波波小说

第23部分（第1页）

But　whatever　it　means；　it　is　a　rather　rare　gift；　and　I　believe　it　has　a　positive　effect　on　the　creative　capacities　of　New　Yorker—for　creation　is　in　part　merely　the　business　of　forgoing　the　great　and　small　distractions。

Although　New　York　often　imparts　a　feeling　of　great　forlornness　or　forsakenness；　it　seldom　seems　dead　or　unresourceful；　and　you　always　feel　that　either　by　shifting　your　location　ten　blocks　or　by　reducing　your　fortune　by　five　dollars　you　can　experience　rejuvenation。　　Many　people　who　have　no　real　independence　of　spirit　depend　on　the　city’s　tremendous　variety　and　sources　of　excitement　for　spiritual　sustenance　and　maintenance　of　morale。　In　the　country　there　are　a　few　chances　of　sudden　rejuvenation—a　shift　in　weather；　perhaps；　or　something　arriving　in　the　mail。　But　in　New　York　the　chances　are　endless。　I　think　that　although　many　persons　are　here　from　some　excess　of　spirit　（which　caused　them　to　break　away　from　their　small　town）；　some；　too；　are　here　from　a　deficiency　of　spirit；　who　find　in　New　York　a　protection；　or　an　easy　substitution。

There　are　roughly　three　New　Yorks。　There　is；　first；　the　New　York　of　the　man　or　woman　who　was　born　here；　who　takes　the　city　for　granted　and　accepts　its　size　and　its　turbulence　as　natural　and　inevitable。　Second；　there　is　the　New　York　of　the　muter—the　city　that　is　devoured　by　locusts　each　day　and　spat　out　each　night。　Third；　there　is　the　New　York　of　the　person　who　was　born　somewhere　else　and　came　to　New　York　in　quest　of　something。　Of　these　three　trembling　cities　tile　greatest　is　the　last—the　city　of　final　destination；　the　city　that　is　a　goal。　It　is　this　third　city　that　accounts　for　New　York’s　light…strung　disposition；　its　poetical　deportment6；　its　dedication　to　the　arts；　and　its　inparable　achievements。　muters　give　the　city　its　tidal　restlessness；　native　give　it　solidity　and　continuity；　but　the　settlers　give　it　passion。　And　whether　it　is　a　farmer　arriving　from　Italy　to　set　up　a　small　town　in　Mississippi　to　escape　the　indignity　of　being　observed　by　her　neighbors；　or　a　boy　arriving　from　the　Corn　Belt　with　a　manuscript　in　his　suitcase　and　a　pain　in　his　heart；　it　makes　no　difference：　each　absorbs　New　York　with　the　fresh　eyes　of　an　adventurer；　each　generates　heat　and　light　to　dwarf　the　Consolidated　Edison　pany。

The　muter　is　the　queerest　bird　of　all。　　The　suburb　he　inhabits　has　no　essential　vitality　of　its　own　and　is　a　mere　roost　where　he　es　at　day’s　end　to　got　to　sleep。　Except　in　rare　cases；　the　man　who　lives　in　Mamaroneck　or　Little　Neck　or　Teaneck　and　works　in　New　York；　discovers　nothing　much　about　the　city　except　the　time　of　arrival　and　departure　of　trains　and　buses；　and　the　path　to　a　quick　lunch。　He　is　desk…　bound；　and　has　never；　idly　roaming　in　the　gloaming；　stumbled　suddenly　on　Belvedere　Tower　in　the　Park；　seen　the　ramparts　rise　sheer　from　the　water　of　the　pond；　and　the　boys　along　the　shore　fishing　for　minnows；　girls　stretched　out　negligently　on　the　shelves　of　the　rocks；　he　has　never　e　suddenly　on　anything　at　all　in　New　York　as　a　loiterer；　because　he　has　had　no　time　between　trains。　He　has　fished　in　Manhattan’s　wallet　and　dug　out　coins　but　has　never　listened　to　Manhattan’s　breathing；　never　awakened　to　its　morning；　never　dropped　off　to　sleep　in　its　night。　About　400；000　men　and　women　e　charging　onto　the　island　each　weekday　morning；　out　of　the　mouths　of　tubes　and　tunnels。　Not　many　among　them　have　ever　spent　a　drowsy　afternoon　in　the　great　rustling　oaken　silence　of　the　reading　room　of　the　Public　Library；　with　the　book　elevator　（like　an　old　water　wheel）　spewing　out　books　onto　the　trays。　They　tend　their　furnaces　of　the　Bowery；　the　fires　that　burn　in　oil　drums　on　zero　winter　nights。　They　may　work　in　the　financial　district　downtown　and　never　see　the　extravagant　plantings　of　Rockefeller　Center—the　daffodils7　and　grape　hyacinths　and　birches　and　the　flags　trimmed　to　the　wind　on　a　fine　morning　in　spring。　Or　they　may　work　in　a　midtown　office　and　may　let　a　whole　year　swing　round　without　sighting　Governors　Island　from　the　sea　wall。　The　muter　dies　with　tremendous　mileage　to　his　credit　but　he　is　no　rover。　　His　entrances　and　exits　are　more　devious　than　those　in　a　prairie…dog　village；　and　he　calmly　plays　bridge　while　buried　in　the　mud　at　the　bottom　of　the　East　River。　The　Long　Island　Rail　Road　alone　carried　forty　million　muters　last　year；　but　many　of　them　were　the　same　fellow　retracing　his　steps。

The　terrain　of　New　York　is　such　that　a　resident　sometimes　travels　farther；　in　the　end；　than　a　muter。　Irving　Berlin’s　journey　from　Cherry　Street　in　the　Lower　East　Side　to　an　apartment　uptown　was　through　an　alley　and　was　only　three　or　four　mile　in　length；　but　it　was　like　going　three　times　around　the　world。

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