On one of his trips to New York, William Gibson stopped before an antiques shop that would end up haunting him. He tried the door. It was locked. Over the years, he searched for the shop window many times — it seemed to wander around SoHo and materialize on unpredictable streets. Whenever he peered through it at the treasures within, he felt as if he were glimpsing the props from a dream. “There is no knowing what might appear there,” Gibson writes in one of the essays collected in “Distrust That Particular Flavor.” Once, he spied a collection of toy-size missiles.
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