From 1946 to 1948
I RETURNED TO INDIA for a short spell of work before retiring to the home country. My long stay in the East had already told on my health, and I looked forward eagerly to some modest and unexacting job in England to keep me going for a few years until the time should come to retire completely from active life. I promised myself that I would first take some post in England, something not too arduous1, that would allow me enough leisure to work up a full-length biography of Victor. He had agreed to this project, on condition that the book should not be published till after his death. If I should die first, which seemed to me quite likely, the manuscript was to be held by my executors until Victor had followed me. I looked forward to seeing much more of Victor when I finally settled in England, and I hoped to gain a much more intimate understanding of the true Victor’s ideas. If he failed to publish his ever-rewritten book before his death, I was to have the task of editing it and publishing at least a large part of it posthumously2.
My plans were frustrated3. Some nine months after my return to India I received a disquieting4 letter from Maggie. Victor’s condition seemed to have deteriorated5. He was faithfully continuing his work; and indeed, when he had sufficient strength to carry out his teaching, he was a more successful teacher than he had ever been; but he seemed to be profoundly and morbidly7 depressed8 about himself and the world. He was seriously overworking, both in preparing his official lectures and in reading book after book on religious or philosophical9 subjects. He generally stayed up half the night reading, or just thinking. Maggie could not make up her mind whether he was heroically and forlornly struggling to mimic10 his ‘brother’ by finding some great illumination, or whether, on the contrary, he was rebelling against the resented influence of the true Victor.
He had started a course of ruthless asceticism11. Alcohol and tobacco he had given up entirely12. Food he had strictly13 rationed15 to something much less than the official ration14. He said that if the Germans had to starve, so must he. Undernourishment had undermined his bodily health, though (so he said) it was quickening his mind. All the same, Maggie learned from his students that he was often too tired to cope with a class properly. All occasional pleasures, such as films and plays, motoring week-ends and country walks, he had abandoned. Had he wanted to walk, he could not have done it, for he had no spare energy. Toward Margaret, on whom till recently he had rather extravagantly17 doted, he now maintained a strange aloofness19, alternating with gleams of hungry love. Toward Maggie herself, though he treated her with even more than his habitual20 tenderness, he seemed at heart aloof18. She had tried to persuade him to tell her what was troubling him, but he refused to be drawn21. He insisted on sleeping in a separate room, because (so he said) his nocturnal meditations22 would disturb her. He never laughed, never smiled, save professionally at his classes. He had apparently23 lost all interest in the life of the society in which he lived, and in the whole surrounding universe. Even his work he performed rather as a discipline than from a sense of its importance. His attention seemed wholly withdrawn24 upon his own inner life. But this too, so far as she could judge, gave him no real satisfaction. Maggie was, of course, greatly distressed25 and frightened. She feared that sooner or later he would have a complete mental breakdown26. In her letter to me, she said, “My poor Victor is desperately27 groping for the light, but I cannot help feeling that the powers of darkness, whatever they maybe, are closing in on him. I think he is putting up a great fight against them, but I am sure he has chosen quite the wrong tactics. Nothing that I can say succeeds in persuading him to live more naturally and openly. Oh, how I long for the return of my own true Victor! But it is now an age since he came, and I begin to fear I shall never see him again.”
A few months after receiving this letter, I was shocked by a cable from Magpie28 announcing Victor’s death. An airmail letter followed, saying that one morning he had failed to appear at breakfast, so she went up to his room, and found him apparently asleep; but he was dead. A post mortem proved that he had taken one of the modern poisons which send one quietly to sleep, never to wake again. He had left no last message for her. And she found that all the true Victor’s manuscripts had been destroyed. She greatly blamed herself, for having agreed, some ten years earlier, to restore them all to the study, where the secondary Victor (by then a reformed character) could examine them whenever he was in the mood for it.
The disaster of Victor’s death, Maggie said, was the more distressing29 because the true Victor had recently appeared rather more frequently, and his last visit had been prolonged for more than a week. She had begun to hope for his permanent re-establishment. He had told her of the other’s intention to kill himself, and she had been anxiously watching him. On one occasion an attempt had actually been made; but in the nick of time the true Victor had re-appeared. She therefore hoped that this happy issue would be repeated whenever the impulse for suicide recurred30. In this, alas31, she was mistaken.
A long letter from the true Victor, she said, was on its way to me. But it had been sent by the sea mail, and might not reach me for some time.
