Alan Moore is waiting when I get off the train in Northampton, a majestically bearded figure in a hoodie, scanning the crowd that pushes through the turnstiles with a look of fearsome intent. When I wave, the glare becomes a beaming smile. 'How are you, mate?' he booms. 'Splendid, splendid. I thought we'd go for a bit of a walk, so I can show you around and we can work up an appetite.'

Off we go up the hill. Moore swings his stick - a wooden snake coiled around the handle to symbolise his enthusiastic worship of Glycon, a second-century Macedonian snake god - and keeps up a constant flow of arcane local chatter. This station car park, he tells me, used to be King John's castle, where the First Crusade began. That charmless glass-and-steel building was once a Saxon banqueting hall. Over there was a pub where, 'if you'd come along here on a Sunday afternoon in the 1920s or '30s, you'd have found a zebra tied up outside it.'

Before long, tramping through the riverside mud under a railway bridge, we've moved on to grander concerns. Moore has embarked on a potted summary of eternalism, the philosophical concept of time that ran through Kurt Vonnegut's novel Slaughterhouse-Five (1969), played a part in his own revolutionary superhero comic Watchmen (1986-87), and is the central conceit behind 'Jerusalem', the million-word mega-novel the first draft of which he has now, after more than a decade, shepherded to its conclusion. ...[Continue reading on Aeon]