Snow Crash

Snow Crash

4.4 454
by Neal Stephenson

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One of Time magazine's 100 all-time best English-language novels.

Only once in a great while does a writer come along who defies comparison—a writer so original he redefines the way we look at the world. Neal Stephenson is such a writer and Snow Crash is such a novel, weaving virtual reality, Sumerian myth, and just about everything in between

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One of Time magazine's 100 all-time best English-language novels.

Only once in a great while does a writer come along who defies comparison—a writer so original he redefines the way we look at the world. Neal Stephenson is such a writer and Snow Crash is such a novel, weaving virtual reality, Sumerian myth, and just about everything in between with a cool, hip cybersensibility to bring us the gigathriller of the information age.

In reality, Hiro Protagonist delivers pizza for Uncle Enzo’s CosoNostra Pizza Inc., but in the Metaverse he’s a warrior prince. Plunging headlong into the enigma of a new computer virus that’s striking down hackers everywhere, he races along the neon-lit streets on a search-and-destroy mission for the shadowy virtual villain threatening to bring about infocalypse. Snow Crash is a mind-altering romp through a future America so bizarre, so outrageous…you’ll recognize it immediately.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Stephenson has not stepped, he has vaulted onto the literary stage with this novel."—Los Angeles Reader

"A cross between Neuromancer and Thomas Pynchon's Vineland. This is no mere hyperbole."—San Francisco Bay Guardian

"Fast-forward free-style mall mythology for the 21st century."—William Gibson

"Brilliantly realized...Stephenson turns out to be an engaging guide to an onrushing tomorrow."—New York Times Book Review

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
In California of the near future, when the U.S. is only a ``Burbclave'' (city-state), the Mafia is just another franchise chain (CosaNostrastet Pizza, Incorporated) and there are no laws to speak of, Hiro Protagonist follows clues from the Bible, ancient Sumer and high technology to help thwart an attempt to take control of civilization--such as it is. When he logs on to Metaverse, an imaginary place entered via computer, Hiro encounters Juanita Marquez, a ``radical'' Catholic and computer whiz. She warns him off Snow Crash (a street drug named for computer failure) and gives him a file labeled Babel (as in Tower of Babel). Another friend, sp ok/pk Da5id, who ignores Juanita's warning, computer crashes out of Metaverse into the real world, where he physically collapses. Hiro, Juanita, Y.T. (a freewheeling, skateboard-riding courier) and sundry other Burbclave and franchise power figures see some action on the way to finding out who is behind this bizarre ``drug'' with ancient roots. Although Stephenson ( Zodiac ) provides more Sumerian culture than the story strictly needs (alternating intense activity with scholarship breaks), his imaginative juxtaposition of ancient and futuristic detail could make this a cult favorite. (May)
Library Journal
Hiro Protagonist, delivery boy for Uncle Enzo's CosaNostra Pizza and freelance hacker in the virtual reality called the Metaverse, tangles with religious cultists, computer virus/drug dealers, and a human bomb known as the Raven in a freewheeling first novel that picks up where cyberpunk left off. Rapid-fire action scenes interspersed with snippets of Sumerian mythology and vignettes of a franchise-dominated 21st century combine to produce a heady, surrealistic pastiche of the not-so-distant future. Satiric sf at its best, this novel is highly recommended for all libraries.

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Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Edition description:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.16(w) x 8.17(h) x 1.01(d)
970L (what's this?)
Age Range:
14 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallowed sub-category. He's got esprit up to here. Right now he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachno-fiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books.

When they gave him the job, they gave him a gun. The Deliverator never deals in cash, but someone might come after him anyway–might want his car, or his cargo. The gun is a tiny, aero-styled, lightweight, the kind of a gun a fashion designer would carry; it fires teensy darts that fly at five times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane, and when you get done using it, you have to plug it in to the cigarette lighter, because it runs on electricity.

The Deliverator never pulled that gun in anger, or in fear. He pulled it once in Gila Highlands. Some punks in Gila Highlands, a fancy Burbclave, wanted themselves a delivery, and they didn't want to pay for it. Thought they would impress the Deliverator with a baseball bat. The Deliverator took out his gun, centered its laser doo-hickey on that poised Louisville Slugger, fired it. The recoil was immense, as though the weapon had blown up in his hand. The middle third of the baseball bat turned into a column of burning sawdust accelerating in all directions like a bursting star. Punk ended up holding this bat handle with milky smoke pouring out the end. Stupid look on his face. Didn't get nothing but trouble from the Deliverator.

