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　and　memory　creates　a　kind　of　practical　magic；　and　magic　is　dangerous。　As　a　man　who　knew　John　Coffey　and　saw　what　he　could　do　…　to　mice　and　to　men　…　l　feel　very　qualified　to　say　that。

Magic　is　dangerous。

In　any　case；　I　wrote　all　day　yesterday；　the　words　simply　flooding　out　of　me；　the　su