第40部分(第4/7 頁)

about　a　man　who　invented　a　time　machine；　and　I　have　discovered　that；　in　the　writing　of　these　memoirs；　I　have　created　my　own　time　machine。　Unlike　Wells's；　it　can　only　travel　into　the　past　…　back　to　1932；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　when　I　was　the　bull…goose　screw　in　E　Block　of　Cold　Mountain　State　Penitentiary　…　but　it's　eerily　efficient；　for　all　that。　Still；　this　time　machine　reminds　me　of　the　old　Ford　I　had　in　those　days：　you　could　be　sure　that　it　would　start　eventually；　but　you　never　knew　if　a　turn　of　the　key　would　be　enough　to　fire　the　motor；　or　if　you　were　going　to　have　to　get　out　and　crank　until　your　arm　practically　fell　off。

I've　had　a　lot　of　easy　starts　since　I　started　telling　the　story　of　John　Coffey；　but　yesterday　I　had　to　crank。　I　think　it　was　because　I'd　gotten　to　Delacroix's　execution；　and　part　of　my　mind　didn't　want　to　have　to　relive　that。　It　was　a　bad　death；　a　terrible　death；　and　it　happened　the　way　it　did　because　of　Percy　Wetmore；　a　young　man　who　loved　to　b　his　hair　but　couldn't　stand　to　be　laughed　at　…　not　even　by　a　half　bald　little　Frenchman　who　was　never　going　to　see　another　Christmas。

As　with　most　dirty　jobs；　however；　the　hardest　part　is　just　getting　started。　It　doesn't　matter　to　an　engine　whether　you　use　the　key　or　have　to　crank；　once　you　get　it　going；　it'll　usually　run　just　as　sweet　either　way。　That's　how　it　worked　for　me　yesterday。　At　first　the　words　came　in　little　bursts　of　phrasing；　then　in　whole　sentences；　then　in　a　torrent。　Writing　is　a　special　and　rather　terrifying　form　of　remembrance；　I've　discovered　…　there　is　a　totality　to　it　that　seems　almost　like　rape。　Perhaps　I　only　feel　that　way　because　I've　bee　a　very　old　man　（a　thing　that　happened　behind　my　own　back；　I　sometimes　feel）；　but　I　don't　think　so。　I　believe　that　the　bination　of　pencil