The period of growth of any organism is the most interesting and most instructive. And there is no moment of growth in the individual life which can be compared in importance with the moment when a man begins to outtop his age, and to suggest the future evolution of humanity by his own genius. Usually this final stage is passed in solitude2:
Es bildet ein Talent sich in der Stille,
Sich ein Charakter in dem Strome der Welt.
After writing a life of Schiller which almost anyone might have written, Carlyle retired3 for some years to Craigenputtoch, and then brought forth4 Sartor Resartus, which was personal and soul-revealing to the verge5 of eccentricity6. In the same way Wagner was a mere7 continuator of Weber in Lohengrin and Tannhaeuser, and first came to his own in the Meistersinger and Tristan, after years of meditation8 in Switzerland.
This period for Oscar Wilde began with his marriage; the freedom from sordid9 anxieties allowed him to lift up his head and be himself. Kepler, I think, it is who praises poverty as the foster-mother of genius; but Bernard Palissy was nearer the truth when he said:— Pauvreté empêche bons esprits de parvenir (poverty hinders fine minds from succeeding). There is no such mortal enemy of genius as poverty except riches: a touch of the spur from time to time does good; but a constant rowelling disables. As editor of The Woman’s World Oscar had some money of his own to spend. Though his salary was only some six pounds a week, it made him independent, and his editorial work gave him an excuse for not exhausting himself by writing. For some years after marriage; in fact, till he lost his editorship, he wrote little and talked a great deal.
During this period we were often together. He lunched with me once or twice a week and I began to know his method of work. Everything came to him in the excitement of talk, epigrams, paradoxes10 and stories; and when people of great position or title were about him he generally managed to surpass himself: all social distinctions appealed to him intensely. I chaffed him about this one day and he admitted the snobbishness11 gaily12.
“I love even historic names, Frank, as Shakespeare did. Surely everyone prefers Norfolk, Hamilton and Buckingham to Jones or Smith or Robinson.”
As soon as he lost his editorship he took to writing for the reviews; his articles were merely the résumé of his monologues13. After talking for months at this and that lunch and dinner he had amassed14 a store of epigrams and humorous paradoxes which he could embody15 in a paper for The Fortnightly Review or The Nineteenth Century.
These papers made it manifest that Wilde had at length, as Heine phrased it, reached the topmost height of the culture of his time and was now able to say new and interesting things. His Lehrjahre or student-time may be said to have ended with his editorship. The articles which he wrote on “The Decay of Lying,” “The Critic as Artist,” and “Pen, Pencil and Poison”; in fact, all the papers which in 1891 were gathered together and published in book form under the title of “Intentions,” had about them the stamp of originality. They achieved a noteworthy success with the best minds, and laid the foundation of his fame. Every paper contained, here and there, a happy phrase, or epigram, or flirt16 of humour, which made it memorable17 to the lover of letters.
They were all, however, conceived and written from the standpoint of the artist, and the artist alone, who never takes account of ethics18, but uses right and wrong indifferently as colours of his palette. “The Decay of Lying” seemed to the ordinary, matter-of-fact Englishman a cynical19 plea in defence of mendacity. To the majority of readers, “Pen, Pencil and Poison” was hardly more than a shameful20 attempt to condone21 cold-blooded murder. The very articles which grounded his fame as a writer, helped to injure his standing22 and repute.