Maggie allows me to quote the closing passage of her letter to me. “From the bottom of my heart I am thankful for my life with Victor. We both suffered very much. And in the end came a dismal32 tragedy. But in spite of everything, I feel that the true Victor has won through. In our last week together we were happy, more happy than ever before. He seemed to have an ecstatic peace which was infectious. He was telling me about it, but he disappeared before he had made me fully6 understand. But I have felt that peace. And now I feel — well, grief, of course, since I shall never see my darling again; but not grief only. Much deeper in my heart, I feel joy. Somehow, in the last week he taught me more than in the whole of the rest of his life. And perhaps he himself learned more. He has tried to express something of this in his letter to you, but words can give only a pale ghost of the peace and joy which his presence radiated through and through me during those most happy days. And even now that he is gone, I feel convinced that in some sense beyond my intelligence he is always with me; he, the true Victor, my pride and my joy.”
In due course I received Victor’s letter. I will end this inadequate33 biography of my friend by quoting his last letter in full. It is a remarkable34 and a moving document. Parts of it are either beyond my comprehension or else sheer verbiage35. The reader must judge for himself. My own feeling about it is that while the letter shows the potential greatness of my dead friend, both in intelligence and in large-heartedness and spiritual vision (if I may so put the matter), it also shows considerable traces of mental derangement36, due, no doubt, to the strain of his situation. The opening reference to myself, far kinder than I deserve, shows Victor’s unfailing magnanimity.
“DEAR HARRY37.
“It is unlikely that we shall meet again, and I feel I must say something to you before it is too late.
“First of all, Harry, I want to say ‘thank you’ for your friendship, your patience and kindness through all the years since we were at Oxford38. I have never said anything like this to you before. I have always counted on you. I have always accepted from you without any spoken gratitude39. And often I have been inconsiderate and impatient. For this I cannot make amends40; but let me at least say that our friendship has been one of the happiest and most valued things in my life, and that you, more than anyone else, have taught me what the relation between man and man should be.
“I woke a few days ago in strange circumstances. I was in bed in the Dolt41’s room. In the palm of my hand there was a little white pill. Thinking that it was an aspirin42, I put it in my mouth. But the Dolt’s memories were now flooding back on me, and I quickly realized that he had decided43 to kill us both. I hastily spat44 out the pill and rinsed45 my mouth. My watch told me it was half-past one. I went to Maggie’s room.
“If he does it again, shall I again wake in time to thwart46 him? I cannot feel confident of it. The knowledge that this may be my last few days of life seems to have intensified47 my vitality48. Everything that happens to me, everything that I do, has a new meaning, and glows (so to speak) with an inner light.
“We have seized the opportunity of a complete holiday in this glorious English spring. (Fancy my fool ‘brother’ wanting to kill himself and me in this weather, with all the buds bursting!) We have been out in the country every day. I don’t know which is more delightful50, lying on one’s back in a field, with Maggie, and listening to larks51 and an early cuckoo, or swinging across the moor52, with Maggie, watching the cloud shadows on the hills, and an occasional hare start up and streak53 away round the hill’s shoulder. ‘Swinging across the moor’ is a very false image. ‘Painfully plodding’ would be better; for the Dolt had been starving our common body. But now, there’s some sort of fire in me that drives the body far beyond its natural strength.
“What a joy seeing is! Even when it is done through aging eyes that give neither the precision nor the brilliance54 of childhood’s seeing. The poor old physical instrument is no longer ‘optically perfect,’ but the relish55, the zest56, is as fresh and breathtaking as it was in my still-remembered babyhood. O lovely world; tragic57, sordid58, brutal59, and yet lovely! The sturdy hog-backs of the moors60! The frail61 geometry of a spider’s web! This morning I was making the porridge for breakfast. Have you ever noticed how at a certain stage the quick waves of gruel62 gradually turn to heavy, sluggish63, velvet64 foldings? Rather like the smooth hide rippling65 on a puma’s shoulders. Then the stuff boils. Subterranean66 explosions in the little molten world form ephemeral craters67. You watch the show, fascinated, till a projectile68 of lava69 rises into the stratosphere and scalds your hand. Strange how even pain itself has a sort of tigerish loveliness! I mean, when one is really awake, and can experience it with a full sense of its spiritual meaning. But alas, alas! Man can only reach this all-redeeming illumination in his rare and precarious70 moments of full consciousness. And most of us are doomed71 never to reach so far. This is the ultimate tragedy at the heart of the universe. Ultimate? No! Seeming ultimate, only while one is in the trance of lonely selfhood. But in fact we are indeed all members one of another, and of the Whole. Even the least of us is at heart the Whole. And in the Whole’s glory his suffering is redeemed73. But, oh, Harry, how I stammer74 and drivel, trying to express the inexpressible that I have indeed, though darkly, seen.”
