I
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II
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III
“IT is enough,” I said to myself, while my feet, treading unwillingly1 the steep slope of the mountain, bore me downward toward the quiet river; “it is enough,” I repeated, as I inhaled2 the resinous3 scent4 of the pine grove5, to which the chill of approaching evening had imparted a peculiar6 potency7 and pungency8; “it is enough,” I said once more, as I seated myself on a mossy hillock directly on the brink9 of the river and gazed at its dark, unhurried waves, above which a thick growth of reeds lifted their pale-green stalks.... “It is enough!—Have done with dreaming, with striving: ’tis high time to pull thyself together;{304} ’tis high time to clutch thy head with both hands and bid thy heart be still. Give over pampering10 thyself with the sweet indulgence of indefinite but captivating sensations; give over running after every new form of beauty; give over seizing every tremor11 of its delicate and powerful pinions12.—Everything is known, everything has been felt over and over again many times already.... I am weary.—What care I that at this very moment the dawn is suffusing13 the sky ever more and more broadly, like some inflamed14, all-conquering passion! What care I that two paces from me, amid the tranquillity15 and the tenderness and the gleam of evening, in the dewy depths of a motionless bush, a nightingale has suddenly burst forth16 in such magical notes as though there had never been any nightingales in the world before it, and as though it were the first to chant the first song of the first love! All that has been, has been, I repeat; it has been recapitulated17 a thousand times—and when one remembers that all this will so continue for a whole eternity18—as though to order, by law—one even grows vexed19! Yes ... vexed!”
IV
Eh, how I have suffered! Formerly20 such thoughts never entered my head—formerly, in those happy days when I myself was wont21 to{305} flame like the glow of dawn, and to sing like the nightingale.—I must confess that everything has grown obscure round about me, all life has withered22. The light which gives to its colours both significance and power—that light which emanates23 from the heart of man—has become extinct within me.... No, it has not yet become extinct—but it is barely smouldering, without radiance and without warmth. I remember how one day, late at night, in Moscow, I stepped up to the grated window of an ancient church and leaned against the uneven24 glass. It was dark under the low arches; a forgotten shrine-lamp flickered25 with a red flame in front of an ancient holy picture, and only the lips of the holy face were visible, stern and suffering: mournful gloom closed in around and seemed to be preparing to crush with its dull weight the faint ray of unnecessary light.... And in my heart reign26 now the same sort of light and the same sort of gloom.
V
And this I write to thee—to thee, my only and unforgettable friend; to thee, my dear companion,[31] whom I have left forever, but whom I shall never cease to love until my life ends.... Alas27! thou knowest what it was that separated us. But {306}I will not refer to that now. I have left thee ... but even here, in this remote nook, at this distance, in this exile, I am all permeated29 with thee, I am in thy power as of yore, as of yore I feel the sweet pressure of thy hands upon my bowed head!—Rising up for the last time, from the mute grave in which I now am lying, I run a mild, much-moved glance over all my past, over all our past.... There is no hope and no return, but neither is there any bitterness in me, or regret; and clearer than the heavenly azure30, purer than the first snows on the mountain heights, are my beautiful memories.... They do not press upon me in throngs31: they pass by in procession, like those muffled32 figures of the Athenian god-born ones, which—dost thou remember?—we admired so greatly on the ancient bas-reliefs of the Vatican....
VI
I have just alluded33 to the light which emanates from the human heart and illumines everything which surrounds it.... I want to talk with thee about that time when that gracious light burned in my heart.—Listen ... but I imagine that thou art sitting in front of me, and gazing at me with thine affectionate but almost severely-attentive eyes. O eyes never to be forgotten! On whom, on what are they now fixed34? Who is receiving into his soul thy glance—that glance{307} which seems to flow from unfathomable depths, like those mysterious springs—like you both bright and dark—which well up at the very bottom of narrow valleys, beneath overhanging cliffs?... Listen.
