Sometimes I feel like a Russian guy whose family was defamed by Stalin, or a Chinese guy whose family was defamed during the Cultural Revolution. My father defamed himself, sure, but the process of rehabilitation is roughly similar. Those Russian and Chinese families want their name restored, want to gain back the dignity of their family name. 

What do I want? For my father to be remembered, I guess. To build a statue for the man––albeit a digital one, which could be wiped out by a solar flare. The worst thing I can do in life is to die without in some way trying to make sure he can be remembered, because I'm his son and I'm grateful for what he gave me. 

I have to be grateful, don't I? Because without it I'd be nothing. Without the tangle of impulses and conflicting desires I inherited him, would I have any identity at all?