Goliath paraphrase PDF

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the paraphrase of Neil Gaiman's cyberpunk short story Goliath...

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GOLIATH BY NIEL GAIMAN

I think I can say that I have always suspected that the world was a cheap and cheap fiction, a bad cover for something deeper and weird and infinitely stranger, and that, somehow, I already knew the truth. But I think the world has simply always been like this. And even now that I know the truth, how are you going to learn it too, honey, if you're reading this, the world still looks cheap and cheap. Different world, different garbage, but this is what I feel. One wonders, and in truth I ask myself too, is that all? Well ... yes. Essentially. As far as we know. Therefore. It was 1977, and a large and expensive calculator was the closest I have ever owned to a computer, and lost the instructions with which they sold it, I no longer knew how to make it work. I added, subtracted,

multiplied and divided, and was thankful that I didn't need cosines, sines or find tangents or function graphs or whatever the contraption did, because, having been discarded by the RAF, I was working as an accountant for a small carpet discount warehouse in Edgware, North London, near the end of the Northern Line, and I was sitting at the table in the back of the warehouse that served as my desk when the world began to melt and drip. I really mean it. It was as if the walls and ceiling and the rolls of carpet and even the News of the World nude calendar were made of wax, and they began to sweat and slide, slide together and flow. I could see the houses and the sky and the clouds and the road behind them, and then everything dripped and slipped away, and behind everything there was darkness.

I was standing in the pool of the world, strange thing, with bright colors, dripping and sparkling and couldn't cover the back of my brown leather shoes (I have feet like shoe boxes. I have to buy custom-made boots. It costs a fortune). The pool cast a strange light upwards. If I had been the protagonist of some fictional story, I think I would have refused to believe it was happening, wondering if I was on drugs or if I was dreaming. In reality, hell, it happened, and I looked into the darkness, and then, seeing that nothing was happening, I started walking, wallowing through that liquid world, calling, looking for someone. Something vibrated in front of me. "Hey," said a voice. The accent was American, even if the intonation was singular. "Hello," I said. The flickering continued for a few moments, and then materialized into a smartly dressed man in thick horn-rimmed glasses. "You're a big handsome guy," he said. "You know?" Of course I knew. I was 19 and nearly seven feet tall. I have fingers like bananas. I scare the children. I think it's unlikely I'll see my 40th birthday - people like me die young. "What is happening?" I asked. "You know it?" "An

enemy missile killed a central processing unit," he said. “Two hundred thousand people, connected in parallel, became dead flesh in an instant. We have a backup server, of course, and we'll get everything back up and running in no time. You're just floating free here for a couple of nanoseconds while we restore London. " "Are you God?" I asked him. Nothing he said seemed to make sense to me. "Yes. No. Well, not really, ”he said. "Not as you mean it, anyway." And then the world went wild, and I found myself coming to work again that morning, pouring myself a cup of tea, and had the longest and weirdest period of déjà vu I've ever had. Twenty minutes, during which I knew everything anyone was going to do or say. And then it was over, and time ran right again, each second neatly following the previous second, just as it should. And the hours passed, and the days, and the years. I lost my job in the carpet company, and I got another one, accounting for a company that sells company cars, and I got married to a girl named Sandra I met at the pool, and we had a couple of kids both normal-sized, and I thought ours was the kind of marriage that could stand up to anything, but it didn't, so she

left and took the kids away. I was almost thirty, it was 1986, and I got a job on Tottenham Court Road as a computer salesman, and found I could do it. I liked computers. I liked the way they worked. It was an exciting time. I remember our first shipment of AT IBM, someone with 40MB hard drives… Well, I was easily impressed then. I still lived in Edgware, commuting on the Northern Line. I was on the subway one evening, on my way home - we had just passed Euston and half the passengers had gotten off - I looked at other people at the top of the Evening Standard escalator and wondered who they were - who they really were, inside - the skinny black girl who was writing concentrated in her notebook, the tiny old lady in her green velvet hat, the girl with the dog, the bearded man with the turban…