In 1889 he published a paper which did him even more damage by appearing to justify23 the peculiar24 rumours25 about his private life. He held the opinion, which was universal at that time, that Shakespeare had been abnormally vicious. He believed with the majority of critics that Lord William Herbert was addressed in the first series of Sonnets26; but his fine sensibility or, if you will, his peculiar temperament28, led him to question whether Thorpe’s dedication29 to “Mr. W.H.” could have been addressed to Lord William Herbert. He preferred the old hypothesis that the dedication was addressed to a young actor named Mr. William Hughes, a supposition which is supported by a well-known sonnet27. He set forth this idea with much circumstance and considerable ingenuity30 in an article which he sent to me for publication in The Fortnightly Review. The theme was scabrous31; but his treatment of it was scrupulously32 reserved and adroit33 and I saw no offence in the paper, and to tell the truth, no great ability in his handling of the subject.8
He had talked over the article with me while he was writing it, and I told him that I thought the whole theory completely mistaken. Shakespeare was as sensual as one could well be; but there was no evidence of abnormal vice34; indeed, all the evidence seemed to me to be against this universal belief. The assumption that the dedication was addressed to Lord William Herbert I had found it difficult to accept, at first; the wording of it is not only ambiguous but familiar. If I assumed that “Mr. W.H.” was meant for Lord William Herbert, it was only because that seemed the easiest way out of the maze35. In fine, I pointed36 out to Oscar that his theory had very little that was new in it, and more that was untrue, and advised him not to publish the paper. My conviction that Shakespeare was not abnormally vicious, and that the first series of Sonnets proved snobbishness and toadying37 and not corrupt38 passion, seemed to Oscar the very madness of partisanship39.
He smiled away my arguments, and sent his paper to the Fortnightly office when I happened to be abroad. Much to my chagrin40, my assistant rejected it rudely, whereupon Oscar sent it to Blackwoods, who published it in their magazine. It set everyone talking and arguing. To judge by the discussion it created, the wind of hatred41 and of praise it caused, one would have thought that the paper was a masterpiece, though in truth it was nothing out of the common. Had it been written by anybody else it would have passed unnoticed. But already Oscar Wilde had a prodigious42 notoriety, and all his sayings and doings were eagerly canvassed43 from one end of society to the other.
“The Portrait of Mr. W.H.” did Oscar incalculable injury. It gave his enemies for the first time the very weapon they wanted, and they used it unscrupulously and untiringly with the fierce delight of hatred. Oscar seemed to revel44 in the storm of conflicting opinions which the paper called forth. He understood better than most men that notoriety is often the forerunner45 of fame and is always commercially more valuable. He rubbed his hands with delight as the discussion grew bitter, and enjoyed even the sneering46 of the envious47. A wind that blows out a little fire, he knew, plays bellows48 to a big one. So long as people talked about him, he didn’t much care what they said, and they certainly talked interminably about everything he wrote.
The inordinate49 popular success increased his self-confidence, and with time his assurance took on a touch of defiance50. The first startling sign of this gradual change was the publication in Lippincott’s Magazine of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.” It was attacked immediately in The Daily Chronicle, a liberal paper usually distinguished51 for a certain leaning in favour of artists and men of letters, as a “tale spawned52 from the leprous literature of the French decadents53 — a poisonous book, the atmosphere of which is heavy with the mephitic odours of moral and spiritual putrefaction54.”
Oscar as a matter of course replied and the tone of his reply is characteristic of his growth in self-assurance: he no longer dreads55 the imputation56 of viciousness; he challenges it: “It is poisonous, if you like; but you cannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we artists aim at.”
When Oscar republished “The Picture of Dorian Gray” in book form in April, 1891, he sent me a large paper copy and with the copy he wrote a little note, asking me to tell him what I thought of the book. I got the volume and note early one morning and read the book until noon. I then sent him a note by hand: “Other men,” I wrote, “have given us wine; some claret, some burgundy, some Moselle; you are the first to give us pure champagne57. Much of this book is wittier58 even than Congreve and on an equal intellectual level: at length, it seems to me, you have justified59 yourself.”
Half an hour later I was told that Oscar Wilde had called. I went down immediately to see him. He was bubbling over with content.
“How charming of you, Frank,” he cried, “to have written me such a divine letter.”
“I have only read a hundred pages of the book,” I said; “but they are delightful60: no one now can deny you a place among the wittiest61 and most humorous writers in English.”
“How wonderful of you, Frank; what do you like so much?”
Like all artists, he loved praise and I was enthusiastic, happy to have the opportunity of making up for some earlier doubting that now seemed unworthy:
“Whatever the envious may say, you’re with Burke and Sheridan, among the very ablest Irishmen. . . .
“Of course I have heard most of the epigrams from you before, but you have put them even better in this book.”
