O days without guile19! If anybody had told me then that a devoted20 household, having a generally exaggerated idea of my talents and importance, would be put into a state of tremor21 and flurry by the fuss I would make because of a suspicion that somebody had touched my sacrosanct22 pen of authorship, I would have never deigned23 as much as the contemptuous smile of unbelief. There are imaginings too unlikely for any kind of notice, too wild for indulgence itself, too absurd for a smile. Perhaps, had that seer of the future been a friend, I should have been secretly saddened. “Alas!” I would have thought, looking at him with an unmoved face, “the poor fellow is going mad.”
I would have been, without doubt, saddened; for in this world where the journalists read the signs of the sky, and the wind of heaven itself, blowing where it listeth, does so under the prophetical management of the meteorological office, but where the secret of human hearts cannot be captured by prying24 or praying, it was infinitely25 more likely that the sanest26 of my friends should nurse the germ of incipient27 madness than that I should turn into a writer of tales.
To survey with wonder the changes of one’s own self is a fascinating pursuit for idle hours. The field is so wide, the surprises so varied28, the subject so full of unprofitable but curious hints as to the work of unseen forces, that one does not weary easily of it. I am not speaking here of megalomaniacs who rest uneasy under the crown of their unbounded conceit29 — who really never rest in this world, and when out of it go on fretting30 and fuming31 on the straitened circumstances of their last habitation, where all men must lie in obscure equality. Neither am I thinking of those ambitious minds who, always looking forward to some aim of aggrandizement32, can spare no time for a detached, impersonal34 glance upon them selves.
And that’s a pity. They are unlucky. These two kinds, together with the much larger band of the totally unimaginative, of those unfortunate beings in whose empty and unseeing gaze (as a great French writer has put it) “the whole universe vanishes into blank nothingness,” miss, perhaps, the true task of us men whose day is short on this earth, the abode35 of conflicting opinions. The ethical36 view of the universe involves us at last in so many cruel and absurd contradictions, where the last vestiges37 of faith, hope, charity, and even of reason itself, seem ready to perish, that I have come to suspect that the aim of creation cannot be ethical at all. I would fondly believe that its object is purely38 spectacular: a spectacle for awe39, love, adoration40, or hate, if you like, but in this view — and in this view alone — never for despair! Those visions, delicious or poignant41, are a moral end in themselves. The rest is our affair — the laughter, the tears, the tenderness, the indignation, the high tranquillity42 of a steeled heart, the detached curiosity of a subtle mind — that’s our affair! And the unwearied self-forgetful attention to every phase of the living universe reflected in our consciousness may be our appointed task on this earth — a task in which fate has perhaps engaged nothing of us except our conscience, gifted with a voice in order to bear true testimony43 to the visible wonder, the haunting terror, the infinite passion, and the illimitable serenity44; to the supreme45 law and the abiding46 mystery of the sublime47 spectacle.
Chi lo sa? It may be true. In this view there is room for every religion except for the inverted48 creed49 of impiety50, the mask and cloak of arid51 despair; for every joy and every sorrow, for every fair dream, for every charitable hope. The great aim is to remain true to the emotions called out of the deep encircled by the firmament52 of stars, whose infinite numbers and awful distances may move us to laughter or tears (was it the Walrus53 or the Carpenter, in the poem, who “wept to see such quantities of sand”?), or, again, to a properly steeled heart, may matter nothing at all.
The casual quotation54, which had suggested itself out of a poem full of merit, leads me to remark that in the conception of a purely spectacular universe, where inspiration of every sort has a rational existence, the artist of every kind finds a natural place; and among them the poet as the seer par33 excellence55. Even the writer of prose, who in his less noble and more toilsome task should be a man with the steeled heart, is worthy57 of a place, providing he looks on with undimmed eyes and keeps laughter out of his voice, let who will laugh or cry. Yes! Even he, the prose artist of fiction, which after all is but truth often dragged out of a well and clothed in the painted robe of imagined phrases — even he has his place among kings, demagogues, priests, charlatans58, dukes, giraffes, cabinet ministers, Fabians, bricklayers, apostles, ants, scientists, Kafirs, soldiers, sailors, elephants, lawyers, dandies, microbes, and constellations59 of a universe whose amazing spectacle is a moral end in itself.
