I have never stood in front of a blast furnace, or ventured into the bowels of a steamship where coal is shoveled into a gaping maw of fire. But on steamy August days in New York City, as I descend the stairs into the subway station at the top of my street, I wonder if I am experiencing something like those early industrial scenes of torrid heat. It blows hard and hot, and contrary to all normal expectations, the air gets hotter the deeper my descent, even on the rare blessed day when the sea air that reminds me I live on an island is blowing cool at street level.