(Crash.)

"Smile." "Turn." "Purse."

"Smile." "Turn." "Purse."

"Smile." "Turn." "Purse." Flash.

Again, you were there, unprepared. Though there it was nothing tragic--only your senior photograph for the Yearbook. But here it was all of a sudden, like the rest; and all of a sudden, with a turn and a smile, and a requested pursing of the lips, your session was complete and your could leave the overheated, overwhelmed, overexcited, tension-filled room of Harvard fourth-years posing for their final portrait.

(The one that's going to be in The Times.)

Even the frumpy got dressed for this memorial occasion. Who knows? They too could be Theodore J. Kaczynski '62 one day. Or Bill Gates. Either way. What's the big difference? Both brilliant. Both ambitious. One frustrated. Crash.

Here, at the Yearbook Office in the beautiful office building sat the sagging shelves of volumes from years past for which so many groups of 1,600 sat for hours on end. They sat before the grey backdrop with a good, solid jacket and tie, or a nice blouse. Then they sat before the Harvard banner with cap and gown. And they looked studious. And some of them were.

Here, at the Yearbook office, above all the heavy breathing, you heard the flash.

Flash.

A ring and a flash.

Ring, Ring. Flash.

That's what you get, if you get it at all.

A ring and a flash. Ring. Ring. Flash. Crash.

It really does have to be drummed into you.