And then the train stopped, in the tunnel. This is what I believed was happening, however: I thought the train had stopped. Everything had become very silent. And then we passed Euston, and half the passengers got off. And then we passed Euston, and half the passengers got off. And I watched the other passengers imagining who they really were inside them when the train stopped in the tunnel. And everything became very silent. And then everything skidded so violently that I thought we had collided with another train. And then we passed by Euston, and half the passengers got off and then the train stopped in the tunnel, and it all became - (Service will be restored soon, whispered a voice in my head.) And this time when the train slowed

down and approaching Euston I wondered if I was going crazy: I felt like I was rewinding a videotape back and forth. I knew what was going on, but I couldn't do anything to change something, there was nothing I could do to get out of there. The black girl, sitting next to me, handed me a note. WE ARE DEAD? he said. I shrugged. I did not know. It seemed an explanation as good as any. And then it all faded to white. There was no earth under my feet, nothing above me, no sense of distance, of time. I was in a white place. And I wasn't alone. The man wore a pair of thick horn-rimmed lenses and a suit that might have looked like Armani.

"You again?" She said. “The big boy. I just talked to you. " "I don't think so," I said. "Half an hour ago. When the missile crashed. " “In the carpet factory? That was years ago. " “About thirty-seven minutes ago. We've been running in accelerated mode ever since, trying to fix and restore, while we're looking at potential solutions. "Who sent the missiles?" I asked. "The Russians? The Iranians? " "Aliens," he said. "Are you joking?" “As far as I know, no. We've been sending probes for about two hundred years. It seems

that something has followed one on its return journey. We found out when the first missile landed. It took a good twenty minutes to realize this, and to run a reprisal program. That's why we're running overdrive. Do you think the last ten years have passed quickly? " "Yes. I suppose so. " “Here's the reason. We made it spin quickly, trying to keep an acceptable reality while we solved. " I was lying on a metal disc about eight feet in diameter. I was naked, wet and surrounded by a tangle of cables. They were retreating away from me like frightened worms or brightly colored nervous snakes. I was naked. I looked down at my body. No hair, no skin folds. I wondered how old I was, in real terms. Eighteen? Twenty? I was unable to tell. There was a glass screen placed in the floor of the metal disc. It flickered and ignited. I was looking at the man with horn glasses. "Do you remember?" he asked "You should be able to access most of your memory for now." "I think so," I told him. “You'll find yourself in a PL-47,” he said. “We just finished building it. We had to go back in knowledge. We have modified some factories to build it. We will have another finished series for tomorrow. Now we only have one. " "So if that doesn't work, you have

replacements for me." “If we survive long enough,” he said, “Another missile bombing started about fifteen minutes ago. It took most of Australia away. We calculate that it is only a prelude to the actual bombing. " “What are they throwing? Nuclear weapons?" "Rocks." "Rocks?" "Aha. Rocks. Asteroids. Big stuff. We believe that if we don't give up, they could throw the moon at us tomorrow. " "Are you joking." "I wish it were so." The screen went dark. The metal disc was sailing through a tangle of cables and a world of sleeping naked people. It slipped over towers of sharp microchips and spirals of soft glowing silicone. The PL-47 was waiting for me at the top of a metal mountain. Small metal crabs scuttled across it, polishing and checking every screw and bolt. I entered walking on stiff legs like tree trunks, which were still shaking and shaking. I sat in the driver's seat and was thrilled that it was built for me. It fit me. I've fastened my seat belts. My hands have started the warm up sequence. Cables crawled over my arms. I felt some pin sticking to the bottom of my spine, something else moving and connecting at the top of my neck. My perception of the aircraft has radically extended. I could see it at

360 degrees, above, below. And at the same time, I sat in the cabin, activating the launch codes. "Good luck," said the man with the horn glasses on a small screen on my left. " "Thank you. Can I ask one last question? " "I don't see why not." "Why me?" There was a hesitation, then, "Don't let it land. We didn't design it to fit inside. It was a surplus that we didn't need. Too expensive, in terms of resources. " “So what do I do? I just saved the Earth. And now I have to drown out here? "