Here I perceive (without speaking offense) the reader assuming a subtle expression, as if the cat were out of the bag. I take the novelist’s freedom to observe the reader’s mind formulating60 the exclamation61: “That’s it! The fellow talks pro11 domo.”
Indeed it was not the intention! When I shouldered the bag I was not aware of the cat inside. But, after all, why not? The fair courtyards of the House of Art are thronged62 by many humble63 retainers. And there is no retainer so devoted as he who is allowed to sit on the doorstep. The fellows who have got inside are apt to think too much of themselves. This last remark, I beg to state, is not malicious64 within the definition of the law of libel. It’s fair comment on a matter of public interest. But never mind. Pro domo. So be it. For his house tant que vous voudrez. And yet in truth I was by no means anxious to justify65 my existence. The attempt would have been not only needless and absurd, but almost inconceivable, in a purely spectacular universe, where no such disagreeable necessity can possibly arise. It is sufficient for me to say (and I am saying it at some length in these pages): J’ai vecu. I have existed, obscure among the wonders and terrors of my time, as the Abbe Sieyes, the original utterer of the quoted words, had managed to exist through the violences, the crimes, and the enthusiasms of the French Revolution. J’ai vecu, as I apprehend66 most of us manage to exist, missing all along the varied forms of destruction by a hair’s-breadth, saving my body, that’s clear, and perhaps my soul also, but not without some damage here and there to the fine edge of my conscience, that heirloom of the ages, of the race, of the group, of the family, colourable and plastic, fashioned by the words, the looks, the acts, and even by the silences and abstentions surrounding one’s childhood; tinged67 in a complete scheme of delicate shades and crude colours by the inherited traditions, beliefs, or prejudices — unaccountable, despotic, persuasive68, and often, in its texture69, romantic.
And often romantic! . . . The matter in hand, however, is to keep these reminiscences from turning into confessions70, a form of literary activity discredited71 by Jean Jacques Rousseau on account of the extreme thoroughness he brought to the work of justifying72 his own existence; for that such was his purpose is palpably, even grossly, visible to an unprejudiced eye. But then, you see, the man was not a writer of fiction. He was an artless moralist, as is clearly demonstrated by his anniversaries being celebrated73 with marked emphasis by the heirs of the French Revolution, which was not a political movement at all, but a great outburst of morality. He had no imagination, as the most casual perusal74 of “Emile” will prove. He was no novelist, whose first virtue75 is the exact understanding of the limits traced by the reality of his time to the play of his invention. Inspiration comes from the earth, which has a past, a history, a future, not from the cold and immutable76 heaven. A writer of imaginative prose (even more than any other sort of artist) stands confessed in his works. His conscience, his deeper sense of things, lawful77 and unlawful, gives him his attitude before the world. Indeed, everyone who puts pen to paper for the reading of strangers (unless a moralist, who, generally speaking, has no conscience except the one he is at pains to produce for the use of others) can speak of nothing else. It is M. Anatole France, the most eloquent78 and just of French prose-writers, who says that we must recognize at last that, “failing the resolution to hold our peace, we can only talk of ourselves.”
This remark, if I remember rightly, was made in the course of a sparring match with the late Ferdinand Brunetiere over the principles and rules of literary criticism. As was fitting for a man to whom we owe the memorable79 saying, “The good critic is he who relates the adventures of his soul among masterpieces,” M. Anatole France maintained that there were no rules and no principles. And that may be very true. Rules, principles, and standards die and vanish every day. Perhaps they are all dead and vanished by this time. These, if ever, are the brave, free days of destroyed landmarks80, while the ingenious minds are busy inventing the forms of the new beacons81 which, it is consoling to think, will be set up presently in the old places. But what is interesting to a writer is the possession of an inward certitude that literary criticism will never die, for man (so variously defined) is, before everything else, a critical animal. And as long as distinguished82 minds are ready to treat it in the spirit of high adventure literary criticism shall appeal to us with all the charm and wisdom of a well-told tale of personal experience.
