NEAL STEPHENSON CRYPTONOMICON PDF
In the Beginning was the Command Line by Neal Stephenson About twenty years ago Jobs and Wozniak, the founders of Apple. A breathtaking tour de force and Neal Stephenson's most accomplished and affecting work to date, Cryptonomicon is profound and prophetic, hypnotic and. Cryptonomicon. Neal Stephenson. Avon Books, ISBN pages, $ Neal Stephenson's latest novel, Cryptonomicon, is a story of.
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Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson Prologue Two tires fly. Two wail. A bamboo grove, all chopped down From it, warring songs.,,,is the best. PDF - Cryptonomicon. With this extraordinary first volume in what promises to be an epoch-making masterpiece, Neal Stephenson hacks into the secret histories. Editorial Reviews. pixia-club.info Review. Neal Stephenson enjoys cult status among science Cryptonomicon - Kindle edition by Neal Stephenson. Download it.
In the present-day storyline, he is a semi-retired chief executive of a large Japanese construction company. A friend closes his eyes and a death certificate is generated by the attending physician.
In the s storyline, Root is portrayed as having a passionate belief that cryptography is important for maintaining freedom.
Root says he spent the s working at the National Security Agency and has since been based mostly in the Philippines as a Catholic lay-worker while "gadding about trying to bring Internet stuff to China. Wing, a wartime northern Chinese slave of the Japanese in the Philippines, who went on to become a general in the Chinese army and later a senior official in the State Grid Corporation of China.
Described by Enoch Root as a "wily survivor of many purges ," Wing is one of only two other survivors along with Goto Dengo and a Filipino worker named Bong of the Japanese gold burial project, and he competes with Goto and Epiphyte 2 to recover the buried treasure.
PDF - Cryptonomicon
Although Root and Wing do not meet during the action of the novel, Randy reflects that "it is hard not to get the idea that Enoch Root and General Wing may have other reasons to be pissed off at each other.
He is introduced near the end of the World War II storyline as a toddler, when he meets his father, who tries to explain Shaftoe family heritage during the Liberation of Manila.
In the modern-day storyline, Douglas is a retired U. Naval Academy graduate, who lives in the Philippines and operates Semper Marine Services, an underwater survey business with his daughter, Amy, conducting treasure hunts as a sideline.
He is a minor character in Cryptonomicon, but both his [impending] birth and his participation in Charlene's "War as Text" conference catalyze major plot developments. Technical content[ edit ] Portions of Cryptonomicon are notably complex and may be considered somewhat difficult by the non-technical reader.
Several pages are spent explaining in detail some of the concepts behind cryptography and data storage security, including a description of Van Eck phreaking. Pontifex Cipher[ edit ] Stephenson also includes a precise description of and even Perl script for the Solitaire or Pontifex cipher , a cryptographic algorithm developed by Bruce Schneier for use with a deck of playing cards , as part of the plot. The perl script was written by well known cryptographer and cypherpunk , Ian Goldberg.
The first was to remediate a typesetting error on the eighth line that caused the perl script to be useless. You couldn't even fit that onto the second line!
A Sikh policeman hurdles a night soil cart. Shaftoe's gut reaction is: Sure, what're they going to do, declare war on us? He takes stock of the situation: Shanghai, hours, Friday, the 28th of November Bobby Shaftoe, and the other half-dozen Marines on his truck, are staring down the length of Kiukiang Road, onto which they've just made this careening high-speed turn.
Cathedral's going by to the right, so that means they are, what? A Yangtze River Patrol gunboat is tied up there, waiting for the stuff they've got in the back of this truck. The only real problem is that those particular two blocks are inhabited by about five million Chinese people.
Now these Chinese are sophisticated urbanites, not suntanned yokels who've never seen cars before-they'll get out of your way if you drive fast and honk your horn. And indeed many of them flee to one side of the street or the other, producing the illusion that the truck is moving faster than the forty-three miles an hour shown on its speedometer.
But the bamboo grove in Bobby Shaftoe's haiku has not been added just to put a little Oriental flavor into the poem and wow the folks back home in Oconomowoc. There is a lot of heavy bamboo in front of this truck, dozens of makeshift turnpikes blocking their path to the river, for the officers of the U. Navy's Asiatic Fleet, and of the Fourth Marines, who dreamed up this little operation forgot to take the Friday Afternoon factor into account.
