisciare nelle vie soffocanti ricolme di bazar, non esiste più confine tra bene e male.

Non ha senso! Perché la vita deve fare così male? Non conoscono altro modo, quei maledetti esseri umani? Dannate creature involute e primitive, con tutte le soluzioni possibili in natura ed oltre, proprio questa?

No one knows who made the swans, did you know that?" Massimo said this looking out over the water. Niamh felt er heart rate pick up. "Beautiful, aren't they? I wonder who did make them and why. They must have seen real swans to capture them so well don't you think?" He paused to look at Niamh as he always did. As though he still expected her to answer. Niamh raked on. "I suppose there aren't any swans left at all now," Massimo mused. No, all gone now. Gone like the lake. Gone like the farm. Gone like my brothers. Grief tore at Niamh. 'A Lamentation of Swans

once you start running and apply the mathematics of change, suddenly this insurmountable distance gets crushed under the curve of motion.

Only the framing material," Lucas demurely, "obvious influences, Neo-Tokyo from Akira, Ghost in the Shell, Metal Gear Solid by Hideo Kojima, or as he's known in my crib, God.

One of the things I like about Cyber World is that it shows cyberpunk has left its heteronormative boy’s club roots behind in the dust.

Our cyberworld and cyberspace are infested with so many cyberscoundrels, cybercriminals, cybersluts and cyberpunks - that is virtually impossible for the cybercops (cyberpolice) to catch or stop them using known cybertechniques and save the cyberphobia of millions of cybernauts, many of whom are cyberholics.

Power rides her fingers, she moves from datashell to datashell, walking the nets like the ghost of a shadow, her trail vanishing behind her as she goes. She carries power in the dark behind her eyes.

Over-reliance on digital infrastructure. If you don't exist in the infrastructure, where do you exist?

Oyin Da’s mind is as elegant as a French horn, thoughts moving in whorls and evoking fresh mint leaves.

Perhaps that's what the symbol means. What's the point of anarchy when the society you live in can shove you into a box no matter how hard you rebel? He can't help but think that's why the system evolved. To contain the uncontainable. Limit the prospects of those with limitless capacity for thought, creativity and analysis.

Qaanaaq was governed by a hundred thousand computer programs... but sometimes contradictory or irreconcilable mandates sparked a squabble that brought an agency's operations to a standstill until a human--or more likely--another AI intervened.

Proximity to the device tempted him, a muted siren’s call to undress, open the coffin-like lid and climb into the lukewarm saline solution, to plug his interface jack in, sheathe his genitals in the waste catch and sink down into the glorious rush of jacking in. He missed the freefall adrenaline of consciousness translated into pure data, of his body rendered in liquid mercury, shifting and changing with his every thought. He missed the thrill of cracking databank security, of running from anti-intrusion software and other hackers.

She blew a light and watched a fire start. They would never leave her, now. I have no mouth, the city thought as she went to sleep, but I could kiss you.

Rilke knew what was up. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will gradually, without noticing it, one distant day, live right into the answer. What’s truer than that...

Scorching, desiccated air blasted Nika as she stepped off the transport and peeled layers of moist tissue off her throat as she inhaled. She pivoted, yanked her heavy tactical shirt up over her head and tossed it inside the transport. The material was designed to protect her from blows and glancing cuts and would be less than useless against a Rasu attack— —a scorpion-like creature sporting a tail six centimeters long scurried past her feet in the sand, and she promptly retrieved the shirt and pulled it back on with a groan. The planet had defenses of its own, and the Rasu weren’t the only threat here.

see, when I’m not paying attention to my barriers, I can glimpse other people’s thoughts. I catch them like lingering aftertastes or smells they leave in their wake: bitter envy, coppery anger, sour regret, the foul miasma of malice and cruelty.

..she can feel that burden sometimes like a wall pressing in over the dome of the false sky that bounds the city. *Someone has to*, she says again, as if the ghost is somewhere in the machines that create this Seaheaven, as if he might have cared and turns away, walks back down the vivid street, the dust soft and almost real against her feet.

Riots followed hunger like thunder follows lightning.

Se quello era il prezzo dell'immortalità, allora sarebbe stato più alto di quello richiesto dalla morte.

She’d never been on board a ship like this one. A real starship worthy of the name, where everything from the reinforced hull to the sophisticated instrumentation created a sense of presence, of consequentiality. When a vessel of this ilk cut a swath through the void, the void noticed. But Nicolette Hinotori had once commanded a generation ship, which meant buried in Nika’s core operating system was knowledge about the operation of such vessels. She stood in the center of the bridge, closed her eyes and asked herself a question. Results flooded her mind, and she hurriedly initiated a sort-and-prioritize algorithm to impose order on them. Then she gazed around the bridge with new eyes.