For Englishmen especially, of all the races of the earth, a task, any task, undertaken in an adventurous83 spirit acquires the merit of romance. But the critics as a rule exhibit but little of an adventurous spirit. They take risks, of course — one can hardly live with out that. The daily bread is served out to us (however sparingly) with a pinch of salt. Otherwise one would get sick of the diet one prays for, and that would be not only improper84, but impious. From impiety of that or any other kind — save us! An ideal of reserved manner, adhered to from a sense of proprieties85, from shyness, perhaps, or caution, or simply from weariness, induces, I suspect, some writers of criticism to conceal86 the adventurous side of their calling, and then the criticism becomes a mere87 “notice,” as it were, the relation of a journey where nothing but the distances and the geology of a new country should be set down; the glimpses of strange beasts, the dangers of flood and field, the hairbreadth escapes, and the sufferings (oh, the sufferings, too! I have no doubt of the sufferings) of the traveller being carefully kept out; no shady spot, no fruitful plant being ever mentioned either; so that the whole performance looks like a mere feat90 of agility91 on the part of a trained pen running in a desert. A cruel spectacle — a most deplorable adventure! “Life,” in the words of an immortal92 thinker of, I should say, bucolic93 origin, but whose perishable94 name is lost to the worship of posterity95 —“life is not all beer and skittles.” Neither is the writing of novels. It isn’t, really. Je vous donne ma parole d’honneur that it — is — not. Not ALL. I am thus emphatic96 because some years ago, I remember, the daughter of a general . . . .
Sudden revelations of the profane97 world must have come now and then to hermits98 in their cells, to the cloistered99 monks100 of middle ages, to lonely sages101, men of science, reformers; the revelations of the world’s superficial judgment102, shocking to the souls concentrated upon their own bitter labour in the cause of sanctity, or of knowledge, or of temperance, let us say, or of art, if only the art of cracking jokes or playing the flute103. And thus this general’s daughter came to me — or I should say one of the general’s daughters did. There were three of these bachelor ladies, of nicely graduated ages, who held a neighbouring farm-house in a united and more or less military occupation. The eldest104 warred against the decay of manners in the village children, and executed frontal attacks upon the village mothers for the conquest of courtesies. It sounds futile105, but it was really a war for an idea. The second skirmished and scouted106 all over the country; and it was that one who pushed a reconnaissance right to my very table — I mean the one who wore stand-up collars.
She was really calling upon my wife in the soft spirit of afternoon friendliness107, but with her usual martial108 determination. She marched into my room swinging her stick . . . but no — I mustn’t exaggerate. It is not my specialty109. I am not a humoristic writer. In all soberness, then, all I am certain of is that she had a stick to swing.