Since then the Deliverator has kept the gun in the glove compartment and relied, instead, on a matched set of samurai swords, which have always been his weapon of choice anyhow. The punks in Gila Highlands weren't afraid of the gun, so the Deliverator was forced to use it. But swords need no demonstration.

The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta.

Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a roll model. This is America. People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it–we're talking trade balances here–once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwaves in Tadzhikistan and selling them here–once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships and dirigibles that can ship North Dakota all the way to New Zealand for a nickel–once the Invisible Hand has taken all those historical inequities and smeared them out into a broad global layer of what a Pakistani bricklayer would consider to be prosperity–y'know what? There's only four things we do better than anyone else

music movies microcode (software)
high-speed pizza delivery

The Deliverator used to make software. Still does, sometimes. But if life were a mellow elementary school run by well-meaning education Ph.D.s, the Deliverator's report card would say; "Hiro is so bright and creative but needs to work harder on his cooperation skills."

So now he has this other job. No brightness or creativity involved–but no cooperation either. Just a single principle: The Deliverator stands tall, your pie in thirty minutes or you can have it free, shoot the driver, take his car, file a class-action suit. The Deliverator has been working this job for six months, a rich and lengthy tenure by his standards, and has never delivered a pizza in more than twenty-one minutes.

Oh, they used to argue over times, many corporate driver-years lost to it: homeowners, red-faced and sweaty with their own lies, stinking of Old Spice and job-related stress, standing in their glowing yellow doorways brandishing their Seikos and waving at the clock over the kitchen sink, I swear, can’t you guys tell time?

Didn’t happen anymore. Pizza delivery is a major industry. A managed industry. People went to CosaNostra Pizza University four years just to learn it. Came in its doors unable to write an English sentence, from Abkhazia, Rwanda, Guanajuato, South Jersey, and came out knowing more about pizza than a Bedouin knows about sand. And they had studied this problem. Graphed the frequency of doorway delivery-time disputes. Wired the early Deliverators to record, then analyze, the debating tactics, the voice-stress histograms, the distinctive grammatical structures employed by white middle-class Type A Burbclave occupants who against all logic had decided that this was the place to take their personal Custerian stand against all that was stale and deadening in their lives: they were going to lie, or delude themselves, about the time of their phone call and get themselves a free pizza; no, they deserved a free pizza along with their life, liberty, and pursuit of whatever, it was fucking inalienable. Sent psychologists out to these people’s houses, gave them a free TV set to submit to an anonymous interview, hooked them to polygraphs, studied their brain waves as they showed them choppy, inexplicable movies of porn queens and late-night car crashes and Sammy Davis, Jr., put them in sweet-smelling, mauve-walled rooms and asked them questions about Ethics so perplexing that even a Jesuit couldn’t respond without committing a venial sin.

The analysts at CosaNostra Pizza University concluded that it was just human nature and you couldn’t fix it, and so they went for a quick cheap technical fix: smart boxes. The pizza box is a plastic carapace now, corrugated for stiffness, a little LED readout glowing on the side, telling the Deliverator how many trade imbalance-producing minutes have ticked away since the fateful phone call. There are chips and stuff in there. The pizzas rest, a short stack of them, in slots behind the Deliverator’s head. Each pizza glides into a slot like a circuit board into a computer, clicks into place as the smart box interfaces with the onboard system of the Deliverator’s car. The address of the caller has already been inferred from his phone number and poured into the smart box’s built-in RAM. From there it is communicated to the car, which computes and projects the optimal route on a heads-up display, a glowing colored map traced out against the windshield so that the Deliverator does not even have to glance down.

If the thirty-minute deadline expires, news of the disaster is flashed to CosaNostra Pizza Headquarters and relayed from there to Uncle Enzo himself–the Sicilian Colonel Sanders, the Andy Griffith of Bensonhurst, the straight razor-swinging figment of many a Deliverator’s nightmares, the Capo and prime figurehead of CosaNostra Pizza, Incorporated–who will be on the phone to the customer within five minutes, apologizing profusely. The next day, Uncle Enzo will land on the customer’s yard in a jet helicopter and apologize some more and give him a free trip to Italy–all he has to do is sign a bunch of releases that make him a public figure and spokesperson for CosaNostra Pizza and basically end his private life as he knows it. He will come away from the whole thing feeling that, somehow, he owes the Mafia a favor.

