On a frosty morning last week, the author Margaret Atwood, her silver hair framed by a hood lined with violet-colored artificial fur, left her hotel in Midtown Manhattan and got into a hired town car. As the car left the city and wound through the snow-blanketed woods of the Hudson River Valley, she talked about vampire movies, praising Tomas Alfredson’s “Let the Right One In,” and about some of her travels: More recently, to San Diego Comic-Con, where “I had my picture taken with the Klingons,” but also, when she was a young mother, to Afghanistan a few weeks before the 1978 assassination of President Mohammed Daoud Khan and to Iran eight months before the overthrow of the shah. “Don’t invite me to your country,” she recommended.
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