Читать книгу Maxwell's Demon онлайн

6 страница из 77

o

I remember two seasons from this very early part of my life, a summer and a winter, although, of course, there must have been an autumn in between. That summer was an extraordinary one, because Dr Stanley Quinn made one of his rare extended visits home.

I remember how the physicality of my father seemed magical to me. I’d become used to him as a picture, a voice, as the smell of clothes in a wardrobe, and as a hundred other single-sensory avatars. But now, it was as if some force had pulled all of him together, as if, for the shortest of times, these fragmented elements had condensed to make a man, and that man could suddenly exert his physical will upon the world. The simplest of things – that my father could respond to spoken words, could move from one part of the house to another, could cut back the roses, could be touched and felt and had a real hand that could hold mine – these things were miracles, magic, amazing events that left me full of wonder.

I have a clear memory of one specific conversation with my father from this time.