VII
It was at the end of March, just before the Feast of the Annunciation, shortly after I saw thee for the first time—and before I as yet suspected what thou wert destined35 to become to me, although I already bore thee, silently and secretly in my heart.—I was obliged to cross one of the largest rivers in Russia. The ice had not yet begun to move in it, but it seemed to have swollen36 up and turned dark; three days previously37 a thaw38 had set in. The snow was melting round about diligently39 but quietly; everywhere water was oozing40 out; in the light air a soundless breeze was roving. The same even, milky41 hue42 enveloped43 earth and sky: it was not a mist, but it was not light; not a single object stood out from the general opacity44; everything seemed both near and indistinct. Leaving my kibítka far behind, I walked briskly over the river-ice, and with the exception of the beat of my own footsteps, I could hear nothing. I walked on, enveloped on all sides by the first stupor45 and breath of early spring ... and little by little augmenting46 with every step, with every{308} movement in advance, there gradually rose up and grew within me a certain joyous47 incomprehensible agitation48.... It drew me on, it hastened my pace—and so powerful were its transports, that I came to a standstill at last and looked about me in surprise and questioningly, as though desirous of detecting the outward cause of my ecstatic condition.... All was still, white, sunny; but I raised my eyes: high above flocks of migratory49 birds were flying past.... “Spring! Hail, Spring!”—I shouted in a loud voice. “Hail, life and love and happiness!”—And at that same instant, with sweetly-shattering force, similar to the flower of a cactus50, there suddenly flared51 up within me thy image—flared up and stood there, enchantingly clear and beautiful—and I understood that I loved thee, thee alone, that I was all filled with thee....
VIII
I think of thee ... and many other memories, other pictures rise up before me,—and thou art everywhere, on all the paths of my life I encounter thee.—Now there presents itself to me an old Russian garden on the slope of a hill, illuminated52 by the last rays of the summer sun. From behind silvery poplars peeps forth the wooden roof of the manor-house, with a slender wreath of crimson53 smoke hanging above the white{309} chimney, and in the fence a wicket-gate stands open a crack, as though some one had pulled it to with undecided hand. And I stand and wait, and gaze at that gate and at the sand on the garden paths; I wonder and I am moved: everything I see seems to me remarkable54 and new, everything is enveloped with an atmosphere of a sort of bright, caressing55 mystery, and already I think I hear the swift rustle56 of footsteps; and I stand, all alert and light, like a bird which has just folded its wings and is poised57 ready to soar aloft again—and my heart flames and quivers in joyous dread58 before the imminent59 happiness which is flitting on in front....
IX
Then I behold60 an ancient cathedral in a distant, beautiful land. The kneeling people are crowded close in rows; a prayerful chill, something solemn and sad breathes forth from the lofty, bare vault61, from the huge pillars which branch upward.—Thou art standing62 by my side, speechless and unsympathetic, exactly as though thou wert a stranger to me; every fold of thy dark gown hangs motionless, as though sculptured; motionless lie the mottled reflections of the coloured windows at thy feet on the well-worn flagstones.—And now, vigorously agitating63 the air dim with incense64, inwardly agitating us, in a heavy{310} surge the tones of the organ roll out; and thou hast turned pale and drawn65 thyself up; thy gaze has touched me, has slipped on higher and is raised heavenward;—but it seems to me that only a deathless soul can look like that and with such eyes....
X
Now another picture presents itself to me.—’Tis not an ancient temple which crushes us with its stern magnificence: the low walls of a cosey little room separate us from the whole world.—What am I saying? We are alone—alone in all the world; except us two there is no living thing; beyond those friendly walls lie darkness and death and emptiness. That is not the wind howling, that is not the rain streaming in floods; it is Chaos66 wailing67 and groaning68; it is its blind eyes weeping. But with us all is quiet and bright, and warm and gracious; something diverting, something childishly innocent is fluttering about like a butterfly, is it not? We nestle up to each other, we lean our heads together and both read a good book; I feel the slender vein69 in thy delicate temple beating; I hear how thou art living, thou hearest how I am living, thy smile is born upon my face before it comes on thine; thou silently repliest to my silent question; thy thoughts, my thoughts, are like the two wings of one and the{311} same bird drowned in the azure.... The last partitions have fallen—and our love has become so calm, so profound, every breach70 has vanished so completely, leaving no trace behind it, that we do not even wish to exchange a word, a glance.... We only wish to breathe, to breathe together, to live together, to be together, ... and not even to be conscious of the fact that we are together....
