第22部分(第3/6 页)

om；　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　Church　of　the　Epiphany　（　I　could　continue　this　list　indefinitely）；　and　for　that　matter　I　am　probably　occupying　the　very　room　that　any　number　of　exalted　and　somewise　memorable　characters　sat　in；　some　of　them　on　hot；　breathless　afternoons；　lonely　and　private　and　full　of　their　own　sense　of　emanations3　from　without。

When　I　went　down　to　lunch　a　few　minutes　ago　I　noticed　that　the　man　sitting　next　to　me　（about　eighteen　inches　away　along　the　wall）　was　Fred　Stone。　The　eighteen　inches　were　both　the　connection　and　the　separation　that　New　York　provides　for　its　inhabitants。　My　only　connection　with　Fred　Stone　was　that　I　saw　him　in　The　Wizard　of　Oz　around　the　beginning　of　the　century。　But　our　waiter　felt　the　same　stimulus　from　being　close　to　a　man　from　Oz；　and　after　Mr。　Stone　left　the　room　the　waiter　told　me　that　when　he　（the　waiter）　was　a　young　man　just　arrived　in　this　country　and　before　he　cou