“Do you think so, really?” he asked, smiling with pleasure.
It is worth notice that some of the epigrams in “Dorian Gray” were bettered again before they appeared in his first play. For example, in “Dorian Gray” Lord Henry Wotton, who is peculiarly Oscar’s mouthpiece, while telling how he had to bargain for a piece of old brocade in Wardour Street, adds, “nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.” In “Lady Windermere’s Fan” the same epigram is perfected, “The cynic is one who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
Nearly all the literary productions of our time suffer from haste: one must produce a good deal, especially while one’s reputation is in the making, in order to live by one’s pen. Yet great works take time to form, and fine creations are often disfigured by the stains of hurried parturition62. Oscar Wilde contrived63 to minimise this disability by talking his works before writing them.
The conversation of Lord Henry Wotton with his uncle, and again at lunch when he wishes to fascinate Dorian Gray, is an excellent reproduction of Oscar’s ordinary talk. The uncle wonders why Lord Dartmoor wants to marry an American and grumbles64 about her people: “Has she got any?”
Lord Henry shook his head. “American girls are as clever at concealing65 their parents as English women are at concealing their past,” he said, rising to go.
“They are pork-packers, I suppose?”
“I hope so, Uncle George, for Dartmoor’s sake. I am told that pork-packing is the most lucrative66 profession in America, after politics.”
All this seems to me delightful humour.
The latter part of the book, however, tails off into insignificance67. The first hundred pages held the result of months and months of Oscar’s talk, the latter half was written offhand68 to complete the story. “Dorian Gray” was the first piece of work which proved that Oscar Wilde had at length found his true vein69.
A little study of it discovers both his strength and his weakness as a writer. The initial idea of the book is excellent, finer because deeper than the commonplace idea that is the foundation of Balzac’s “Peau de Chagrin,” though it would probably never have been written if Balzac had not written his book first; but Balzac’s sincerity70 and earnestness grapple with the theme and wring71 a blessing72 out of it, whereas the subtler idea in Oscar’s hands dwindles73 gradually away till one wonders if the book would not have been more effective as a short story. Oscar did not know life well enough or care enough for character to write a profound psychological study: he was at his best in a short story or play.
One day about this time Oscar first showed me the aphorisms74 he had written as an introduction to “Dorian Gray.” Several of them I thought excellent; but I found that Oscar had often repeated himself. I cut these repetitions out and tried to show him how much better the dozen best were than eighteen of which six were inferior. I added that I should like to publish the best in “The Fortnightly.” He thanked me and said it was very kind of me.
Next morning I got a letter from him telling me that he had read over my corrections and thought that the aphorisms I had rejected were the best, but he hoped I’d publish them as he had written them.
Naturally I replied that the final judgment75 must rest with him and I published them at once.
The delight I felt in his undoubted genius and success was not shared by others. Friends took occasion to tell me that I should not go about with Oscar Wilde.
“Why not?” I asked.
“He has a bad name,” was the reply. “Strange things are said about him. He came down from Oxford76 with a vile77 reputation. You have only got to look at the man.”
“Whatever the disease may be,” I replied, “it’s not catching78 — unfortunately.”
The pleasure men take in denigration79 of the gifted is one of the puzzles of life to those who are not envious.
Men of letters, even people who ought to have known better, were slow to admit his extraordinary talent; he had risen so quickly, had been puffed80 into such prominence81 that they felt inclined to deny him even the gifts which he undoubtedly82 possessed83. I was surprised once to find a friend of mine taking this attitude: Francis Adams, the poet and writer, chaffed me one day about my liking84 for Oscar.
“What on earth can you see in him to admire?” he asked. “He is not a great writer, he is not even a good writer; his books have no genius in them; his poetry is tenth rate, and his prose is not much better. His talk even is fictitious85 and extravagant86.”
I could only laugh at him and advise him to read “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
This book, however, gave Oscar’s puritanic enemies a better weapon against him than even “The Portrait of Mr. W.H.” The subject, they declared, was the same as that of “Mr. W.H.,” and the treatment was simply loathsome87. More than one middle-class paper, such as To–Day in the hands of Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, condemned88 the book as “corrupt,” and advised its suppression. Freedom of speech in England is more feared than licence of action: a speck89 on the outside of the platter disgusts your puritan, and the inside is never peeped at, much less discussed.