The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And how would you feel if you had to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and kiss the feet of some sixteen-year-old skate punk whose pepperoni was thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea.

But he wouldn’t drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way. You know why? Because there’s something about having your life on the line. It’s like being a kamikaze pilot. Your mind is clear. Other people–store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America–other people just reply on plain old competition. Better flip your burgers or debug your subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we’re in competition with those guys, and people are noticing these things.

What a fucking rat race that is. CosaNostra Pizza doesn’t have any competition. Competition goes against the Mafia ethic. You don’t work harder because you’re competing against some identical operation down the street. You work harder because everything is on the line. Your name, your honor, your family, your life. Those burger flippers might have a better life expectancy–but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself. That’s why nobody, not even the Nipponese, can move pizzas faster than CosaNostra. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the car, proud to march up the front walks of innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or 15:15 or the occasional 20:43.

The Deliverator is assigned to CosaNostra Pizza #3569 in the Valley. Southern California doesn’t know whether to bustle or just strangle itself on the spot. Not enough roads for the number of people. Fairlanes, Inc. is laying new ones all the time. Have to bulldoze lots of neighborhoods to do it, but those seventies and eighties developments exist to be bulldozed, right? No sidewalks, no schools, no nothing. Don’t have their own police force–no immigration control–undesirables can walk right in without being frisked or even harassed. Now a Burbclave, that’s the place to live. A city-state with its own constitution, a border, laws, cops, everything.

The Deliverator was a corporal in the Farms of Merryvale State Security Force for a while once. Got himself fired for pulling a sword on an acknowledged perp. Slid it right through the fabric of the perp’s shirt, gliding the flat of the blade along the base of his neck, and pinned him to a warped and bubbled expanse of vinyl siding on the wall of the house that the perp was trying to break into. Thought it was a pretty righteous bust. But they fired him anyway because the perp turned out to be the son of the vice-chancellor of the Farms of Merryvale. Oh, the weasels had an excuse: said that a thirty-six-inch samurai sword was not on their Weapons Protocol. Said that he had violated the SPAC, the Suspected Perpetrator Apprehension Code. Said that the perp had suffered psychological trauma. He was afraid of butter knives now; he had to spread his jelly with the back of a teaspoon. They said that he had exposed them to liability.

The Deliverator had to borrow some money to pay for it. Had to borrow it from the Mafia, in fact. So he’s in their database now–retinal patterns, DNA, voice graph, fingerprints, footprints, palm prints, wrist prints, every fucking part of the body that had wrinkles on it–almost–those bastards rolled in ink and made a print and digitized it into their computer. But it’s their money–sure they’re careful about loaning it out. And when he applied for the Deliverator job they were happy to take him, because they knew him. When he got the loan, he had to deal personally with the assistant vice-capo of the Valley, who later recommended him for the Deliverator job. So it was like being in a family. A really scary, twisted, abusive family.

CosaNostra Pizza #3569 is on Vista Road just down from Kings Park Mall. Vista Road used to belong to the State of California and now is called Fairlanes, Inc. Rte. CSV-5. Its main competition used to be a U.S. highway and is now called Cruiseways, Inc. Rte. Cal-12. Farther up the Valley, the two competing highways actually cross. Once there had been bitter disputes, the intersection closed by sporadic sniper fire. Finally, a big developer bought the entire intersection and turned it into a drive-through mall. Now the roads just feed into a parking system–not a lot, not a ramp, but a system–and lose their identity. Getting through the intersection involves tracing paths through the parking system, many braided filaments of direction like the Ho Chi Minh trail. CSV-5 has better throughput, but Cal-12 has better pavement. That is typical–Fairlanes roads emphasize getting you there, for Type A drivers, and Cruiseways emphasize the enjoyment of the ride, for Type B drivers.

The Deliverator is a Type A driver with rabies. He is zeroing in on his home base, CosaNostra Pizza #3569, cranking up the left lane of CSV-5 at a hundred and twenty kilometers. His car is an invisible black lozenge, just a dark place that reflects the tunnel of franchise signs–the loglo. A row of orange lights burbles and churns across the front, where the grille would be if this were an air-breathing car. The orange light looks like a gasoline fire. It comes in through people’s rear windows, bounces off their rearview mirrors, projects a fiery mask across their eyes, reaches into their subconscious, and unearths terrible fears of being pinned, fully conscious, under a detonating gas tank, makes them want to pull over and let the Deliverator overtake them in his black chariot of pepperoni fire.