No ditch or wall encompassed110 my abode. The window was open; the door, too, stood open to that best friend of my work, the warm, still sunshine of the wide fields. They lay around me infinitely helpful, but, truth to say, I had not known for weeks whether the sun shone upon the earth and whether the stars above still moved on their appointed courses. I was just then giving up some days of my allotted111 span to the last chapters of the novel “Nostromo,” a tale of an imaginary (but true) seaboard, which is still mentioned now and again, and indeed kindly113, sometimes in connection with the word “failure” and sometimes in conjunction with the word “astonishing.” I have no opinion on this discrepancy114. It’s the sort of difference that can never be settled. All I know is that, for twenty months, neglecting the common joys of life that fall to the lot of the humblest on this earth, I had, like the prophet of old, “wrestled with the Lord” for my creation, for the headlands of the coast, for the darkness of the Placid115 Gulf116, the light on the snows, the clouds in the sky, and for the breath of life that had to be blown into the shapes of men and women, of Latin and Saxon, of Jew and Gentile. These are, perhaps, strong words, but it is difficult to characterize other wise the intimacy117 and the strain of a creative effort in which mind and will and conscience are engaged to the full, hour after hour, day after day, away from the world, and to the exclusion118 of all that makes life really lovable and gentle — something for which a material parallel can only be found in the everlasting119 sombre stress of the westward120 winter passage round Cape88 Horn. For that, too, is the wrestling of men with the might of their Creator, in a great isolation121 from the world, without the amenities122 and consolations123 of life, a lonely struggle under a sense of overmatched littleness, for no reward that could be adequate, but for the mere winning of a longitude124. Yet a certain longitude, once won, cannot be disputed. The sun and the stars and the shape of your earth are the witnesses of your gain; whereas a handful of pages, no matter how much you have made them your own, are at best but an obscure and questionable125 spoil. Here they are. “Failure”—“Astonishing”: take your choice; or perhaps both, or neither — a mere rustle126 and flutter of pieces of paper settling down in the night, and undistinguishable, like the snowflakes of a great drift destined127 to melt away in sunshine.
“How do you do?”
It was the greeting of the general’s daughter. I had heard nothing — no rustle, no footsteps. I had felt only a moment before a sort of premonition of evil; I had the sense of an inauspicious presence — just that much warning and no more; and then came the sound of the voice and the jar as of a terrible fall from a great height — a fall, let us say, from the highest of the clouds floating in gentle procession over the fields in the faint westerly air of that July afternoon. I picked myself up quickly, of course; in other words, I jumped up from my chair stunned128 and dazed, every nerve quivering with the pain of being uprooted129 out of one world and flung down into another — perfectly130 civil.
“Oh! How do you do? Won’t you sit down?”
That’s what I said. This horrible but, I assure you, perfectly true reminiscence tells you more than a whole volume of confessions a la Jean Jacques Rousseau would do. Observe! I didn’t howl at her, or start up setting furniture, or throw myself on the floor and kick, or allow myself to hint in any other way at the appalling131 magnitude of the disaster. The whole world of Costaguana (the country, you may remember, of my seaboard tale), men, women, headlands, houses, mountains, town, campo(there was not a single brick, stone, or grain of sand of its soil I had not placed in position with my own hands); all the history, geography, politics, finance; the wealth of Charles Gould’s silver-mine, and the splendour of the magnificent Capataz de Cargadores, whose name, cried out in the night (Dr. Monygham heard it pass over his head — in Linda Viola’s voice), dominated even after death the dark gulf containing his conquests of treasure and love — all that had come down crashing about my ears.
I felt I could never pick up the pieces — and in that very moment I was saying, “Won’t you sit down?”
The sea is strong medicine. Behold132 what the quarter-deck training even in a merchant ship will do! This episode should give you a new view of the English and Scots seamen133 (a much-caricatured folk) who had the last say in the formation of my character. One is nothing if not modest, but in this disaster I think I have done some honour to their simple teaching. “Won’t you sit down?” Very fair; very fair, indeed. She sat down. Her amused glance strayed all over the room.
There were pages of MS. on the table and under the table, a batch134 of typed copy on a chair, single leaves had fluttered away into distant corners; there were there living pages, pages scored and wounded, dead pages that would be burned at the end of the day — the litter of a cruel battle-field, of a long, long, and desperate fray135. Long! I suppose I went to bed sometimes, and got up the same number of times. Yes, I suppose I slept, and ate the food put before me, and talked connectedly to my household on suitable occasions. But I had never been aware of the even flow of daily life, made easy and noiseless for me by a silent, watchful136, tireless affection. Indeed, it seemed to me that I had been sitting at that table surrounded by the litter of a desperate fray for days and nights on end. It seemed so, because of the intense weariness of which that interruption had made me aware — the awful disenchantment of a mind realizing suddenly the futility137 of an enormous task, joined to a bodily fatigue138 such as no ordinary amount of fairly heavy physical labour could ever account for. I have carried bags of wheat on my back, bent139 almost double under a ship’s deck-beams, from six in the morning till six in the evening (with an hour and a half off for meals), so I ought to know.