“In these few happy days that have been given me, I spend much of my time just looking at things. For instance at Maggie. Aging suits her. She was lovely when I first saw her, so many years ago; but now, though she has lost all the sweet physical freshness, in another way she’s lovelier. The spirit, one might say, shines so clearly through that experienced, that tempered and beautifully weathered smile. If only she could enjoy the present fully, without thought of the future, or without fear of the future! I must show her how to do that before I go. I shall succeed. I shall teach her to see everything from the point of view of eternity75. In these few days we are creating something eternally lovely. We are completing our thank-offering to eternity. Our music rises to its last triumphant76 note. I hope, indeed I am sure, that when I am gone you and Maggie will be very close friends. I am not commending her to your care, for she is strong, and I have no fears for her. But your friendship will mean much to her.
“And the children! That’s a joy you have missed, Harry, watching children grow, and being glad to be needed by them, and glad to watch them be themselves, and not what one had wanted them to be. I find it hard to forgive my accursed other self for harming them. Colin will bear the marks for ever. There’s a wry77 twist in his character, a streak of cynicism that need not have been. But he’s tough and sane78, and complete master of himself. And even the Dolt’s clumsy treatment could not seriously mar16 the gentleness that Maggie taught him. Sheila, bless her, is less damaged. I know no one, not even Maggie, more serene79. As for that diabolically80 attractive minx, Margaret, I expect she’ll be all right when she has got over the spoiling that the doting81 Dolt slopped over her till quite recently. Of course she hardly knows me. And she’s piqued82 because I don’t fuss over her.
“How exquisite83 every moment of experience is! Even such a little thing as the forming of these words with my pen! See! This bit of handwriting shall be a real work of art, in its little way; precise but fluent. Each letter’s economical form echoes so much of history, monkish84, Roman, Greek, Phoenician, and Egyptian. How long, I wonder, will men continue to use symbols formed in this great tradition? Will man in the end outgrow85 the need for writing? Or will man and writing cease together? Well, I may not use these signs much longer. This may be the last time I shall practise this homely86, lovely art. Meanwhile, since writing is the matter in hand, I will delight in conforming to its canons. Strange, how even in the careful forming of a single word (that word ‘strange’ for instance) we can express so much yet fall so short of our intention!
“I am writing in my little study. At bottom it is my study, not the Dolt’s. I chose the furniture, and placed it conveniently. But my other self has been in possession so long that he has largely imposed his character on the room. There’s a picture of his, sophisticatedly modern, but not quite sincere. There’s a pile of back numbers of the Autocar — not mine at all.
“On my desk, here, there’s a folded newspaper. Bad paper, smudgy printing, incredibly vulgar advertisements. A symbol of all that is driving my other self to suicide. And yet — I can forgive the thing its wretchedness. Seen as the focal point of a vast tragic symbolism, it becomes strangely beautiful in its pathetic vulgarity. And the poor trapped souls that produced it — I don’t insult them with forgiveness; I just salute87 them as fellow mortals. There’s a very bad drawing of a girl in her undies, advertising88 nylons. Her sex, of course, is wildly exaggerated. Face, laughably debased — lovely. Breasts, pert. Figure, too slim; legs far too long for body. Every line of the drawing, falsely slick. The whole thing is loathsome89, of course; but, oh, pathetic! Look hard into it, and you can see the real loveliness that it garbles90. Strangely, you can see in it the spirit battling vainly for life against the choking horror of our civilization, against commercialism’s fatal exaggeration of self-interest, of self-display, of self-regarding sexuality. Strange how, in the light of the Whole, the ugly thing itself borrows beauty! Not that we should therefore tolerate it or preserve it; for its virtue91 lies in its ugliness, in its failure to be beautiful. And the same of evil. In the light of the Whole it is transfigured, redeemed. Not that it is therefore to be tolerated; for its virtue dies in its essential badness, in its tragic failure to be good. In action, our allegiance to the spirit obliges us to struggle with all our strength against evil; and yet in contemplation, when the majestic92 pregnancy93 of the Whole obscurely reveals itself to us, and worship is wrung94 from us, we cannot but accept, and with joy.
