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