His bushy beard is saltier now than in his old author photos, but Neal Stephenson still pairs it with a characteristic, neatly shaved (and, not to get too phrenological about it, large) pate. So he’s easy to spot, even at the bar of a packed Seattle bistro. We’ve arranged to meet here to talk about his latest novel, number 17 over nearly four decades of wildly popular, cinder-block-sized sci-fi thrillers. That was the plan, anyway, but even as we say our hellos, it’s clear that two simultaneous disasters have enveloped us as surely as the swirling rush of tourists at lunchtime.
Source link : wired