Wherever one turns, 1968 is celebrated or lambasted. Forty years on, it is at least marked in bold, red letters. More often than not, I am repelled by the incongruous spectacle. Whenever I look a bit more closely at what is on offer, if only out of misplaced curiosity, I am quickly disappointed. Nay, revolted. That miraculous year is still waiting for its voice, but it is increasingly unlikely that it will come from those who have witnessed the hoopla. For everyone has witnessed something entirely different. The myriad testimonies not only do not match, but they also disagree, often sharply. If 1848 is an example, chances are that 1968 will remain a baffling mystery. The only thing that will linger is the year itself. The year as such.