As Bobby Shaftoe could've explained to them, if only they'd bothered to ask a poor dumb jarhead, their route took them through the heart of the banking district. It must be a cutthroat business because they slash costs by printing it on old newspapers, and if you know how to read Chinese, you can see last year's news stories and polo scores peeking through the colored numbers and pictures that transform these pieces of paper into legal tender.
As every chicken-peddler and rickshaw operator in Shanghai knows, the money-printing contracts stipulate that all of the bills these banks print have to be backed by such-and-such an amount of silver; i.
Now if China weren't right in the middle of getting systematically drawn and quartered by the Empire of Nippon, it would probably send official bean counters around to keep tabs on how much silver was actually present in these banks' vaults, and it would all be quiet and orderly. But as it stands, the only thing keeping these banks honest is the other banks. Here's how they do it: during the normal course of business, lots of paper money will pass over the counters of say Chase Manhattan Bank.
They'll take it into a back room and sort it, throwing into money boxes a couple of feet square and a yard deep, with ropes on the four corners all of the bills that were printed by say Bank of America in one, all of the City Bank bills into another. Then, on Friday afternoon they will bring in coolies. Each coolie, or pair of coolies, will of course have his great big long bamboo pole with him-a coolie without his pole is like a China Marine without his nickel-plated bayonet-and will poke their pole through the ropes on the corners of the box.
Then one coolie will get underneath each end of the pole, hoisting the box into the air. They have to move in unison or else the box begins flailing around and everything gets out of whack. So as they head towards their destination-whatever bank whose name is printed on the bills in their box-they sing to each other, and plant their feet on the pavement in time to the music.
The pole's pretty long, so they are that far apart, and they have to sing loud to hear each other, and of course each pair of coolies in the street is singing their own particular song, trying to drown out all of the others so that they don't get out of step. So ten minutes before closing time on Friday afternoon, the doors of many banks burst open and numerous pairs of coolies march in singing, like the curtain-raiser on a fucking Broadway musical, slam their huge boxes of tattered currency down, and demand silver in exchange.
All of the banks do this to each other. Sometimes, they'll all do it on the same Friday, particularly at times like 28 November , when even a grunt like Bobby Shaftoe can understand that it's better to be holding silver than piles of old cut-up newspaper. And that is why, once the normal pedestrians and food-cart operators and furious Sikh cops have scurried out of the way, and plastered themselves up against the clubs and shops and bordellos on Kiukiang Road, Bobby Shaftoe and the other Marines on the truck still cannot even see the gunboat that is their destination, because of this horizontal forest of mighty bamboo poles.
They cannot even hear the honking of their own truck horn because of the wild throbbing pentatonic cacophony of coolies singing. This ain't just your regular Friday P. Half a second later there're no coolies in the street anymore-just a lot of boxes with unmanned bamboo poles teeter-tottering on them, bonging into the streets like wind-chimes. Above, a furry mushroom of grey smoke rises from the gunboat.
Wiley shifts up to high gear and floors it.
Shaftoe cringes against the truck's door and lowers his head, hoping that his campy Great War doughboy helmet will be good for something. Then money-boxes start to rupture and explode as the truck rams through them. Shaftoe peers up through a blizzard of notes and sees giant bamboo poles soaring and bounding and windmilling toward the waterfront. The leaves of Shanghai: Pale doorways in a steel sky. Winter has begun. Chapter One Barrens Let's set the existence-of-God issue aside for a later volume, and just stipulate that in some way, self-replicating organisms came into existence on this planet and immediately began trying to get rid of each other, either by spamming their environments with rough copies of themselves, or by more direct means which hardly need to be belabored.
Most of them failed, and their genetic legacy was erased from the universe forever, but a few found some way to survive and to propagate. After about three billion years of this sometimes zany, frequently tedious fugue of carnality and carnage, Godfrey Waterhouse IV was born, in Murdo, South Dakota, to Blanche, the wife of a Congregational preacher named Bunyan Waterhouse. Like every other creature on the face of the earth, Godfrey was, by birthright, a stupendous badass, albeit in the somewhat narrow technical sense that he could trace his ancestry back up a long line of slightly less highly evolved stupendous badasses to that first self-replicating gizmo-which, given the number and variety of its descendants, might justifiably be described as the most stupendous badass of all time.
Everyone and everything that wasn't a stupendous badass was dead.
