I like reading stories about recluses.

These paragraphs I've memorized from Mona Lisa Overdrive by William Gibson:

Gentry didn't like people. He spent days on end with his decks and FX-organs and holo projectors and came out only when he got hungry. Slick didn't understand what it was that Gentry was trying to do, but he envied Gentry the narrowness of his obsession. Nothing got to Gentry. Kid Afrika wouldn't have gottten to Gentry, because Gentry wouldn't have gotten over to Atlantic City and gotten into deep shit and Kid Afrika's debt.

- - - 

People made Gentry uncomfortable, but it worked both ways. Strangers could feel the Shape burning behind Gentry's eyes, his fixation came across everything he did. Slick had no idea how he got along on his trips to the Sprawl; maybe he just dealt with people as intense as he was, loners on the jagged fringes of the software and drug markets. He didn't seem to care about sex at all, to the extent that Slick had no idea what it was he'd have wanted if he'd decided to care.