He nodded. "More or less. Yup." The lights began to dim. One by one, the controls were turning off. I have lost my 360 degree perception of the ship. It was just me again, secured to a seat in the middle of nowhere, on a flying teacup. "How long do I still have?" "We are shutting down all your systems, but you still have a couple of hours left, at least. We will not disperse the remaining air. It would be inhumane. " "You know, in the world I come from, I would have had a medal." "Of course we are grateful to you." "And do you have no other concrete way to express your gratitude?" “Not really. You are a spare part. One unit. We cannot grieve for you any more

than a hive would for the death of a single bee. It is neither reasonable nor possible to bring you back. " "And don't you want such firepower to be brought back to Earth, where it could be used against you?" "Exactly." And then the screen went dark, without a real goodbye. Don't review your priorities, I thought. Reality is a fault. You become truly aware of your breathing when you have no more than a couple of hours of air left. Inside. Hold on. Out. Hold on. Inside. Hold on. Out. Hold ... I was sitting anchored to the seat in the semi-darkness, and I waited, and I thought. So I said, "Hey, is there anyone out there?" One shot. Then the screen flickered. "Yup?" "I have a request. Listen. You - you people,

machines, or whatever you are - owe me one. Quite right? I mean, I saved the lives of all of you. " "… Go on." "I have a couple of hours left. Quite right?" "About 57 minutes." “You can reconnect me to… the real world. The other world. What do I come from? " "Mm? I do not know. I'll see. " Black screen again. I sat and breathed, in and out, in and out, waiting. I felt at peace with myself. If it weren't for the fact that I only had an hour of life left, I would have felt like God. The screen had lit up. There was no image, scheme, nothing. Just a delicate luminescence. And a voice, partly in my head, partly outside, said, "You got a coupon." Then there was a sharp pain at the base of my skull. Then darkness, for several minutes. Then this. It was fifteen years ago: 1984. I was back to computers. I owned my electronics store on Tottenham Court Road. And now, as we are about to enter the new millennium, I am writing this. Meanwhile, I married Susan. It took me two months to find it. We have a son. I am almost forty years old. People like me don't live much longer, overall. Our heart stops. When you read these words I will be dead. You will know that I am dead. You will have seen a coffin big enough for two men, lowered into a hole. But

know this, Susan, my love: my real coffin is orbiting the moon. It looks like a flying teacup. They gave me back the world, and you, for a while. The last time I told you, or someone similar to you, the truth, or what I knew, you left me. And maybe it wasn't you, and it wasn't me, but I don't dare risk anymore. So I'll write it down, and it'll be delivered to you with the rest of my papers, when I'm gone. Goodbye. They can be heartless, emotionless, computerized bastards, manipulating the minds of what remains of humanity. But I can't help but be grateful to them. I will die soon. But the last twenty minutes were the best years of my life.

PARAPHRASE I guess that I could guarantee that I had consistently speculated that the world was a modest and disgraceful hoax, an awful spread for something more profound and more peculiar and interminably more odd, and that, here and there, I definitely knew reality. In any case, I believe that is exactly how the world has consistently been. Furthermore, even since I know reality, as you will, my adoration, in case you're understanding this, the world actually appears to be modest and poor. Diverse world, distinctive disgraceful, however that is the way it feels. They state, here's reality, and I state, is that all there is? Furthermore, they state, sort of. Essentially. Apparently. So. It was 1977, and the closest I had come to PCs was I'd as of late purchased a major, costly adding machine, and afterward I'd lost the manual that accompanied it, so I didn't have the foggiest idea what it did any more. I'd include, deduct, duplicate and partition, and was thankful I had no compelling reason to cos, sine or discover digressions or diagram capacities or whatever else the thingamabob did, in light of the fact that, having been turned somewhere around the RAF, I was filling in as a clerk for a little markdown cover stockroom in Edgware, in North London, close to the head of the Northern Line, and I was sitting at the table at the rear of the distribution center that served me as a work area when the world started to soften and dribble away. Legit. It resembled the dividers and the roof and the moves of floor covering and the News of the World Topless Calendar were completely made of wax, and they began to overflow and run, to stream together and to trickle. I could see the houses and the sky and the mists and the street behind them, and afterward that trickled and streamed away, and behind that was darkness. I was remaining in the puddle of the world, an abnormal, splendidly hued thing that overflowed and overflowed and didn't cover the highest points of my earthy colored cowhide shoes (I have feet like shoeboxes. Boots must be uniquely made for me. Costs me a fortune). The puddle cast a strange light upwards.

