BIH Author Biography
Neal Stephenson issues from a clan of rootless, itinerant hard-science and engineering professors (mostly Pac 10, Big 10, and Big 8 with the occasional wild strain of Ivy). He began his higher education as a physics major, then switched to geography when it appeared that this would enable him to scam more free time on his university's mainframe computer. When he graduated and discovered, to his perplexity, that there were no jobs for inexperienced physicist-geographers, he began to look into alternative pursuits such as working on cars, unimaginably stupid agricultural labor, and writing novels. His first novel, The Big U, was published in 1984 and vanished without a trace. His second novel, Zodiac: the Eco-thriller, came out in 1988 and quickly developed a cult following among water-pollution-control engineers. It was also enjoyed, though rarely bought, by many radical environmentalists. Snow Crash was written in the years 1988 through 1991 as the author listened to a great deal of loud, relentless, depressing music. The Diamond Age was his last novel. Mr. Stephenson now resides in a comfortable home in the western hemisphere and spends all of his time trying to retrofit an office into its generally dark, unlevel, and asbestos-laden basement so that he can attempt to write more novels. Despite the tremendous amounts of time he devotes to writing, playing with computers, listening to speed metal, Rollerblading, and pounding nails, he is a flawless husband, parent, neighbor, and all-around human being.Back Cover Copy
Only once in a great while does a writer come along who defies comparison-a writer so original, he redefines the way we look at the world. Neal Stephenson is such a writer and Snow Crash is such a novel, weaving virtual reality, Sumerian myth, and just about everything in between with a cool, hip cybersensibility to bring us the gigathriller of the information age. In reality, Hiro Protagonist delivers pizza for Uncle Enzo's CosaNostra Pizza Inc., but in the Metaverse he's a warrior prince. Plunging headlong into the enigma of a new computer virus that's striking down hackers everywhere, he races along the neon-lit streets on a search-and-destroy mission for the shadowy virtual villain threatening to bring about infocalypse. Snow Crash is a mind-altering romp through a future America so bizarre, so outrageous...you'll recognize it immediately.Excerpt from Book
The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallowed sub-category. He's got esprit up to here. Right now he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachno-fiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books. When they gave him the job, they gave him a gun. The Deliverator never deals in cash, but someone might come after him anyway--might want his car, or his cargo. The gun is a tiny, aero-styled, lightweight, the kind of a gun a fashion designer would carry; it fires teensy darts that fly at five times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane, and when you get done using it, you have to plug it in to the cigarette lighter, because it runs on electricity. The Deliverator never pulled that gun in anger, or in fear. He pulled it once in Gila Highlands. Some punks in Gila Highlands, a fancy Burbclave, wanted themselves a delivery, and they didn't want to pay for it. Thought they would impress the Deliverator with a baseball bat. The Deliverator took out his gun, centered its laser doo-hickey on that poised Louisville Slugger, fired it. The recoil was immense, as though the weapon had blown up in his hand. The middle third of the baseball bat turned into a column of burning sawdust accelerating in all directions like a bursting star. Punk ended up holding this bat handle with milky smoke pouring out the end. Stupid look on his face. Didn't get nothing but trouble from the Deliverator. Since then the Deliverator has kept the gun in the glove compartment and relied, instead, on a matched set of samurai swords, which have always been his weapon of choice anyhow. The punks in Gila Highlands weren't afraid of the gun, so the Deliverator was forced to use it. But swords need no demonstration. The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt. Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters. When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens. You want to talk contact patches? Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue. The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs. The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta. Why is the Deliverator so equipped? Because people rely on him. He is a roll model. This is America. People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that? Because they have a right to. And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them. As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world. When it gets down to it--we're talking trade balances here--once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwaves in Tadzhikistan and selling them here--once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships andReview Quote
"Stephenson has not stepped, he has vaulted onto the literary stage with this novel." --Los Angeles Reader "A cross between Neuromancer and Thomas Pynchon's Vineland. This is no mere hyperbole." --San Francisco Bay Guardian "Fast-forward free-style mall mythology for the 21st century." --William Gibson "Brilliantly realized...Stephenson turns out to be an engaging guide to an onrushing tomorrow." --The New York Times Book Review Look for other Bantam Spectra novels by Neal Stephenson: The Diamond Age "(Stephenson) has gotten even better. The Diamond Age envisions the next century as brilliantly as Snow Crash did the day after tomorrow." --Newsweek "The Diamond Age establishes Neal Stephenson as a powerful voice for the cyber age....At once whimsical, satirical, and cautionary." --USA Today Zodiac: An Eco-Thriller "(Stephenson) captures the nuance and the rhythm of the new world so perfectly that one almost thinks that it is already here." --The Washington PostExcerpt from Book
