Blood banged inside my head. I loved my brother. I hated him. There was no solution to who he was. No getting back who he had been.

One thing he had to give her credit for, she'd never called it a Relationship. "What is it then, hey," he'd asked once. "A secret," with her small child's smile, which like Rodgers and Hammerstein in 3/4 time rendered Profane fluttery and gelatinous.

The world of our fathers resides within us. Ten thousand generations and more. A form without a history has no power to perpetuate itself. What has no past can have no future.

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

Written By Thomas Pynchon

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