She glimpsed the sexless mounds between their legs and shuddered. For some reason, she found their lack of genitals uncannily obscene, an indignity, a piece of humanity they had been denied.

She liked the high places, away from the subterranean rage of the working class. No one was there to mirror her image in their funhouse looking-glass.

She made us realize that human dignity is inalienable, and as long as there is still breath left in your body, there will always be something left to fight for.

She placed a hand on his arm. “It’s not our fault, not truly. It’s theirs. The killers. They’re the ones who—” “Get down!” Caleb collided with her back, sending her crashing to the floor hard enough to knock the air from her chest. The windows shattered and the sounds of a city overtaken by chaos rushed in.

She's always scorned his squeamishness, citing the replacement of his vagina with a dick. Joon thinks that's invasion of a far more nail-biting nature. She has no idea. It was fucking heaven. He'd do it again a million times over. And it's one hell of a long way from chopping open your head for the sake of more tech.

She's wanted to erase him from her life for the longest time and never had the courage. Now she realizes it wasn't courage she needed, but this anger. This sickening, all-consuming rage.

Slums are always a marvel; how human desperation can seem to warp the very laws of physics.

She was everywhere. She was screaming in her tortured body. She was watching from cameras in every room. She was the false weather system and the storage devices. She was the gate keeper, throwing six shirts over her swan-brothers necks...opening six doors for her brothers to step through as young men, though their bodies were long gone, used up by the organ banks of the upper castes. A Lamentation of Swans

She was in the zone, a human copressor for a complex system that used machines as a nervous system to wire together the intelligence of a global crowd of people she loved with all her heart.

Siete stati manipolati a un livello più profondo di quanto immaginiate.

She tries to envision a life without the debt, but can’t string the thoughts together in the right order. The debt is all there has ever been. It makes all her decisions for her. Chooses who she is going to be.

Shifting culture requires a confluence of inciting incidents. Something directional that leads to a tribal fracturing and reknitting. Often shows up in language first. In music. Fashion. It can feel a little like hope.” He points at the images. “This doesn’t feel like hope.

〔〔 〕〕 Shutting-down your identity requires a voyage out to K-space interzone. Zootic affectivity flatlines across a smooth cata-tension plateau and into simulated subversions of the near future, scorched vivid green by alien sex and war. You are drawn into the dripping depths of the net, where dynamic-ice security forces and K-guerillas stalk each other through labyrinthine erogenous zones, tangled in diseased elaborations of desire.

Tears of pain are as regular as blood and piss.

Suddenly I could imagine all the things my body might do when I wasn't there to stop it and I felt so vile they might as well have happened. Maybe they had; they just hadn't left marks. I thought about a future full of blank spaces, and I knew I couldn't bear it. If that was the future, I had to escape it.

Sooner or later we stop running, stop climbing, stop reaching for the sky. We stop pushing ourselves toward unattainable goals because common sense tells us that the only logical thing to do is push ourselves toward the attainable ones. If running through the world like kids on the playground is a kind of dream, then at a certain point we just stop dreaming.

standard Superconducting Quantum Interference Device, or SQUID, interface. The same kind doctors use to communicate with surgically implanted components like pacemakers.

That's how it ought to be...Tech to live not live to tech.

That's how we should celebrate all birthdays... with an ass-kicking.

That’s the point of Zeno’s Paradox, isn’t it? Whatever your goal, you’re never more than halfway there.

That would prove a recurring trait in him—the need to cover up his inadequacies with small lies and slight exaggerations. To pretend knowledge he didn’t have. I forgave him this flaw for I knew what it hid; I could feel his need like a pleasantly raw wound in my mouth, and I could not help but savour it.

That takes me by surprise. To willingly give up your implant? They make modern life bearable. "Don't look so shocked. Implants aren't everything. It's not a weakness to want to separate mind from machine." Weakness maybe not, but definitely outside the norm.

…the abstract geometrics spasming across the TV screen are settling into a deep crystalline blue, the same as the color from her implant’s diagnostics, which somehow seems natural, as though her history pervaded everything, and the world were the palace of her memory

the failure of language.” “It’s a creative destruction. Out of that failure comes culture. Out of culture comes desire. Out of desire come products.

The arm that carries the data. That’s your wing.

The best way to hide the truth is to shroud it in myth

...the bioidentical cortex chip that will be implanted subcutaneously on the inside of your forearm. It is a proprietary biocircuit developed in our labs specifically for this purpose, and it is unlike any other in the world.

the briefest flash of pale, pale ice over a thin-boned shoulder. Neon caught the red lotus splayed on her elbow and lit it on fire.

The electro-cauterizer sliced through the wires behind my cybernetic eye, and as the world went black, so did a large portion of my memory.