By Jeff Noon
Vurt is a feather--a drug, a size, a dream nation, a digital truth. It is available in many colours: felony Blues for lullaby desires. Blacks, full of tenderness and discomfort, simply past the legislations. purple Pornovurts, doors to bliss. Silver feathers for techies who understand how to remix shades and open new dimensions. And Yellows--the feathers from which there's no get away.
The attractive younger Desdemona is trapped in Curious Yellow, the final word Metavurt, a feather few have ever noticeable and less nonetheless have dared ingest. Her brother Scribble will probability every thing to rescue his liked sister. Helped via his gang, the Stash Riders, hindered via shadowcops, robos, rock and roll dogmen, and his personal dread, Scribble searches alongside the sides of civilization for a feather that, if it exists in any respect, needs to be obtained with the only factor no sane individual could willingly give.
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Sample text
Er was één ding waar ik vanavond geen zin in had. Ik wilde er niet bij zijn wanneer Serge Lohman door de restauranthouder of dienstdoende gerant als een oude kennis zou worden begroet; hoe hij door de serveersters naar het mooiste tafeltje aan de tuinzijde zou worden begeleid, en hoe Serge zelf zou doen of het allemaal niks te betekenen had, dat hij diep in zijn hart altijd een gewone jongen was gebleven en zich daarom vooral op zijn gemak voelde tussen andere gewone mensen. Daarom had ik tegen hem gezegd dat we elkaar wel in het restaurant zouden zien en niet, zoals hij had voorgesteld, in het café om de hoek.
Omdat het goed was iets over dieren te leren – om iets van het zorgen voor dieren te leren, vermoed ik. Of de blaadjes die wij ’s ochtends door de tralies heen duwden van veldsla waren, weet ik niet meer, het leek er in elk geval sterk op. De hamster of marmot kauwde met zijn snelle tandjes op de sla en zat de rest van de dag stil in een hoekje van zijn kooi. Op een ochtend was hij dood, net als het schildpadje, twee witte muizen en de wandelende takken, die hem waren voorgegaan. Wat wij van dit hoge sterftecijfer zouden kunnen leren, werd in de klas niet behandeld.
Zei ik. ’ Ik moest Claire niet aankijken, wij kenden elkaar te goed, mijn ogen zouden me verraden. Daarom deed ik of ik het café rondkeek, of ik buitengewoon geboeid was door het schouwspel van de in levendige gesprekken verwikkelde gewone mensen. Ik was blij dat ik voet bij stuk had gehouden en dat we pas in het restaurant met de Lohmans hadden afgesproken; in gedachten zag ik Serge door de klapdeurtjes komen, zijn grijns die de gewone mensen zou aansporen om toch vooral door te gaan met waar ze mee bezig waren en niet op hem te letten.