I know where Pynchon lives. Once no fact would have been more luminous to me. Now, although my friend called me as soon as he learned and I listened as breathlessly as I ever would have, knowing where Pynchon lives finally doesn't matter so much. I'm not going there to try to spot him. I've lived too long with the desire to learn something, anything, about the actual human being. Learning something so spectacular now, and so accidentally, makes me realize how knowledge of Pynchon has come to represent a certain sort of elusive, unwanted knowledge about myself.