Five hours’ New York jet lag and Cayce Pollard wakes in Camden Town to the dire and ever-circling wolves of disrupted circadian rhythm.
It is that flat and spectral non-hour, awash in limbic tides, brainstem stirring fitfully, flashing inappropriate reptilian demands for sex, food, sedation, all of the above, and none really an option now.
A departure from the body of work most readers are familiar with, Pattern Recognition takes place in the present, instead of the cyberpunk future Gibson helped build.
Now February cannot get here fast enough. . .