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Snow White and the Seven Samurai by

Book Cover - Tom Holt: Snow White and the Seven Samurai

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Book Cover - Tom Holt: Snow White and the Seven Samurai

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Book Cover - Tom Holt: Snow White and the Seven Samurai

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Book Cover - Tom Holt: Snow White and the Seven Samurai

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You can read more about this book at Amazon's websites (where you also can order the book):
Normal paper editions
Amazon UK (Paperback) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon USA (Paperback) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon Canada (Paperback) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon Deutschland (Paperback) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Kindle (eBook) editions
Amazon UK (Kindle edition) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon USA (Kindle edition) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon Canada (Kindle edition) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Amazon Deutschland (Kindle edition) Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Category: comic fantasy fiction
First published: 2 Dec 1999
Publisher: Orbit, published
ISBN: 1857238982, Hardcover, 320 pages
Size: 21.6 x 14.4 x 3 cm
Publisher: Orbit, published 21 May 2000
ISBN: 1857239881, Paperback, 308 pages
Size: 10.9 x 2 x 17.7 cm
Publisher: Hachette Digital, published 5 Nov 2009
ISBN: B002TXZT0M, Kindle edition, 308 pages

Book synopsis (The back of the book says)

Once upon a time (or last Thursday, as it's known in this matrix) everything was fine: Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall, Jack and Jill went about their lawful business, the Big Bad Wolf did what big bad wolves do, and the wicked queen plotted murder most foul. But the humans hacked, cried havoc, shut down the wicked queen's system (mirrors 3.1) and corrupted her database - and suddenly everything was not fine at all. But at least we know that they'll all live happily ever after. Don't we? Computers and fairy tales collide to hilarious effect in the latest sparkling cocktail of mayhem, wit and wonder from the master of comic fantasy.
You can download a a sneak preview of the first chapter of the book.

Tom Holt's own words about the book:
Snow White; My Part In Her Downfall.

  I wanted to write a book about the Seven Deadly Dwarves.
  They were cute, those dwarves. Their names were Greedy, Lustful,
Slothful, Angry, Snobby,  Soapy and Doc, and they lived in a little
cottage in an executive residential development with mauve velvet
curtains (with tiebacks) and a red light permanently aglow in one
upstairs window, which got burned to the ground at least once a week.
I had a lot of fun with them along the way, but in the end they
decided that the direction their career was taking them made it
advisable for them to seek alternative representation (agentspeak
for, they fired me).
  The hell with them, I thought; and instead I began to think long,
engaging thoughts about the seven Spice Dwarves (Grumpy Spice, Sleepy
Spice, Dopy Spice etc). That was fun, too, for a while; but sooner or
later I'd walk round a corner and bash my face against an invisible
lamp-post called Snow White. I hate it when that happens.
  For every seven dwarves, you see, there has to be a Snow White.
It's the rules. You can't have a bunch of Dwarves Behaving Badly
living the life of Riley on their own miles from anywhere, with last
week's chip wrappers all over the living-room floor and pyramids of
empty beer cans in the bathroom; sooner or later, what Goethe called
the Eternal Feminine is going to creep in from the dark woods and
make them tidy the place up.
  This thought depressed me so much that I gave up all dwarves for
Lent and decided to write a book about computers instead. It had come
to my attention that a whole bunch of writers - quite respectable,
some of them - had figured out that if you set a book somewhere
inside the workings of a computer, you can do what the hell you like
and it doesn't have to make sense or anything. Me for some of that, I
thought; so, being a craftsman and a professional, I resolved to
research computers. I bought one.
  I bought one from my mate Pete Thompson; an amiable ex-headmaster
with the finest vocabulary of hair-curlingly foul language it's ever
been my privilege to encounter. He showed me how it worked - where
you hit it to switch it on, where you kick it to switch it off, all
those abstruse, nerdish technical details that have come to dominate
our lives here in History's armpit - and retreated to a safe distance
with my money and, I assume, an enormous grin.
  Two things soon became apparent;
 (A) the sort of virtual reality stuff you get in Gibson, Sterling
and Bethke ain't gonna happen so long as there's a Microsoft. These
days, one of my recurring nightmares concerns a future where
Microsoft has merged with the Disney corporation and taken over the
government of the planet. I wanted to write a book about it, but felt
I lacked the necessary ability to convey a sense of bleak,
mind-bleaching horror. Stephen King might be able to do it; so could
George Orwell. Too heavy for me, though.
(B) When Pete sold me the computer, he included in the software
package a really nifty little accessory called Literary Critic For
Windows 6.1, which assesses the quality of the work I've done in,
say, an average 12-hour shift, and suddenly deletes it without
warning if it isn't good enough. I've had a lot of use out of that
facility over the past few years.
 Apparent Thing B set me thinking about an unexpectedly sentient
computer that writes people's books for them; but word of this got
around, and after I'd received gagging writs from both Lord Archer
and Dick Francis, I gave up on the idea and started thinking about
stories. I considered  a secret agent who works for a little-known
U.S.  federal bureaucracy called the Bureau of Anomalous Statistics,
whose job it is to find that One Particular Butterfly and stop it
flapping its wings at precisely the wrong moment; but then it struck
me that it'd be much more fun to play in an environment where the
butterfly had already done its stuff. Accordingly, I gave some
thought to the possibility that what we call cold germs are in fact
refugees, the microscopic equivalent of White Russians who fled their
planet (inhabited by incredibly intelligent and enlightened
life-forms who just happen to be very, very small...) and sought
refuge where they'd never be found, namely up the noses of huge,
dumb, lumbering humans. Nobody realises this until a scientist
finally stumbles on a 'cure' for the common cold. The night before
he's due to publish his findings to the world, the leaders of the
cold community get themselves smuggled into this spoilsport's lab
(they stow away inside the head of an industrial espionage agent sent
by a big Swiss pharmaceuticals company to swipe the recipe; then they
hotwire his brains so they can communicate via his voicebox etc) and
plead with the scientist not to commit genocide and wipe out their
unique and unbelievably rich and wonderful cultural heritage. I was
planning on calling it "The Cold That Came In From The Spy"; but
fortunately Literary Critic For Windows 6.1 intervened, formatting my
hard disk twice in a matter of days (harsh but, in retrospect,
necessary) and I went back to thinking about dwarves again.
  But that was all right; because suddenly I had my Snow White. Just
suppose, I thought, that Nightmare Vision A (see above) had, to a
certain extent, come to pass; but, given that the operating system
running the show was a product of a Certain Large Corporation,
compiled to their usual exacting standards and thoroughly debugged
before release, it could only be a matter of time before That Ole
Butterfly put wing-membrane to thermal and brought the whole kaboodle
crashing down in chaos around the heads of the poor, unsuspecting characters.

  The rest, of course, is bibliography. And if this all sounds rather
searing and apocalyptic, console yourself with the thought that there
might also have been a subplot about God introducing the Y0K bug
around the time of the first ever Christmas, by way of distracting
attention from his impending impeachment before the Heavenly Host on
charges of inappropriate behavior, if it wasn't for good old Literary
Critic for Windows.

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Book Cover of Only Human

Quote from Only Human

Time, the thief who breaks into our bodies at night and steals a third of our lifetimes
(Tom Holt, "Only Human")
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