1
Light reveals to us beauty—but also ugliness. Throw vitriol in the face of a beautiful woman, and the beauty is gone, no power on earth will enable us to look upon her with the same rapture2 as before. Could even the sincerest, deepest love endure the change? True, the idealists will hasten to say that love overcomes all things. But idealism needs be prompt, for if she leaves us one single moment in which to see, we shall see such things as are not easily explained away. That is why idealists stick so tight so logic3. In the twinkling of an eye logic will convey us to the remotest conclusions and forecasts. Reality could never overtake her. Love is eternal, and consequently a disfigured face will seem as lovely to us as a fresh one. This is, of course, a lie, but it helps to preserve old tastes and obscures danger. Real danger, however, was never dispelled4 by words. In spite of Schiller and eternal love, in the long run vitriol triumphs, and the agreeable young man is forced to abandon his beloved and acknowledge himself a fraud. Light, the source of his life and hope, has now destroyed hope and life for him. He will not return to idealism, and he will hate logic: light, that seemed to him so beautiful, will have become hideous5. He will turn to darkness, where logic and its binding6 conclusions have no power, but where the fancy is free for all her vagaries8. Without light we should never have known that vitriol ruins beauty. No science, nor any art can give us what darkness gives. It is true, in our young days when all was new, light brought us great happiness and joy. Let us, therefore, remember it with gratitude9, as a benefactor10 we no longer need. Do after all let us dispense11 with gratitude, for it belongs to the calculating, bourgeois12 virtues14. Do ut des. Let us forget light, and gratitude, and the qualms15 of self-important idealism, let us go bravely to meet the coming night. She promises us great power over reality. Is it worth while to give up our old tastes and lofty convictions? Love and light have not availed against vitriol. What a horror would have seized us at the thought, once upon a time! That short phrase can annul16 all Schiller. We have shut our eyes and stopped our ears, we have built huge philosophic17 systems to shield us from this tiny thought. And now—now it seems we have no more feeling for Schiller and the great systems, we have no pity on our past beliefs. We now are seeking for words with which to sing the praises of our former enemy. Night, the dark, deaf, impenetrable night, peopled with horrors—does she not now loom19 before us, infinitely20 beautiful? Does she not draw us with her still, mysterious, fathomless22 beauty, far more powerfully than noisy, narrow day? It seems as if, in a short while, man will feel that the same incomprehensible, cherishing power which threw us out into the universe and set us, like plants, to reach to the light, is now gradually transferring us to a new direction, where a new life awaits us with all its stores. Fata volentem ducunt, nolentem trahunt. And perhaps the time is near when the impassioned poet, casting a last look to his past, will boldly and gladly cry:
Hide thyself, sun! O darkness, be welcome!
2
Psychology24 at last leads us to conclude that the most generous human impulses spring from a root of egoism. Tolstoy's "love to one's neighbour," for example, proves to be a branch of the old self-love. The same may be said of Kant's idealism, and even of Plato's. Though they glorify25 the service of the idea, in practice they succeed in getting out of the vicious circle of egoism no better than the ordinary mortal, who is neither a genius nor a flower of culture. In my eyes this is "almost" an absolute truth. (It is never wrong to add the retractive28 "almost"; truth is too much inclined to exaggerate its own importance, and one must guard oneself against its despotic authority.) Thus—all men are egoists. Hence follows a great deal. I even think this proposition might provide better grounds for metaphysical conclusions than the doubtful capacity for compassion29 and love for one's neighbour which has been so tempting30 to dogma. For some reason men have imagined that love for oneself is more natural and comprehensible than love for another. Why? Love for others is only a little-rarer, less widely diffused31 than love to oneself. But then hippopotami and rhinoceros32, even in their own tropical regions, are less frequent than horses and mules33. Does it follow that they are less natural and transcendental? Positivism is not incumbent34 upon blood-thirsty savages36. Nay37, as we know, many of them are less positive-minded than our learned men. For instance, a future life is to them such an infallible reality that they even enter into contracts, part of which is to be fulfilled in the next world. A German metaphysician won't go as far as that. Hence it follows that the way to know the other world is not by any means through love, sympathy, and self-denial, as Schopenhauer taught. On the contrary, it appears as if love for others were only an impediment to metaphysical flights. Love and sympathy chain the eye to the misery39 of this earth, where such a wide field for active charity opens out. The materialists were mostly very good men—a fact which bothered the historians of philosophy. They preached Matter, believed in nothing, and were ready to perform all kinds of sacrifices for their neighbours. How is this? It is a case of clearest logical consequence: man loves his neighbour, he sees that heaven is indifferent to misery, therefore he takes upon himself the r?le of Providence41. Were he indifferent to the sufferings of others, he would easily become an idealist and leave his neighbours to their fate. Love and compassion kill belief, and make a man a positivist and a materialist40 in his philosophical42 outlook. If he feels the misery of others, he leaves off meditating43 and wants to act. Man only thinks properly when he realises he has nothing to do, his hands are tied. That is why any profound thought must arise from despair. Optimism, on the other hand, the readiness to jump hastily from one conclusion to another, may be regarded as an inevitable44 sign of