The loglo, overhead, making out CSV-5 in twin contrails, is a body of electrical light made of innumerable cells, each cell designed in Manhattan by imageers who make more for designing a single logo than a Deliverator will make in his entire lifetime. Despite their efforts to stand out, they all smear together, especially at a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. Still, it is easy to see CosaNostra Pizza #3569 because of the billboard, which is wide and tall even by current inflated standards. In fact, the squat franchise itself looks like nothing more than a low-slung base for the great aramid fiber pillars that thrust the billboard up into the trademark firmament. Marca Registrada, baby.

The billboard is a classic, a chestnut, not a figment of some fleeting Mafia promotional campaign. It is a statement, a monument built to endure. Simple and dignified. It shows Uncle Enzo in one of his spiffy Italian suits. The pinstripes glint and flex like sinews. The pocket square is luminous. His hair is perfect, slicked back with something that never comes off, each strand cut off straight and square at the end by Uncle Enzo’s cousin, Art the Barber, who runs the second-largest chain of low-end haircutting establishments in the world. Uncle Enzo is standing there, not exactly smiling, an avuncular glint in his eye for sure, not posing like a model but standing there like your uncle would, and it says

The Mafia
You’ve got a friend in The Family!
Paid for by the Our Thing Foundation

The billboard serves as the Deliverator’s polestar. He knows that when he gets to the place on CSV-5 where the bottom corner of the billboard is obscured by the pseudo-Gothic stained-glass arches of the local Reverend Wayne’s Pearly Gates franchise, it’s time for him to get over into the right lanes where the retards and the bimbo boxes poke along, random, indecisive, looking at each passing franchise’s driveway like they don’t know if it’s a promise or a threat.

He cuts off a bimbo box–a family minivan–veers past the Buy ‘n’ Fly that is next door, and pulls into CosaNostra Pizza #3569. Those big fat contact patches complain, squeal a little bit, but they hold on to the patented Fairlanes, Inc. high-traction pavement and guide him into the chute. No other Deliverators are waiting in the chute. That is good, that means high turnover for him, fast action, keep moving that ‘za. As he scrunches to a stop, the electromechanical hatch on the flank of his car is already opening to reveal his empty pizza slots, the door clicking and folding back in on itself like the wing of a beetle. The slots are waiting. Waiting for hot pizza.

And waiting. The Deliverator honks his horn. This is not a nominal outcome.

Window slides open. That should never happen. You can look at the three-ring binder from CosaNostra Pizza University, cross-reference the citation for window, chute, dispatcher’s, and it will give you all the procedures for that window–and it should never be opened. Unless something has gone wrong.

The window slides open and–you sitting down?–smoke comes out of it. The Deliverator hears a discordant beetling over the metal hurricane of his sound system and realizes that it is a smoke alarm, coming from inside the franchise.

Mute button on the stereo. Oppressive silence–his eardrums uncringe–the window is buzzing with the cry of the smoke alarm. The car idles, waiting. The hatch has been open too long, atmospheric pollutants are congealing on the electrical contacts in the back of the pizza slots, he’ll have to clean them ahead of schedule, everything is going exactly the way it shouldn’t go in the three-ring binder that spells out all the rhythms of the pizza universe.

Inside, a football-shaped Abkhazian man is running to and fro, holding a three-ring binder open, using his spare tire as a ledge to keep it from collapsing shut; he runs with the gait of a man carrying an egg on a spoon. He is shouting in the Abkhazian dialect; all the people who run CosaNostra pizza franchises in this part of the Valley are Abkhazian immigrants.

It does not look like a serious fire. The Deliverator saw a real fire once, at the Farms of Merryvale, and you couldn’t see anything for the smoke. That’s all it was: smoke, burbling out of nowhere, occasional flashes of orange light down at the bottom, like heat lightning in tall clouds. This is not that kind of fire. It is the kind of fire that just barely puts out enough smoke to detonate the smoke alarms. And he is losing time for this shit.

The Deliverator holds the horn button down. The Abkhazian manager comes to the window. He is supposed to use the intercom to talk to drivers, he could say anything he wanted and it would be piped straight into the Deliverator’s car, but no, he has to talk face to face, like the Deliverator is some kind of fucking ox cart driver. He is red-faced, sweating, his eyes roll as he tries to think of the English words.

“A fire, a little one,” he says.

