is willing to be lucky。
New York is the concentrate2 of art and merce and sport and religion and entertainment and finance； bringing to a single pact arena the gladiator； the evangelist； the promoter； the actor； the trader； and the merchant。 It carries on its lapel the unexpungeable odor of the long past； so that no matter where you sit in New York you feel the vibrations of great times and tall deeds； of queer people and events and undertakings。 I am sitting at the moment in a stifling hotel room in 90…degree heat； halfway down an air shaft； in midtown。 No air moves in or out of the room； yet I am curiously affected by emanations from the immediate surroundings。 I am twenty…two blocks from where Rudolph Valentino lay in state； eight blocks from where Nathan Hale was executed； five blocks from the publisher’s office where Ernest Hemingway hit Max Eastman on the nose； four miles from where Walt Whitman sat sweating out editorials for the Brooklyn Eagle； thirty…four blocks from the street Willa Cather lived in when she came to New York to write books about Nebraska； one block from where Marceline used to clown on the boards of the Hippodrome； thirty…six blocks from the spot where the historian Joe Gould kicked a radio to pieces in full view of the public； thirteen blocks from where Harry Thaw shot Stanford Whites； five blocks from where I used to usher at the Metropolitan Opera and only 112 blocks from the spot where Clarence Day the elder was washed of his sins in the