“Inevitably the horror of our civilization and of the whole universe, drives the poor blind Dolt to suicide. But that is not what it does to me.. This vulgar little drawing, the whole vulgar tragedy of our civilization — though in action I oppose them all with all my strength, in contemplation I find myself accepting them reverently95, perhaps quite irrationally96. I respect them as I respect a man struggling against a mortal disease or incipient97 insanity98. Because everywhere the spirit shows through, struggling for the light, and yet fatally slipping, slipping, farther down into darkness. To hell with the poor Dolt’s death-wish, where indeed it belongs. My wish is wholly for life, life eternal, not just for my own little individuality, which is essentially99 and rightly ephemeral, but for the spirit that is the perennial100 and Cosmical music inherent in the lives of all ephemeral individuals.
“Maggie is all the while with me in my study. For I must have all I can of her, and she of me, while it is possible. She is sewing. Her needle moves in and out of the material as she takes up a needleful of stitches. It’s like a line of little glistening101 porpoises102 threading across a white sea. My life with her has been like that — in and out, in and out. Latterly, alas, mostly out. And now all our intermittent103 days, weeks, months, and our too few years, come crowding into memory. I examine the stitches of our past. So irregular, but such a bright thread! Compared with the young waitress of so long ago she’s physically104 mere105 smouldering ash, left after a blazing fire. But to the seeing eye there’s another light irradiating the dear dying ash. The Dolt, poor fool, could never properly see that light. He does begin to appreciate Maggie, does love her in a way, but never as she deserves. Incredible to me that living with Maggie, year in and year out, couldn’t kill his death-wish! When I think of him as my own baser self, how I loathe106 him! But when I think of him as something other than me, a poor blind creature vainly groping for the light, I pity him. I even respect him, for in his fumbling107 way, he put up a good fight, against odds108 that I never had to face.
“I ask you, Harry, to cast your mind back to that dismal walk you had with me, with my Dolt self, I mean, on the moor in a blizzard109. He (or I) bemused you with his plausible110 death-excuses! What he said was all true in a way, but all half-truth. True, that man’s plight111 is grim. True that poisoned institutions poison all our minds, and falsify every possible act. But we are not doomed. A world where there is sunshine, and where people sometimes love, sometimes think honestly, sometimes make glorious things, is not doomed. Our fate depends at least in part on ourselves; or rather, not simply on our poor frail individualistic selves, but on the strength of the universal spirit in us. Lest you should think I’m going back on my agnosticism, believe me I don’t mean by ‘universal spirit,’ a universal ‘being’ or soul or person; I still mean just the ideal of spiritual living that beckons112 all half-awakened beings and claims possession of them. Maybe there’s more to it than that. Maybe there is the universal soul or person or God. But since we don’t know, and cannot know (being only the poor little insects that we are), let us for God’s sake (or for the spirit’s sake) be true to our own little insect intelligence, and not pre tend we understand what is beyond our understanding.
“Out of the horror of our contemporary world, out of our sense of doom72, our doltish113 nightmare, comes a new hope of true waking. The war was an alarm clock that disturbed our sleep. We are at last sufficiently114 shocked for waking; and if we will, we can now wake properly. And people are waking. I saw it whenever I took over the Dolt’s discussions with soldiers and airmen. Those groups of bewildered sleep-walkers were all restless for waking, all shyly groping for the light, even when they pretended still to be cynics. Of course, the whole thing may go awry115. People may all be drugged into sleep again, or we may wreck116 the planet with atomic power, before the new temper can take effect. But now, at least there is the widespread waking, and at least the possibility of a new world. Strange glorious changes are striving for birth. God! Far from wishing death, I should be glad of a new lease of life, a second and a third lifetime, to play some part in the great waking. I long for it; and yet, while I am fully awake, I find I gladly accept whatever comes. Of course, even if at last mankind does win through, there’ll be no Utopia but only a widespread breaking through into rather more lucid117 experience and more creative ways of living. There’ll be new problems, new conflicts, new hopes and despairs, new joys and agonies. There’ll be merely an outgrowing118 of nursery troubles and infantile growing pains and diseases, and at last a hesitant, precarious, painful, dangerous staggering into a world of adult experience.