XI
Or, in conclusion, there presents itself to me a clear September morning when thou and I were walking together through the deserted71 garden, as yet not wholly out of bloom, of an abandoned palace, on the bank of a great non-Russian river, beneath the soft radiance of a cloudless sky. Oh, how shall I describe those sensations?—that endlessly-flowing river, that absence of people, and tranquillity, and joy, and a certain intoxicating72 sadness, and the vibration73 of happiness, the unfamiliar74, monotonous75 town, the autumnal croaking76 of the daws in the tall, bright trees—and those affectionate speeches and smiles and glances long and soft, which pierce to the very bottom, and beauty,—the beauty in ourselves, round about, everywhere;—it is beyond words. Oh, bench on which we sat in silence, with heads drooping78 low with happiness—I shall never for{312}get thee to my dying hour!—How charming were those rare passers-by with their gentle greeting and kind faces, and the large, quiet boats which floated past (on one of them—dost thou remember?—stood a horse gazing pensively79 at the water gliding80 by under its feet), the childish babble81 of the little waves inshore and the very barking of distant dogs over the expanse of the river, the very shouts of the corpulent under-officer at the red-cheeked recruits drilling there on one side, with their projecting elbows and their legs thrust forward like the legs of cranes!... We both felt that there never had been and never would be anything better in the world for us than those moments—than all the rest.... But what comparisons are these! Enough ... enough.... Alas! yes: it is enough.
XII
For the last time I have surrendered myself to these memories, and I am parting from them irrevocably—as a miser82, after gloating for the last time upon his hoard83, his gold, his bright treasure, buries it in the damp earth; as the wick of an exhausted84 lamp, after flashing up in one last brilliant flame, becomes covered with grey ashes. The little wild animal has peered forth for the last time from his lair85 at the velvety86 grass, at the fair little sun, at the blue, gracious waters,—and{313} has retreated to the deepest level, and curled himself up in a ball, and fallen asleep. Will he have visions, if only in his sleep, of the fair little sun, and the grass, and the blue, gracious waters?
. . . . . . .
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XIII
Sternly and ruthlessly does Fate lead each one of us—and only in the early days do we, occupied with all sorts of accidents, nonsense, ourselves, fail to feel her harsh hand.—So long as we are able to deceive ourselves and are not ashamed to lie, it is possible to live and to hope without shame. The truth—not the full truth (there can be no question of that), but even that tiny fraction which is accessible to us—immediately closes our mouths, binds87 our hands, and reduces “to negation88.”—The only thing that is then left for a man, in order to keep erect89 on his feet and not crumble90 to dust, not to become bemired in the ooze91 of self-forgetfulness, is self-scorn; is to turn calmly away from everything and say: “It is enough!”—and folding his useless arms on his empty breast to preserve the last, the sole merit which is accessible to him, the merit of recognising his own insignificance92; the merit to which Pascal alludes93, when, calling man a think{314}ing reed, he says that if the entire universe were to crush him, he, that reed, would still be higher than the universe because he would know that it is crushing him—while it would not know that. A feeble merit! Sad consolation94! Try as thou mayest to permeate28 thyself with it, to believe in it,—oh, thou my poor brother, whosoever thou mayest be!—thou canst not refute those ominous95 words of the poet:
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts96 and frets97 his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing....[32]
I have cited the verses from “Macbeth,” and those witches, phantoms98, visions have recurred99 to my mind.... Alas! it is not visions, not fantastic, subterranean100 powers that are terrible; the creations of Hoffmann are not dreadful, under whatsoever101 form they may present themselves.... The terrible thing is that there is nothing terrible, that the very substance of life itself is petty, uninteresting—and insipid102 to beggary. Having once become permeated with this consciousness, having once tasted of this wormwood, no honey will ever seem sweet—and even that loftiest, sweetest happiness, the happiness of love, of complete friendship, of irrevocable devotion{315}—even it loses all its charm; all its worth is annihilated103 by its own pettiness, its brevity. Well, yes: a man has loved, he has burned, he has faltered104 words about eternal bliss105, about immortal106 enjoyments—and behold: it is long, long since the last trace vanished of that worm which has eaten out the last remnants of his withered tongue. Thus late in autumn, on a frosty day, when everything is lifeless and dumb in the last blades of grass, on the verge107 of the denuded108 forest, the sun has but to emerge for an instant from the fog, to gaze intently at the chilled earth, and immediately, from all sides, gnats109 rise up; they frolic in the warmth of his rays, they bustle110 and jostle upward, downward, they circle round one another.... The sun hides himself, and the gnats fall to the earth in a soft rain—and there is an end to their momentary111 life.