And I love letters. I am jealous of their honour and concerned for the dignity and comeliness140 of their service. I was, most likely, the only writer that neat lady had ever caught in the exercise of his craft, and it distressed141 me not to be able to remember when it was that I dressed myself last, and how. No doubt that would be all right in essentials. The fortune of the house included a pair of gray-blue watchful eyes that would see to that. But I felt, somehow, as grimy as a Costaguana lepero after a day’s fighting in the streets, rumpled142 all over and dishevelled down to my very heels. And I am afraid I blinked stupidly. All this was bad for the honour of letters and the dignity of their service. Seen indistinctly through the dust of my collapsed143 universe, the good lady glanced about the room with a slightly amused serenity. And she was smiling. What on earth was she smiling at? She remarked casually144:
“I am afraid I interrupted you.”
“Not at all.”
She accepted the denial in perfect good faith. And it was strictly145 true. Interrupted — indeed! She had robbed me of at least twenty lives, each infinitely more poignant and real than her own, because informed with passion, possessed146 of convictions, involved in great affairs created out of my own substance for an anxiously meditated147 end.
She remained silent for a while, then said, with a last glance all round at the litter of the fray:
“And you sit like this here writing your — your. . .”
“I— what? Oh, yes! I sit here all day.”
“It must be perfectly delightful149.”
I suppose that, being no longer very young, I might have been on the verge150 of having a stroke; but she had left her dog in the porch, and my boy’s dog, patrolling the field in front, had espied151 him from afar. He came on straight and swift like a cannon-ball, and the noise of the fight, which burst suddenly upon our ears, was more than enough to scare away a fit of apoplexy. We went out hastily and separated the gallant152 animals. Afterward153 I told the lady where she would find my wife — just round the corner, under the trees. She nodded and went off with her dog, leaving me appalled154 before the death and devastation155 she had lightly made — and with the awfully156 instructive sound of the word “delightful” lingering in my ears.
Nevertheless, later on, I duly escorted her to the field gate. I wanted to be civil, of course (what are twenty lives in a mere novel that one should be rude to a lady on their account?), but mainly, to adopt the good, sound Ollendorffian style, because I did not want the dog of the general’s daughter to fight again (encore) with the faithful dog of my infant son (mon petit garcon). — Was I afraid that the dog of the general’s daughter would be able to overcome (vaincre) the dog of my child? — No, I was not afraid. . . . But away with the Ollendorff method. How ever appropriate and seemingly unavoidable when I touch upon anything appertaining to the lady, it is most unsuitable to the origin, character, and history of the dog; for the dog was the gift to the child from a man for whom words had anything but an Ollendorffian value, a man almost childlike in the impulsive157 movements of his untutored genius, the most single-minded of verbal impressionists, using his great gifts of straight feeling and right expression with a fine sincerity158 and a strong if, perhaps, not fully89 conscious conviction. His art did not obtain, I fear, all the credit its unsophisticated inspiration deserved. I am alluding159 to the late Stephen Crane, the author of “The Red Badge of Courage,” a work of imagination which found its short moment of celebrity160 in the last decade of the departed century. Other books followed. Not many. He had not the time. It was an individual and complete talent which obtained but a grudging161, somewhat supercilious162 recognition from the world at large. For himself one hesitates to regret his early death. Like one of the men in his “Open Boat,” one felt that he was of those whom fate seldom allows to make a safe landing after much toil56 and bitterness at the oar112. I confess to an abiding affection for that energetic, slight, fragile, intensely living and transient figure. He liked me, even before we met, on the strength of a page or two of my writing, and after we had met I am glad to think he liked me still. He used to point out to me with great earnestness, and even with some severity, that “a boy OUGHT to have a dog.” I suspect that he was shocked at my neglect of parental163 duties.