The Deliverator says nothing. Because he knows that all of this is going onto videotape. The tape is being pipelined, as it happens, to CosaNostra Pizza University, where it will be analyzed in a pizza management science laboratory. It will be shown to Pizza University students, perhaps to the very students who will replace this man when he gets fired, as a textbook example of how to screw up your life.

“New employee–put his dinner in the microwave–had foil in it–boom!” the manager says.

Abkhazia had been part of the Soviet fucking Union. Where did they get these guys? Weren’t there any Americans who could bake a fucking pizza?

“Just give me one pie,” the Deliverator says.

Talking about pies snaps the guy into the current century. He gets a grip. He slams the window shut, strangling the relentless keening of the smoke alarm.

A Nipponese robot arm shoves the pizza out and into the top slot. The hatch folds shut to protect it.

As the Deliverator is pulling out of the chute, building up speed, checking the address that is flashed across his windshield, deciding whether to turn right or left, it happens. His stereo cuts out again–on command of the onboard system. The cockpit lights go red. Red. A repetitive buzzer begins to sound. The LED readout on his windshield, which echoes the one on the pizza box, flashes up: 20:00.

They have just given the Deliverator a twenty-minute-old pizza. He checks the address; it is twelve miles away.

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Snow Crash 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 454 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
"Snow Crash" rocks. What else can you say about a book published in 1992 featuring a heroic protagonist named Hiro Protagonist that incorporated pizza delivery franchises, ninjas, punk rock, linguistics, skateboarding, avatars, mafiosi, glass knives, and gated communities ... and managed to be prescient and coherent without being absurd? I've read thousands of books, and have never found one more engaging than this.
DearReader More than 1 year ago
Stephenson wrote this book in the late 80's / very early 90's. If you read the book (which is a really great read even if it were written recently) with that in mind, it will give you an extra appreciation for the feats of imagination contained within. The "internets" as our fearless leader would call it was certainly in existence at that time, but people, it was accessed via character based, pre-Windows, menu driven applications! The story starts with a sci-fi futuristic bang but builds into a really compelling drama/mystery that just gets more and more interesting while introducing one great futuristic notion after another. Eventually he ends up dealing with the origin of human language, the Bible, the Mafia, corporate America, skater culture...but it's not all over the place. It's brilliant. I've given this book to at least 10 people, and every last one of them loved it. A slam dunk any time but especially for holiday/summer/travel reading.
Guest More than 1 year ago
While browsing through my local B&N I saw this one on the shelf and it caught my eye. I had seen Cryptonomicon before but didn't know if the author's writing style would appeal to me. I decided to start with Snow Crash since it was shorter and the synopsis sounded, well, cool. Like others have said, the beginning is confusing with all the new terminology but by the end of the first chapter I was hooked. I found myself frequently laughing out loud while reading and the middle section's Sumerian Myth lessons were very interesting. I was simply blown away by every aspect of this book. Well, except the ending which was too short. I felt like it needed at least another 10 pages of wrap-up. Because of this the ending seemed a little too 'neat' for such a crazy roller coaster of a story. But I'd read this again any day, it's better than most books on the shelves these days.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A joyful romp in American near sci-fi. Truly one of the best
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I recieved this book as a gift several years ago, and I've recommended it to most of my friends. Whether you take the time it was written into consideration or not, the story is compelling. I thoroughly enjoyed the tech described in the book, and I am continually amazed how close Stephenson came to several current products.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book shows a great view of a hyper consumerist, dystopian USA. Worth the read
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent hard cyber punk
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Stephenson is really a gifted author. The scope of the novel is epic, the characters well developed, and the plot well conceiced. Bravo.
Malinrebate More than 1 year ago
I don't read much fiction but a friend loaned me her copy and I was blown away. The depth of the story and characters is amazing. Stop wondering and buy the book. You won't want it to end.
Funk49er More than 1 year ago
Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom did it for projecting worst-case into the future about on-line reputation and competition. Snow Crash does it for privatization of public services and the decline of American life. But somehow this comes off as fun, punk, optimistic about the fate of strong individuals and insightful about the nature of everything from the origins of human languages to the hazards of sword-fighting as an online avatar. It's a rush just commenting on this, even though I'm years behind the curve after the novel's original publish date. Next one for me, despite some ambiguous reviews, should be Neal Stephenson's new one, "Reamde," another one of those books where alternative lifestyles can also refer to our alter egos online. Why is the future of the world and humanity always at stake?