XIV
“But are there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation? Nationality, right, liberty, humanity, art?” Yes; those words do exist, and many people live by them and for them. But nevertheless, I have an idea that if Shakspeare were to be born again he would find no occasion to disclaim112 his “Hamlet,” his “Lear.” His penetrating113 glance would not descry114 anything new in{316} human existence: the same motley and, in reality, incoherent picture would still unfold itself before him in its disquieting115 monotony. The same frivolity116, the same cruelty, the same pressing demand for blood, gold, filth117, the same stale pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name of ... well, in the name of the same nonsense which was ridiculed118 by Aristophanes three thousand years ago, the same coarse lures119 to which the many-headed beast still yields as readily as ever—in a word, the same anxious skipping of the squirrel in the same old wheel, which has not even been renewed.... Shakspeare would again make Lear repeat his harsh: “There are no guilty ones”—which, in other words, signifies: “There are no just”—and he also would say: “It is enough!” and he also would turn away.—One thing only: perhaps, in contrast to the gloomy, tragic120 tyrant121 Richard, the ironical122 genius of the great poet would like to draw another, more up-to-date tyrant, who is almost ready to believe in his own virtue123 and rests calmly at night or complains of the over-dainty dinner at the same time that his half-stifled victims are endeavouring to comfort themselves by at least imagining him as Richard III. surrounded by the ghosts of the people he has murdered....
But to what purpose?
Why demonstrate—and that by picking and weighing one’s words, by rounding and polishing{317} one’s speech—why demonstrate to gnats that they really are gnats?
XV
But art?... Beauty?... Yes, those are mighty124 words; they are, probably, mightier125 than those which I have mentioned above. The Venus of Melos, for example, is more indubitable than the Roman law, or than the principles of 1789. Men may retort—and how many times have I heard these retorts!—that beauty itself is also a matter of convention, that to the Chinese it presents itself in a totally different manner from what it does to the European.... But it is not the conventionality of art which disconcerts me; its perishableness, and again its perishableness,—its decay and dust—that is what deprives me of courage and of faith. Art, at any given moment, is, I grant, more powerful than Nature itself, because in it there is neither symphony of Beethoven nor picture of Ruysdael nor poem of Goethe—and only dull-witted pedants127 or conscienceless babblers can still talk of art as a copy of Nature. But in the long run Nature is irresistible128; she cannot be hurried, and sooner or later she will assert her rights. Unconsciously and infallibly obedient to law, she does not know art, as she does not know liberty, as she does not know good; moving onward129 from eternity, trans{318}mitted from eternity, she tolerates nothing immortal, nothing unchangeable.... Man is her child; but the human, the artificial is inimical to her, precisely130 because she strives to be unchangeable and immortal. Man is the child of Nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has no preferences: everything which exists in her bosom132 has arisen only for the benefit of another and must, in due time, make way for that other—she creates by destroying, and it is a matter of perfect indifference133 to her what she creates, what she destroys, if only life be not extirpated134, if only death do not lose its rights.... And therefore she as calmly covers with mould the divine visage of Phidias’s Jupiter as she does a plain pebble135, and delivers over to be devoured136 by the contemned137 moth131 the most precious lines of Sophocles. Men, it is true, zealously138 aid her in her work of extermination139; but is not the same elementary force,—is not the force of Nature shown in the finger of the barbarian140 who senselessly shattered the radiant brow of Apollo, in the beast-like howls with which he hurled141 the picture of Apelles into the fire? How are we poor men, poor artists, to come to an agreement with this deaf and dumb force, blind from its birth, which does not even triumph in its victories, but marches, ever marches on ahead, devouring142 all things? How are we to stand up against those heavy, coarse, interminably and incessantly143 onrolling waves, how believe,{319} in short, in the significance and worth of those perishable126 images which we, in the darkness, on the verge of the abyss, mould from the dust and for a mere144 instant?
