I don’t really think he’s an utter bastard, of course. In fact, I adore Neal Stephenson. He’s a wonderful writer, more than prepared to take on immense sweeping subjects and deliver in spades. Which means his damn books are immense buggers. Which means I have a cinderblock-sized copy of Anathem glowering heftily at me from the Must Read Soon pile.
And I’m looking at it, and it’s looking back at me, and I’m thinking