As nightmarishly lethal, memetically programmed death-machines went, these were the nicest you could ever hope to meet. In the tradition of his namesake the Puritan writer John Bunyan, who spent much of his life in jail, or trying to avoid it the Rev. Waterhouse did not preach in any one place for long. The church moved him from one small town in the Dakotas to another every year or two.
It is possible that Godfrey found the lifestyle more than a little alienating, for, sometime during the course of his studies at Fargo Congregational College, he bolted from the fold and, to the enduring agony of his parents, fell into worldly pursuits, and ended up, somehow, getting a Ph. Academics being no less nomadic than Congregational preachers, he took work where he could find it.
Other interesting points, perhaps not directly relevant
He became a Professor of Greek and Latin at Bolger Christian College enrollment in West Point, Virginia, where the Mattaponi and Pamunkey Rivers came together to form the estuarial James, and the loathsome fumes of the big paper mill permeated every drawer, every closet, even the interior pages of books. Godfrey's young bride, nee Alice Pritchard, who had grown up following her itinerant-preacher father across the vastnesses of eastern Montana-where air smelt of snow and sage-threw up for three months.
Six months later she gave birth to Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse. The boy had a peculiar relationship with sound. When a fire engine passed, he was not troubled by the siren's howl or the bell's clang. But when a hornet got into the house and swung across the ceiling in a broad Lissajous, droning almost inaudibly, he cried in pain at the noise. And if he saw or smelled something that scared him, he would clap his hands over his ears. One noise that troubled him not at all was the pipe organ in the chapel at Bolger Christian College.
The chapel itself was nothing worth mentioning, but the organ had been endowed by the paper mill family and would have sufficed for a church four times the size. It nicely complemented the organist, a retired high school math teacher who felt that certain attributes of the Lord violence and capriciousness in the Old Testament, majesty and triumph in the New could be directly conveyed into the souls of the enpewed sinners through a kind of frontal sonic impregnation.
That he ran the risk of blowing out the stained-glass windows was of no consequence since no one liked them anyway, and the paper mill fumes were gnawing at the interstitial lead.
But after one little old lady too many staggered down the aisle after a service, reeling from tinnitus, and made a barbed comment to the minister about the exceedingly dramatic music, the organist was replaced. Nevertheless, he continued to give lessons on the instrument.
Students were not allowed to touch the organ until they were proficient at the piano, and when this was explained to Lawrence Pritchard Waterhouse, he taught himself, in three weeks, how to play a Bach fugue, and signed up for organ lessons. Since he was only five years old at the time, he was unable to reach both the manuals and the pedals, and had to play standing-or rather strolling, from pedal to pedal.
When Lawrence was twelve, the organ broke down. That paper mill family had not left any endowment for maintenance, so the math teacher decided to have a crack at it. He was in poor health and required a nimble assistant: Lawrence, who helped him open up the hood of the thing.
For the first time in all those years, the boy saw what had been happening when he had been pressing those keys. For each stop-each timbre, or type of sound, that the organ could make viz. Long pipes made low notes, short high. The tops of the pipes defined a graph: When Lawrence understood, it was as if the math teacher had suddenly played the good part of Bach's Fantasia and Fugue in G Minor on a pipe organ the size of the Spiral Nebula in Andromeda-the part where Uncle Johann dissects the architecture of the Universe in one merciless descending ever-mutating chord, as if his foot is thrusting through skidding layers of garbage until it finally strikes bedrock.
In particular, the final steps of the organist's explanation were like a falcon's dive through layer after layer of pretense and illusion, thrilling or sickening or confusing depending on what you were. The heavens were riven open.
Lawrence glimpsed choirs of angels ranking off into geometrical infinity. The pipes sprouted in parallel ranks from a broad flat box of compressed air.If he is in fact Root's son, though, I would say that would be a great deal more interesting. He was the most powerful, most loved of the angels. As for the death, it was probably staged, after which Root was healed with the cigar box.
If I am ignorant about a phenomenon, that is a fact about my own state of mind, not a fact about the phenomenon itself.
It is an outfit so secret that only a handful of people know it exists, and some of those people have names like Churchill and Roosevelt.
Neal Stephenson - The Diamond Age
All it takes is "script approval" to appear in the sequel, no matter how many times you die. You have the absolutely bizarre idea that reality ought to consist of little billiard balls bopping around, when in fact reality is a perfectly normal cloud of complex amplitude in configuration space.
Neal Stephenson dealt the genre a killer blow with his virtual swift sword in Snow Crash I may re-read that page!