ELON’S WORLD

ELON’S WORLD
DO YOU THINK I’M INSANE?”
This question came from Elon Musk near the very end of a long dinner
we shared at a high-end seafood restaurant in Silicon Valley. I’d gotten to
the restaurant first and settled down with a gin and tonic, knowing Musk
would—as ever—be late. After about fifteen minutes, Musk showed up
wearing leather shoes, designer jeans, and a plaid dress shirt. Musk stands
six foot one but ask anyone who knows him and they’ll confirm that he
seems much bigger than that. He’s absurdly broad-shouldered, sturdy, and
thick. You’d figure he would use this frame to his advantage and perform an
alpha-male strut when entering a room. Instead, he tends to be almost
sheepish. It’s head tilted slightly down while walking, a quick handshake
hello after reaching the table, and then butt in seat. From there, Musk needs
a few minutes before he warms up and looks at ease.
Musk asked me to dinner for a negotiation of sorts. Eighteen months
earlier, I’d informed him of my plans to write a book about him, and he’d
informed me of his plans not to cooperate. His rejection stung but thrust me
into dogged reporter mode. If I had to do this book without him, so be it.
Plenty of people had left Musk’s companies, Tesla Motors and SpaceX, and
would talk, and I already knew a lot of his friends. The interviews followed
one after another, month after month, and two hundred or so people into the
process, I heard from Musk once again. He called me at home and declared
that things could go one of two ways: he could make my life very difficult
or he could help with the project after all. He’d be willing to cooperate if he
could read the book before it went to publication, and could add footnotes