michaelg More than 1 year ago
Even though the book is recommended on top ### lists for Sci-Fi/Fantasy, the book is more about a number of other topics, including religion and human growth. Neal Stephenson is a fantastic writer who was able to create anti-heroes you couldn't help but root for. Another enjoyable work from the author.
Victoria Sazani More than 1 year ago
I am not worthy. I am not worthy. I am not worthy. I am not worthy. I am not worthy etc. etc. etc.......I think you get it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
this was an amazing read. Every time I meet someone who likes sci-fi novels, I recommend this book! Even though there is a lot of religious/myth references that sometimes seem confusing, it was still exciting!! A definite must-read!
Here_Be_Bookwyrms More than 1 year ago
"...Stephenson's world-building is fantastic, and I had to keep reminding myself that this was published back in the early '90s, because it feels like it could have been written more recently. I'm not sure if Snow Crash is the result of pure genius, or a lot of research, or both (probably both), but the world Stephenson creates for this book includes enough realistic elements that it feels like a very plausible future, and I found it very interesting to get into...Even when there are breaks from the action, I still wouldn't exactly call it a "lull." It took me a long time to actually finish this book, because school kind of took over my life for a while this past semester, but even after a month or two, I was able to pick this up and remembered everything that had been going on without having to flip back and refresh my memory. Some books, you know you would have to do that, but I was too into this one to forget any of the details, and I think that is very telling of the ability Stephenson has to create a world and a story and characters that a reader can become truly invested in." For full review, please visit me at Here Be Bookwyrms on Blogger!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great book it really is worth the money
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The protagonist in this novel is cleverly named Hiro Protagonist, a pizza delivery man for The Mafia. The Mafia of the alternate, yet recognizably, and plausibly contemporary world that Stephenson has constructed for the reader. A young lady making a package delivery in the area in which our Hiro has found himself in a catastrophic cirmustance has saved him from failure worse than death in its most hideous imaginings. Therefore setting into motion a most tangled web of involvements, high tech shenanigans found within the metaverse, and dangerous turns without it. Where things ARE real, things like bullets, missiles, and most deadly real of all things is the man known as Raven. Find out how our Hiro finds the answers to help and to foil the worlds most powerful entities while appreciating Stephensons abilities to interweave notions and characters masterfully. Did I mention the authors knack for explaining high technology to readers with limited understanding in terms that penetrates some impressive density. Ahem.
LizzietishES More than 1 year ago
I got hooked on this book in the first few paragraphs and remained hooked all the way till the end. Its inventive, fun, and flows seamlessly. A must read for any fan of Cyber Punk.
SandraPants More than 1 year ago
I loved this book and the references to our lives today are poetic. Y.T. is a strong female character I won't soon forget. A must-read for sci-fi lovers.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is one of the best novels I've read this year. I'm only a little bit of a sci-fi geek, so if you're scared of futuristic stuff, trust me--this is great. It's snappy, sexy, full of pop culture satire, and even throws even some serious Sumerian myth. It's the perfect read for the smart person looking for smart escapism.
Anonymous 5 days ago
The basic tenet of writing is "show, don't tell". And there is a lot of explanation here, with a few sparse action scenes. This should be a fictional textbook, not a scifi action novel.
Anonymous 30 days ago
This is an amazing story of a world that could be not far into the future. Let's make sure it doesn't turn out quite like this.
TRFeller 10 months ago
Somehow I had missed reading this novel when it first came out in 1992. It is always interesting to read an old Cyberpunk novel and see what the author got right and what he got wrong. In Stephenson’s concept of the near future, privatization has run amuck and governments are weak. Stephenson’s version of the Internet/World Wide Web is called the Metaverse, which has an uncanny resemblance to a web site called “Second Life”. Some critics believe Snow Crash to be a satire of William Gibson’s Neuromancer, and I think it is a legitimate interpretation. In the opening chapter, one of the main characters, actually called Hiro Protagonist, is delivering pizzas and calling himself the Deliverator. There is also a Jerry Falwell-type character who finances his church by controlling all the fiber optic cable in the world. On the other hand, Stephenson interrupts the narrative to deliver information critical to understanding the story. At the time, he did not have the writing skill to seamlessly insert important information in the text. Furthermore, many of the characters are stereotypes, such as Uncle Enzo, a mafia boss, and other characters, such as Raven, an Aleutian, are motivated by ideologies, not feelings.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
If you're looking for a light read, something to relax to...this is not it! I absolutely loved this book. When you can read a story that combines religion, linguistics, computer science and can be original to boot, you know you've got a winner :)