XVI
All this is so ... but only the transitory is beautiful, Shakspeare has said; and Nature herself, in the unceasing play of her rising and vanishing forms, does not shun145 beauty. Is it not she who sedulously146 adorns147 the most momentary of her offspring—the petals148 of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly—with such charming colours? Is it not she who imparts to them such exquisite149 outlines? It is not necessary for beauty to live forever in order to be immortal—one moment is sufficient for it. That is so; that is just, I grant you—but only in cases where there is no personality, where man is not, liberty is not: the faded wing of the butterfly comes back again, and a thousand years later, with the selfsame wing of the selfsame butterfly, necessity sternly and regularly and impartially150 fulfils its round ... but man does not repeat himself like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his free creation once destroyed, is annihilated forever.... To him alone is it given to “create” ... but it is strange and terrible to articulate: “We {320}are creators ... for an hour,”—as there once was, they say, a caliph for an hour.—Therein lies our supremacy—and our curse: each one of these “creators” in himself—precisely he, not any one else, precisely that ego—seems to have been created with deliberate intent, on a plan previously designed; each one more or less dimly understands his significance, feels that he is akin77 to something higher, something eternal—and he lives, he is bound to live in the moment and for the moment.[33] Sit in the mud, my dear fellow, and strive toward heaven!—The greatest among us are precisely those who are the most profoundly conscious of all of that fundamental contradiction; but in that case the question arises,—are the words “greatest, great” appropriate?
XVII
But what shall be said of those to whom, despite a thorough desire to do so, one cannot apply those appellations151 even in the sense which is attributed to them by the feeble human tongue?—What shall be said of the ordinary, commonplace, second-rate, third-rate toilers—whoever they may be—statesmen, learned men, artists—especially ar{321}tists? How force them to shake off their dumb indolence, their dejected perplexity, how draw them once more to the field of battle, if once the thought as to the vanity of everything human, of every activity which sets for itself a higher aim than the winning of daily bread, has once crept into their heads? By what wreaths are they lured152 on—they, for whom laurels153 and thorns have become equally insignificant154? Why should they again subject themselves to the laughter of “the cold throng” or to “the condemnation155 of the dunce,”—of the old dunce who cannot forgive them for having turned away from the former idols156; of the young dunce who demands that they shall immediately go down on their knees in his company, that they should lie prone157 before new, just-discovered idols? Why shall they betake themselves again to that rag-fair of phantoms, to that market-place where both the seller and the buyer cheat each other equally, where everything is so noisy, so loud—and yet so poor and worthless? Why “with exhaustion158 in their bones” shall they interweave themselves again with that world where the nations, like peasant urchins159 on a festival day, flounder about in the mud for the sake of a handful of empty nuts, or admire with gaping160 mouths the wretched woodcuts, decorated with tinsel gold,—with that world where they had no right to life while they lived in it, and, deafening161 themselves with their own shouts, each one{322} hastens with convulsive speed to a goal which he neither knows nor understands? No ... no.... It is enough ... enough ... enough!
XVIII
... The rest is silence. ...
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unwillingly
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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suffusing
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquillity
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forth
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recapitulated
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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formerly
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wont
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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emanates
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uneven
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flickered
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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alas
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permeate
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permeated
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azure
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throngs
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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36
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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37
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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38
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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39
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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40
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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41
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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42
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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43
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
opacity
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| n.不透明；难懂 | |
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45
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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46
augmenting
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| 使扩张 | |
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47
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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48
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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49
migratory
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| n.候鸟，迁移 | |
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50
cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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51
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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53
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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54
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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55
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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56
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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57
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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58
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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59
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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60
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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61
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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62
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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63
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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64
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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65
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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66
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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67
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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68
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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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
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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71
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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72
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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73
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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74
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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75
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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76
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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77
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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78
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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79
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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80
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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81
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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82
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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83
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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84
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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86
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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87
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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88
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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89
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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90
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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91
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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92
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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93
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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95
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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96
struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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97
frets
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| 基质间片； 品丝（吉他等指板上定音的）( fret的名词复数 ) | |
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98
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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99
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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100
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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101
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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102
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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103
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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104
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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105
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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106
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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107
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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108
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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109
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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110
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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111
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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112
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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113
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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114
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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115
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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116
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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117
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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118
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
lures
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| 吸引力，魅力（lure的复数形式） | |
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120
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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121
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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122
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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123
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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124
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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125
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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126
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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127
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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128
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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129
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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130
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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131
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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132
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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133
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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134
extirpated
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| v.消灭，灭绝( extirpate的过去式和过去分词 )；根除 | |
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135
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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136
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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137
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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139
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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140
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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141
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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142
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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143
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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144
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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145
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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146
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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147
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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148
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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149
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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150
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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151
appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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152
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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153
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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154
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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155
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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156
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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157
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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158
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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159
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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160
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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161
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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