By Cory Doctorow
Jules is a tender guy slightly a century outdated. He's lived lengthy adequate to determine the medication for dying and the tip of shortage, to benefit ten languages and compose 3 symphonies...and to gain his boyhood dream of taking on place of dwelling in Disney World.
Disney international! the best creative success of the long-ago 20th century. Now within the care of a community of volunteer "ad-hocs" who maintain the vintage points of interest operating as they continually have, greater with in simple terms the smallest high-tech touches.
Now, although, it kind of feels the "ad hocs" are below assault. a brand new team has taken over the corridor of the Presidents and is changing its venerable audioanimatronics with new, immersive direct-to-brain interfaces that provide site visitors the semblance of being Washington, Lincoln, and the entire others. For Jules, this can be an assault at the inventive purity of Disney international itself.
Worse: it sounds as if this new workforce has had Jules killed. This upsets him. (It's in basic terms his fourth loss of life and revival, after all.) Now it's warfare: struggle for the soul of the Magic state, a warfare of ever-shifting reputations, technical wizardry, and fully unpredictable outcomes.
Bursting with state of the art hypothesis and human perception, Down and Out within the Magic nation reads like Neal Stephenson meets Nick Hornby: a coming-of-age romantic comedy and a kick-butt cybernetic journey de strength.
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Extra info for Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom
All of it in a second’s glance. God bless, too, the gentlemen who thought up the idea of these little rescue stations, stuck all over the place for just such emergencies as this. He had started to walk across the room. It was at this point that the service robot, that kept the place in repair between tenants and unloaded supplies from the ships, had moved clankingly across the floor, and with one fearful smash of a steel arm thrown Terrence across the room. The spaceman had been brought up short against the steel bulkhead, pain blossoming in his back, his side, his arms and legs.
It was my first professional sale and I was twenty-one years old. There was an English professor named Shedd at Ohio State University in 1954. He told me I had no talent, could not write, ought to forget ever trying to make a living from the craft of writing, and that even if I did manage to eke out some sort of low-level existence through dint of sheer, dogged persistence, I would never write anything of consequence, would never make a name for myself, and would sink into the dust of oblivion justifiably forgotten by lovers of properly constructed literature.
It had come to him... He paused in his moonlit hurrying and tried to bring the scene back into sharper focus. Yes, it had been when he had gone into the computer room of the ship. When he had first seen the vessel, he had tried to liberate equipment he could jerry-rig in a copter, but the parts were all heavy-poured-molded and none of them would have fit a small vehicle. So he had abandoned the ship. What good was it? The weeks following, he remembered, had been singularly annoying. More than just the emptiness of sole ownership of a whole world, those weeks had disturbed him with a thought just beneath the level of recognition.