The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallowed sub-category.He's got esprit up to here.Right now he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night.His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air.A bullet will bounce off its arachno-fiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest.Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books. When they gave him the job, they gave him a gun.The Deliverator never deals in cash, but someone might come after him anyway--might want his car, or his cargo.The gun is a tiny, aero-styled, lightweight, the kind of a gun a fashion designer would carry; it fires teensy darts that fly at five times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane, and when you get done using it, you have to plug it in to the cigarette lighter, because it runs on electricity. The Deliverator never pulled that gun in anger, or in fear.He pulled it once in Gila Highlands.Some punks in Gila Highlands, a fancy Burbclave, wanted themselves a delivery, and they didn't want to pay for it.Thought they would impress the Deliverator with a baseball bat.The Deliverator took out his gun, centered its laser doo-hickey on that poised Louisville Slugger, fired it.The recoil was immense, as though the weapon had blown up in his hand.The middle third of the baseball bat turned into a column of burning sawdust accelerating in all directions like a bursting star.Punk ended up holding this bat handle with milky smoke pouring out the end.Stupid look on his face.Didn't get nothing but trouble from the Deliverator. Since then the Deliverator has kept the gun in the glove compartment and relied, instead, on a matched set of samurai swords, which have always been his weapon of choice anyhow.The punks in Gila Highlands weren't afraid of the gun, so the Deliverator was forced to use it.But swords need no demonstration. The Deliverator's car has enough potential energy packed into its batteries to fire a pound of bacon into the Asteroid Belt.Unlike a bimbo box or a Burb beater, the Deliverator's car unloads that power through gaping, gleaming, polished sphincters.When the Deliverator puts the hammer down, shit happens.You want to talk contact patches?Your car's tires have tiny contact patches, talk to the asphalt in four places the size of your tongue.The Deliverator's car has big sticky tires with contact patches the size of a fat lady's thighs.The Deliverator is in touch with the road, starts like a bad day, stops on a peseta. Why is the Deliverator so equipped?Because people rely on him.He is a roll model.This is America.People do whatever the fuck they feel like doing, you got a problem with that?Because they have a right to.And because they have guns and no one can fucking stop them.As a result, this country has one of the worst economies in the world.When it gets down to it--we're talking trade balances here--once we've brain-drained all our technology into other countries, once things have evened out, they're making cars in Bolivia and microwaves in Tadzhikistan and selling them here--once our edge in natural resources has been made irrelevant by giant Hong Kong ships andMain Description
One ofTimemagazine's 100 all-time best English-language novels. Only once in a great while does a writer come along who defies comparisona writer so original he redefines the way we look at the world. Neal Stephenson is such a writer andSnow Crashis such a novel, weaving virtual reality, Sumerian myth, and just about everything in between with a cool, hip cybersensibility to bring us the gigathriller of the information age. In reality, Hiro Protagonist delivers pizza for Uncle Enzo's CosoNostra Pizza Inc., but in the Metaverse he's a warrior prince. Plunging headlong into the enigma of a new computer virus that's striking down hackers everywhere, he races along the neon-lit streets on a search-and-destroy mission for the shadowy virtual villain threatening to bring about infocalypse.Snow Crashis a mind-altering romp through a future America so bizarre, so outrageous...you'll recognize it immediately.Review Quote
"Stephenson has not stepped, he has vaulted onto the literary stage with this novel."Los Angeles Reader "A cross betweenNeuromancerand Thomas Pynchon'sVineland. This is no mere hyperbole."San Francisco Bay Guardian "Fast-forward free-style mall mythology for the 21st century."William Gibson "Brilliantly realized...Stephenson turns out to be an engaging guide to an onrushing tomorrow."New York Times Book Review
Neal Stephenson, the science fiction author, was born on October 31, 1959 in Maryland. He graduated from Boston University in 1981 with a B.A. in Geography with a minor in physics. His first novel, The Big U, was published in 1984. It received little attention and stayed out of print until Stephenson allowed it to be reprinted in 2001. His second novel was Zodiac: The Eco-Thriller was published in 1988, but it was his novel Snow Crash (1992) that brought him popularity. It fused memetics, computer viruses, and other high-tech themes with Sumerian mythology. Neal Stephenson has won several awards: Hugo for Best Novel for The Diamond Age (1996), the Arthur C. Clark for Best Novel for Quicksilver (2004), and the Prometheus Award for Best Novel for The System of the World (2005). He recently completed the The Baroque Cycle Trilogy, a series of historical novels. It consists of eight books and was originally published in three volumes. He currently resides in Seattle, Washington with his family. Stephenson also writes under the pseudonym Stephen Bury.