Walter Pater praised “Dorian Gray” in the Bookman; but thereby90 only did himself damage without helping91 his friend. Oscar meanwhile went about boldly, meeting criticism now with smiling contempt.
One incident from this time will show how unfairly he was being judged and how imprudent he was to front defamation92 with defiance.
One day I met a handsome youth in his company named John Gray, and I could not wonder that Oscar found him interesting, for Gray had not only great personal distinction, but charming manners and a marked poetic93 gift, a much greater gift than Oscar possessed. He had besides an eager, curious mind, and of course found extraordinary stimulus94 in Oscar’s talk. It seemed to me that intellectual sympathy and the natural admiration95 which a younger man feels for a brilliant senior formed the obvious bond between them. But no sooner did Oscar republish “Dorian Gray” than ill-informed and worse-minded persons went about saying that the eponymous hero of the book was John Gray, though “Dorian Gray” was written before Oscar had met or heard of John Gray. One cannot help admitting that this was partly Oscar’s own fault. In talk he often alluded96 laughingly to John Gray as his hero, “Dorian.” It is just an instance of the challenging contempt which he began to use about this time in answer to the inventions of hatred.
Late in this year, 1891, he published four stories completely void of offence, calling the collection “A House of Pomegranates.” He dedicated97 each of the tales to a lady of distinction and the book made many friends; but it was handled contemptuously in the press and had no sale.
By this time people expected a certain sort of book from Oscar Wilde and wanted nothing else. They hadn’t to wait long. Early in 1892 we heard that Oscar had written a drama in French called Salome, and at once it was put about that Sarah Bernhardt was going to produce it in London. Then came dramatic surprise on surprise: while it was being rehearsed, the Lord Chamberlain refused to license98 it on the ground that it introduced Biblical characters. Oscar protested in a brilliant interview against the action of the Censor99 as “odious and ridiculous.” He pointed out that all the greatest artists — painters and sculptors100, musicians and writers — had taken many of their best subjects from the Bible, and wanted to know why the dramatist should be prevented from treating the great soul-tragedies most proper to his art. When informed that the interdict101 was to stand, he declared in a pet that he would settle in France and take out letters of naturalisation:
“I am not English. I am Irish — which is quite another thing.” Of course the press made all the fun it could of his show of temper.
Mr. Robert Ross considers “Salome” “the most powerful and perfect of all Oscar’s dramas.” I find it almost impossible to explain, much less justify, its astonishing popularity. When it appeared, the press, both in France and in England, was critical and contemptuous; but by this time Oscar had so captured the public that he could afford to disdain102 critics and calumny103. The play was praised by his admirers as if it had been a masterpiece, and London discussed it the more because it was in French and not clapper-clawed by the vulgar.
The indescribable cold lewdness104 and cruelty of “Salome” quickened the prejudice and strengthened the dislike of the ordinary English reader for its author. And when the drama was translated into English and published with the drawings of Aubrey Beardsley, it was disparaged105 and condemned by all the leaders of literary opinion. The colossal106 popularity of the play, which Mr. Robert Ross proves so triumphantly107, came from Germany and Russia and is to be attributed in part to the contempt educated Germans and Russians feel for the hypocritical vagaries108 of English prudery. The illustrations of Aubrey Beardsley, too, it must be admitted, were an additional offence to the ordinary English reader, for they intensified110 the peculiar atmosphere of the drama.
Oscar used to say that he invented Aubrey Beardsley; but the truth is, it was Mr. Robert Ross who first introduced Aubrey to Oscar and persuaded him to commission the “Salome” drawings which gave the English edition its singular value. Strange to say, Oscar always hated the illustrations and would not have the book in his house. His dislike even extended to the artist, and as Aubrey Beardsley was of easy and agreeable intercourse111, the mutual112 repulsion deserves a word of explanation.