In fiction, I figure I would have wouldn't trust it was going on, keep thinking about whether I'd been sedated or in the event that I was dreaming. In all actuality, heck, it had occurred, and I gazed up into the obscurity, and afterward, when nothing occurred, I started to walk, sprinkling through the fluid world, calling out, checking whether anybody was there. Something glinted before me. "Hello," said a voice. The inflection was American, despite the fact that the sound was odd. "Hi," I said. The flashing proceeded for a couple of seconds, and afterward settled itself into a cleverly dressed man in thick horn-rimmed scenes. "You're a huge person," he said. "You realize that?" obviously I realized that. I was 19 years of age and I was near seven feet tall. I have fingers like bananas. I alarm youngsters. I'm probably not going to see my 40th birthday celebration: individuals like me kick the bucket youthful. "What's happening?" I inquired. "Do you know?" "Foe rocket took out a focal handling unit," he said. "200,000 individuals, snared in equal, blown to dead meat. We have a mirror going obviously, and we'll have everything ready for action again in a matter of moments. You're simply free-skimming here for two or three nanoseconds, while we get London handling once more." "Are you God?" I inquired. Nothing he had said had sounded good to me. "Indeed. No. Not generally," he said. "Not as you mean it, in any case." And then the world reeled and I wound up coming to work again that morning, presented myself with some tea, had the longest, most abnormal episode of history repeating itself I've ever had. Twenty minutes, where I knew all that anybody planned to do or say. And afterward it went, and time passed appropriately again, consistently following each other second like they're intended to. Furthermore, the hours passed, and the days, and the years. I lost my employment in the rug organization, and got another one accounting for an organization selling business machines, and I got hitched to a young lady called Sandra I met at the swimming showers and we had a few children, both typical measured, and I thought I had such a marriage that could endure anything, yet I hadn't, so she disappeared and she took the

youngsters with her. I was in my late 20s, and it was 1986, and I found a new line of work on Tottenham Court Road selling PCs, and I ended up being acceptable at it. I preferred PCs. I enjoyed the manner in which they worked. It was an energizing time. I recollect our first shipment of ATs, some of them with 40 megabyte hard drives… Well, I was dazzled effectively in those days. I actually lived in Edgware, drove to chip away at the Northern Line. I was on the cylinder one night, returning home – we'd recently experienced Euston and a large portion of the travelers had got off — taking a gander at the others in the carriage over the head of the Evening Standard and pondering what their identity was – who they truly were, inside – the dainty, person of color composing truly in her note pad, the little old woman with the green velvet cap on, the young lady with the canine, the unshaven man with the turban… And then the cylinder halted, in the passage. That was what I thought occurred, in any case: I thought the cylinder had halted. Everything went calm. And afterward we experienced Euston, and a large portion of the travelers got off. And afterward we experienced Euston, and a large portion of the travelers got off. What's more, I was taking a gander at different travelers and pondering who they truly were inside when the train halted in the passage. What's more, everything went calm. And afterward everything staggered so hard I thought we'd been hit by another train. And afterward we experienced Euston, and a large portion of the travelers got off, and afterward the train halted in the passage, and afterward everything went – (Normal assistance will be continued as could be expected under the circumstances, murmured a voice in the rear of my head.) And this time as the train eased back and started to move toward Euston I contemplated whether I was going insane: I had an inclination that I was twitching to and fro on a video circle. I realized it was going on, yet there was nothing I could do to transform anything, nothing I could never really out of it. The person of color, sitting close to me, passed me a note. Is it true that we are DEAD? it said. I shrugged. I didn't have a clue. It appeared as great a clarification as any. And afterward all that blurred to white. There was no ground underneath my feet, nothing above me, no

feeling of separation, no feeling of time. I was in a white spot. What's more, I was in good company. The man wore thick horn-rimmed displays, and a suit that appeared as though it may have been Armani. "You once more?" he said. "The enormous person. I just addressed you." "I don't think so," I said. "Thirty minutes prior. When the rockets hit." "Back in the rug manufacturing plant? That was years prior." "Around 37 minutes back. We've been running in a quickened mode from that point ...