“But let us for the sake of argument suppose that the very worst does happen, and that within a quarter of a century, or a quarter of a year, mankind destroys itself, and lethal119 radiation turns the whole surface of the earth into a desert, inhospitable to life — what then? Were those who foresaw it fools to remain alive, vainly striving against it? No! Even the destruction of a living world is worth living through, however painful; if one is awake, if one can see the disaster as an episode in the perennial struggle of the spirit in the innumerable successive hosts of individuals in all the worlds. My own life has been mainly a dismal failure, and yet it was infinitely120 worth living. And if mankind fails, yet mankind has been infinitely worth while. Already, and whatever happens, this planet, this grain that spawned121 our imperfect kind, is well justified122. The solar system, the whole universe, is well justified; yes, even if man is the only, and a sadly imperfect, vessel123 of the spirit, and doomed. For no tragedy, not even a cosmical tragedy, can wipe out what man (in his low degree) has in fact achieved, through the grace of his vision of the spirit, his precarious and yet commanding vision of the spirit.
“But how unlikely that man is the sole vessel! Consider the pregnant stars! Consider the great galaxies124! Can any sane mind then suppose that man is the sole vessel?
“And I must tell you again, Harry, that in my sadly curtailed125 spiritual researches and exercises, though I have had little success, at least I have won through (by the grace of the spirit) to feel the indescribable unity49 that comprises all our severalness. And in my dim sense of that unity of all spirit I have heard (so to speak) the faint, far-off murmur126 of the hosts of individual lives throughout the cosmos127 and the aeons. And I have felt — but once more language utterly129 fails, and thinking also. And yet, though what I have felt beyond that cosmical murmur is really beyond all telling, I find I must stammer out something about it, however misleadingly. I have felt — oh, how can I put it without falsifying it utterly? I have felt all baseness and pain, and all sorrow, transmuted130 into glory; all agony, from the pain-flash of a crushed fly to the despair of Jesus on the Cross, turn to joy. But what am I saying? Of course I don’t mean that the poor little tortured fly and the tragic disillusioned131 Jesus and all other sufferers enter severally into everlasting132 bliss133, as individuals. Maybe in some strange sense they do, though it must be a sense quite unsatisfying to those who clamour for individual salvation134. But all this is beside the point. The news I am trying to report to you is something of a different kind. Perhaps I can give a hint of it by saying simply that nothing is merely lost. Everything contributes. All the agonies, and the joys too, are gathered up into the whole single music of existence, the music which enjoys itself. And so the agony, which in the loneliness of our finite individuality is unredeemed and hideous135 and meaningless, contributes to the music, is significant; and in consciousness of its own significance in the whole it is itself transfigured into joy. All this talk, you may say, is sheer verbiage. And of course it is, if you are looking for literal truth. But I know, I know now, that it is poetically136 true, like the statement that the sun, when he pushes the clouds aside, laughs.
“After re-reading that paragraph I fear it will mean nothing to you. But in its halting way it does mean something to me, in virtue of my actual experience. Does it to you?
“But, Harry, before I say ‘goodbye,’ I must say one other thing. This cosmical transfiguration of all our experience is something quite apart from individual survival of death, whether survival for a while only or for ever. The transfiguration I now know to be true, but I cannot describe it or even clearly think it. Survival, on the other hand, is an intelligible137 idea, up to a point; but I have no news to give of it. Maybe death is simply the complete ending of us; and if so, let us be grateful for eternal sleep. Maybe we go on from aeon128 to aeon in subsequent temporal lives, within this formidable universe, for the progressive fashioning of our individual souls; so that ultimately each may contribute fully to the music. Such ‘re-incarnation’ is a possibility that may well daunt138 us, in view of the weariness that comes to one toward the end even of this single life. But perhaps we start the next one refreshed. And how exhilarating, provided one had the opportunity for creative work! But should I find Maggie? (God! I should want her!) Maybe I should and I shouldn’t. Well, I’m for the venture! (What a jest if the Dolt wakes up and finds himself living again! He’d be as sick as a dog!) Then there’s another possibility. Maybe we wake in some completely other temporal and spatial139 (or non-spatial) system of existence, made not of stars and the void, of light and dark and pressure and all our sense characters, but of something — inconceivable to us. Or again, maybe at death we are gathered up at once into eternity. Annihilated140 as individuals, maybe we wake to remember that all along we have been the eternal spirit, the world soul, or God. Maybe, maybe! But what does it matter? The important thing is that, whatever happens to us as individuals, the spirit does matter, and the spirit is; though even after all those years of puzzling I’m damned if I can say what it is; except that it is just what we all (when we are properly awake) know does matter, just awareness141, love and creative action in relation to an objective universe.