Aubrey Beardsley’s genius had taken London by storm. At seventeen or eighteen this auburn-haired, blue-eyed, fragile looking youth had reached maturity113 with his astounding114 talent, a talent which would have given him position and wealth in any other country. In perfection of line his drawings were superior to anything we possess. But the curious thing about the boy was that he expressed the passions of pride and lust109 and cruelty more intensely even than Rops, more spontaneously than anyone who ever held pencil. Beardsley’s precocity115 was simply marvellous. He seemed to have an intuitive understanding not only of his own art but of every art and craft, and it was some time before one realised that he attained116 this miraculous117 virtuosity118 by an absolute disdain for every other form of human endeavour. He knew nothing of the great general or millionaire or man of science, and he cared as little for them as for fishermen or ‘bus-drivers. The current of his talent ran narrow between stone banks, so to speak; it was the bold assertion of it that interested Oscar.
One phase of Beardsley’s extraordinary development may be recorded here. When I first met him his letters, and even his talk sometimes, were curiously119 youthful and immature120, lacking altogether the personal note of his drawings. As soon as this was noticed he took the bull by the horns and pretended that his style in writing was out of date; he wished us to believe that he hesitated to shock us with his “archaic sympathies.” Of course we laughed and challenged him to reveal himself. Shortly afterwards I got an article from him written with curious felicity of phrase, in modish121 polite eighteenth-century English. He had reached personal expression in a new medium in a month or so, and apparently122 without effort. It was Beardsley’s writing that first won Oscar to recognition of his talent, and for a while he seemed vaguely123 interested in what he called his “orchid-like personality.”
They were both at lunch one day when Oscar declared that he could drink nothing but absinthe when Beardsley was present.
“Absinthe,” he said, “is to all other drinks what Aubrey’s drawings are to other pictures: it stands alone: it is like nothing else: it shimmers124 like southern twilight125 in opalescent126 colouring: it has about it the seduction of strange sins. It is stronger than any other spirit, and brings out the sub-conscious self in man. It is just like your drawings, Aubrey; it gets on one’s nerves and is cruel.
“Baudelaire called his poems Fleurs du Mal, I shall call your drawings Fleurs du Péché — flowers of sin.
“When I have before me one of your drawings I want to drink absinthe, which changes colour like jade127 in sunlight and takes the senses thrall128, and then I can live myself back in imperial Rome, in the Rome of the later C?sars.”
“Don’t forget the simple pleasures of that life, Oscar,” said Aubrey; “Nero set Christians129 on fire, like large tallow candles; the only light Christians have ever been known to give,” he added in a languid, gentle voice.
This talk gave me the key. In personal intercourse Oscar Wilde was more English than the English: he seldom expressed his opinion of person or prejudice boldly; he preferred to hint dislike and disapproval130. His insistence131 on the naked expression of lust and cruelty in Beardsley’s drawings showed me that direct frankness displeased132 him; for he could hardly object to the qualities which were making his own “Salome” world-famous.
The complete history of the relations between Oscar Wilde and Beardsley, and their mutual dislike, merely proves how difficult it is for original artists to appreciate one another: like mountain peaks they stand alone. Oscar showed a touch of patronage133, the superiority of the senior, in his intercourse with Beardsley, and often praised him ineptly134, whereas Beardsley to the last spoke135 of Oscar as a showman, and hoped drily that he knew more about literature than he did about art. For a moment, they worked in concert, and it is important to remember that it was Beardsley who influenced Oscar, and not Oscar who influenced Beardsley. Beardsley’s contempt of critics and the public, his artistic136 boldness and self-assertion, had a certain hardening influence on Oscar: as things turned out a most unfortunate influence.
In spite of Mr. Robert Ross’s opinion I regard “Salome,” as a student work, an outcome of Oscar’s admiration for Flaubert and his “Herodias,” on the one hand, and “Les Sept Princesses,” of Maeterlinck on the other. He has borrowed the colour and Oriental cruelty with the banquet-scene from the Frenchman, and from the Fleming the simplicity137 of language and the haunting effect produced by the repetition of significant phrases. Yet “Salome” is original through the mingling138 of lust and hatred in the heroine, and by making this extraordinary virgin139 the chief and centre of the drama Oscar has heightened the interest of the story and bettered Flaubert’s design. I feel sure he copied Maeterlinck’s simplicity of style because it served to disguise his imperfect knowledge of French and yet this very artlessness adds to the weird140 effect of the drama.