Ultimately it was he who provided the dog. Shortly afterward, one day, after playing with the child on the rug for an hour or so with the most intense absorption, he raised his head and declared firmly, “I shall teach your boy to ride.” That was not to be. He was not given the time.
But here is the dog — an old dog now. Broad and low on his bandy paws, with a black head on a white body and a ridiculous black spot at the other end of him, he provokes, when he walks abroad, smiles not altogether unkind. Grotesque164 and engaging in the whole of his appearance, his usual attitudes are meek165, but his temperament166 discloses itself unexpectedly pugnacious167 in the presence of his kind. As he lies in the firelight, his head well up, and a fixed168, far away gaze directed at the shadows of the room, he achieves a striking nobility of pose in the calm consciousness of an unstained life. He has brought up one baby, and now, after seeing his first charge off to school, he is bringing up another with the same conscientious169 devotion, but with a more deliberate gravity of manner, the sign of greater wisdom and riper experience, but also of rheumatism170, I fear. From the morning bath to the evening ceremonies of the cot, you attend the little two-legged creature of your adoption171, being yourself treated in the exercise of your duties with every possible regard, with infinite consideration, by every person in the house — even as I myself am treated; only you deserve it more.
The general’s daughter would tell you that it must be “perfectly delightful.”
Aha! old dog. She never heard you yelp172 with acute pain (it’s that poor left ear) the while, with incredible self-command, you preserve a rigid173 immobility for fear of overturning the little two-legged creature. She has never seen your resigned smile when the little two-legged creature, interrogated174, sternly, “What are you doing to the good dog?” answers, with a wide, innocent stare: “Nothing. Only loving him, mamma dear!”
The general’s daughter does not know the secret terms of self-imposed tasks, good dog, the pain that may lurk175 in the very rewards of rigid self-command. But we have lived together many years. We have grown older, too; and though our work is not quite done yet we may indulge now and then in a little introspection before the fire — meditate148 on the art of bringing up babies and on the perfect delight of writing tales where so many lives come and go at the cost of one which slips imperceptibly away.
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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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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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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commendably
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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inefficient
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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guile
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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sacrosanct
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deigned
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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infinitely
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sanest
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的最高级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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incipient
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varied
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conceit
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fretting
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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aggrandizement
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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34
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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35
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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36
ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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37
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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38
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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39
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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40
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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41
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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42
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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43
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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44
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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45
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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46
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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47
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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48
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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50
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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51
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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52
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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53
walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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54
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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55
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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56
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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57
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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58
charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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59
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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60
formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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61
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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62
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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64
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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65
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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66
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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67
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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69
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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70
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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71
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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72
justifying
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|
| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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73
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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74
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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75
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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76
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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77
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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78
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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79
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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80
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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81
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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82
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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83
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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84
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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85
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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86
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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87
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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88
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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89
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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90
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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91
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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92
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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93
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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94
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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95
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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96
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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97
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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98
hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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99
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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101
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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102
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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103
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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104
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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105
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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106
scouted
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| 寻找，侦察( scout的过去式和过去分词 )； 物色（优秀运动员、演员、音乐家等） | |
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107
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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108
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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109
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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110
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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111
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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113
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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114
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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115
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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116
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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117
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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118
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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119
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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120
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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121
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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122
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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123
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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124
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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125
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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126
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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127
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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128
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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130
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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131
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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132
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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133
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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134
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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135
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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136
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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137
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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138
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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139
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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140
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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141
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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142
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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144
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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145
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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146
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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147
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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148
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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149
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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150
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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151
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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153
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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154
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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155
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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156
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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157
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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158
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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159
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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160
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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161
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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162
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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163
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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165
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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166
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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167
pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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168
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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169
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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170
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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171
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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172
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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173
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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174
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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175
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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