“But I still haven’t said what I wanted to say. It’s this. If I do survive, I shall do my best to make some sort of contact with Maggie, and with you too, Harry, you old sceptic. So, both of you, please keep an ear open for the telephone bell, so to speak. I may have something important to say. I have told her I shall put a call through to her, if I possibly can. Unless, of course, I become so thoroughly142 absorbed in the affairs of that other world that I simply forget all about this one; and all about Maggie. But if I do that, shall I be ‘I’ at all, in any important sense? Surely the surviving thing could not be ‘I’ if it cared no more for Maggie, if it looked askance at the whole loveliness and horror of this world, and the whole struggle of mankind. And yet — suppose, when one entered another sphere of being, one were to see clearly that any harking back to this world was a desertion of the other world, and that the spirit must be expressed independently in each? Who knows! But the one supreme143 thing is sure — the intrinsic and paramount144 excellence145 of the spirit, and its fundamental identity in all worlds. Whatever our individual fate, this is enough to make our lives worth while.”
“As for me, I find myself entirely reconciled to any of the fates that are surmised146. My expectation, on the whole, is that when I have died there will be no actual ‘I’ Victor Smith,’ any more; though perhaps some queer fragments of my memories may haunt people in this world for a while, like disembodied dreams flitting from mind to mind. But this is unimportant.
“Well, there it is! Goodbye, Harry! Whatever happens, the universe contains you and me eternally as two individual fibres in its texture147, and as their friendly contact. Those Oxford days of ours are part of eternity; so are your forbearance and kindness on my abortive148 wedding day, and all your patience, including your reading of this rather chaotic149 letter. Enjoy your life’s autumn! In a way I am sorry to miss the last phase, for it might be the best of all. But no matter! All’s well.
“Good luck, and goodbye!”
“Victor”
The End
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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posthumously
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| adv.于死后，于身后；于著作者死后出版地 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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morbidly
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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rationed
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| 限量供应，配给供应( ration的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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23
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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24
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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25
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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26
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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28
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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29
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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30
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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32
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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33
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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34
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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35
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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36
derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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37
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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38
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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39
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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40
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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41
dolt
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| n.傻瓜 | |
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42
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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44
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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45
rinsed
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| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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46
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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47
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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49
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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50
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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51
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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52
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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53
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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54
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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55
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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56
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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57
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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58
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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59
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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60
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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62
gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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63
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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64
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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65
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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66
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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67
craters
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| n.火山口( crater的名词复数 )；弹坑等 | |
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68
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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69
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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70
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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71
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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72
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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73
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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74
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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75
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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76
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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77
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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78
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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79
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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80
diabolically
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81
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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82
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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83
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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84
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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85
outgrow
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| vt.长大得使…不再适用；成长得不再要 | |
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86
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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87
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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88
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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89
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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90
garbles
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| vt.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改（garble的第三人称单数形式） | |
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91
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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92
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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93
pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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94
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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95
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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96
irrationally
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| ad.不理性地 | |
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97
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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98
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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99
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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100
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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101
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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102
porpoises
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| n.鼠海豚( porpoise的名词复数 ) | |
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103
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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104
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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107
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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108
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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109
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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110
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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111
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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112
beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
doltish
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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114
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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115
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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116
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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117
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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118
outgrowing
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的现在分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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119
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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120
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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121
spawned
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| （鱼、蛙等）大量产（卵）( spawn的过去式和过去分词 )； 大量生产 | |
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122
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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123
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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124
galaxies
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| 星系( galaxy的名词复数 )； 银河系； 一群（杰出或著名的人物） | |
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125
curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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127
cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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128
aeon
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| n.极长的时间；永久 | |
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129
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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130
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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132
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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133
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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134
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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135
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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136
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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137
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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138
daunt
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| vt.使胆怯，使气馁 | |
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139
spatial
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| adj.空间的，占据空间的 | |
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140
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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141
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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142
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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143
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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144
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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145
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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146
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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147
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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148
abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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149
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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