The lust that inspires the tragedy was characteristic, but the cruelty was foreign to Oscar; both qualities would have injured him in England, had it not been for two things. First of all only a few of the best class of English people know French at all well, and for the most part they disdain the sex-morality of their race; while the vast mass of the English public regard French as in itself an immoral141 medium and is inclined to treat anything in that tongue with contemptuous indifference142. One can only say that “Salome” confirmed Oscar’s growing reputation for abnormal viciousness.
It was in 1892 that some of Oscar’s friends struck me for the first time as questionable143, to say the best of them. I remember giving a little dinner to some men in rooms I had in Jermyn Street. I invited Oscar, and he brought a young friend with him. After dinner I noticed that the youth was angry with Oscar and would scarcely speak to him, and that Oscar was making up to him. I heard snatches of pleading from Oscar —“I beg of you. . . . It is not true. . . . You have no cause”. . . . All the while Oscar was standing apart from the rest of us with an arm on the young man’s shoulder; but his coaxing144 was in vain, the youth turned away with petulant145, sullen146 ill-temper. This is a mere snap-shot which remained in my memory, and made me ask myself afterwards how I could have been so slow of understanding.
Looking back and taking everything into consideration — his social success, the glare of publicity147 in which he lived, the buzz of talk and discussion that arose about everything he did and said, the increasing interest and value of his work and, above all, the ever-growing boldness of his writing and the challenge of his conduct — it is not surprising that the black cloud of hate and slander148 which attended him persistently149 became more and more threatening.
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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retired
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forth
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verge
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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mere
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meditation
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sordid
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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snobbishness
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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amassed
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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flirt
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memorable
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ethics
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cynical
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shameful
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condone
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standing
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justify
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peculiar
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rumours
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sonnets
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sonnet
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temperament
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dedication
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ingenuity
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scabrous
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scrupulously
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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35
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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36
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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37
toadying
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| v.拍马，谄媚( toady的现在分词 ) | |
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38
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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39
Partisanship
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| n. 党派性, 党派偏见 | |
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40
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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41
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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42
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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43
canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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44
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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45
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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46
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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47
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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48
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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49
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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50
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
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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53
decadents
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| n.颓废派艺术家（decadent的复数形式） | |
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54
putrefaction
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| n.腐坏，腐败 | |
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55
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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57
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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58
wittier
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的比较级 ) | |
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59
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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60
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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61
wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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62
parturition
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| n.生产，分娩 | |
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63
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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64
grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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65
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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66
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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67
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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68
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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69
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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70
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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71
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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72
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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73
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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75
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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76
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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77
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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78
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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79
denigration
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| n.弄黑；诋毁；贬低；抹黑[医] 涂黑，变黑 | |
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80
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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81
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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82
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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83
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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84
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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85
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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86
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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87
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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88
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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89
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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90
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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91
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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92
defamation
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| n.诽谤；中伤 | |
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93
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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94
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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95
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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96
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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98
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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99
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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100
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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101
interdict
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| v.限制；禁止；n.正式禁止；禁令 | |
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102
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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103
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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104
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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105
disparaged
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| v.轻视( disparage的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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106
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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107
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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108
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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109
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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110
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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111
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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112
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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113
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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114
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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115
precocity
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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116
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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117
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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118
virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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119
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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120
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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121
modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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122
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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123
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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124
shimmers
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| n.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的名词复数 )v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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125
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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126
opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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127
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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128
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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129
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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130
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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131
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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132
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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133
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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134
ineptly
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| adv. 不适当地，无能地 | |
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135
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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136
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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137
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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138
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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139
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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140
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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141
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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142
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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143
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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144
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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145
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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146
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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147
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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148
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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149
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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