later, though its roots are tangled somewhere here: Occasionally, there arises a writing situation where yousee an alternative to what you are doing, a mad, wildgamble of a way for handling something, which mayleave you looking stupid, ridiculous or brilliant—you justdon't know which. You can play it safe there, too, andproceed along .the route you'd mapped out for yourself.Or you can trust your personal demon who delivered thatcrazy idea in the first place.

Trust your demon.At the end of the season of sorrows comes the time ofrejoicing. Spring, like a well-oiled clock, noiselessly indicates this time. The average days of dimness and moisturedecrease steadily in number, and those of brilliance andcool air begin to enter the calendar again. And it is goodthat the wet times are behind us, for they rust and corrodeour machinery; they require the most intense standards ofhygiene.

With all the bright baggage of spring, the days of theFestival arrive. After the season of Lamentations comethe sacred stations of the Passion, then the bright Festivalof Resurrection, with its tinkle and clatter, its exhaustfumes, sorched rubber, clouds of dust, and its great promise of happiness.

We come here each year, to the place, to replicate aclassic. We see with our own lenses the functioning promise of our creation. The time is today, and I have beenchosen.

Here on the sacred grounds of Le Mans I will performevery action of the classic which has been selected. Before the finale I will have duplicated every movementand every position which we know occurred. How fortunate! How high the honor!

Last year many were chosen, .but it was not the same.Their level of participation was lower. Still, I had wantedso badly to be chosen! I had wished so strongly that I,too, might stand beside the track and await the flamingMercedes.

But I was saved for this greater thing, and all lensesare upon me as we await the start. This year there is