narrow self-sufficiency, which dreads46 doubt and is consequently always superficial. If a man offers you a solution of eternal questions, it shows he has not even begun to think about them. He has only "acted." Perhaps it is not necessary to think—who can say how we ought or ought not to live? And how could we be brought to live "as we ought," when our own nature is and always will be an incalculable mystery. There is no mistake about it, nobody wants to think, I do not speak here of logical thinking. That, like any other natural function, gives man great pleasure. For this reason philosophical systems, however complicated, arouse real and permanent interest in the public provided they only require from man the logical exercise of the mind, and nothing else. But to think—-really to think—surely this means a relinquishing47 of logic. It means living a new life. It means a permanent sacrifice of the dearest habits, tastes, attachments48, without even the assurance that the sacrifice will bring any compensation. Artists and philosophers like to imagine the thinker with a stern face, a profound look which penetrates50 into the unseen, and a noble bearing—an eagle preparing for flight. Not at all. A thinking man is one who has lost his balance, in the vulgar, not in the tragic51 sense. Hands raking the air, feet flying, face scared and bewildered, he is a caricature of helplessness and pitiable perplexity. Look at the aged52 Turgenev, his Poems in Prose and his letter to Tolstoy. Maupassant thus tells of his meeting with Turgenev: " There entered a giant with a silvery head." Quite so! The majestic53 patriarch and master, of course! The myth of giants with silver locks is firmly established in the heart of man. Then suddenly enters Turgenev in his Prose Poems—pale, pitiful, fluttering like a bird that has been "winged." Turgenev, who has taught us everything—how can he be so fluttered and bewildered? How could he write his letter to Tolstoy? Did he not know that Tolstoy was finished, the source of his creative activity dried up, that he must seek other activities. Of course he knew—and still he wrote that letter. But it was not for Tolstoy, nor even for Russian literature, which, of course, is not kept going by the death-bed letters and covenants54 of its giants. In the dreadful moments of the end, Turgenev, in spite of his noble size and silver locks, did not know what to say or where to look for support and consolation55. So he turned to literature, to which he had given his life.... He yearned56 that she, whom he had served so long and loyally, should just once help him, save him from the horrible and thrice senseless nightmare. He stretched out his withered57, numbing58 hands to the printed sheets which still preserve the traces of the Soul of a living, suffering man. He addressed his late enemy Tolstoy with the most flattering name: "Great writer of the Russian land"; recollected59 that he was his contemporary, that he himself was a great writer of the Russian land. But this he did not express aloud. He only said, "I can no longer——" He praised a strict school of literary and general education. To the last he tried to preserve his bearing of a giant with silvery locks. And we were gratified. The same persons who are indignant at Gogol's correspondence, quote Turgenev's letter with reverence61. The attitude is everything. Turgenev knew how to pose passably well, and this is ascribed to him as his greatest merit. Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur. But Gogol and Turgenev felt substantially the same. Had Turgenev burnt his own manuscripts and talked of himself instead of Tolstoy, before death, he would have been accounted mad. Moralists would have reproached him for his display of extreme egoism.... And Philosophy? Philosophy seems to be getting rid of certain prejudices. At the moment when men are least likely to play the hypocrite and lie to themselves Turgenev and Gogol placed their personal fate higher than the destinies of Russian literature. Does not this betray a "secret" to us? Ought we not to see in absolute egoism an inalienable and great, yes, very great quality of human nature? Psychology, ignoring the threats of morality, has led us to a new knowledge. Yet still, in spite of the instances we have given, the mass of people will, as usual, see nothing but malice62 in every attempt to reveal the human impulses that underlie63 "lofty" motives65. To be merely men seems humiliating to men. So now malice will also be detected in my interpretation67 of Turgenev's letter, no matter what assurance I offer to the contrary.
3
On Method.—A certain naturalist68 made the following experiment: A glass jar was divided into two halves by a perfectly69 transparent70 glass partition. On the one side of the partition he placed a pike, on the other a number of small fishes such as form the prey71 of the pike. The pike did not notice the partition, and hurled72 itself on its prey, with, of course, the result only of a bruised73 nose. The same happened many times, and always the same result. At last, seeing all its efforts ended so painfully, the pike abandoned the hunt, so that in a few days, when the partition had been removed it continued to swim about among the small fry without daring to attack them.... Does not the same happen with us? Perhaps the limits between "this world" and "the other world" are also essentially74 of an experimental origin, neither rooted in the nature of things, as was thought before Kant, or in the nature of our reason, as was thought after Kant. Perhaps indeed a partition does exist, and make vain all attempts to cross over.. But perhaps there comes a moment when the partition is removed. In our minds, however, the conviction is firmly rooted that it is impossible to pass certain limits, and painful to try: a conviction founded on experience. But in this case we should recall the old scepticism of Hume, which idealist philosophy has regarded as mere66 subtle mind-play, valueless after Kant's critique. The most lasting75 and varied76 experience cannot lead to any binding and universal conclusion. Nay, all our a priori, which are so useful for a certain time, become sooner or later extremely harmful. A philosopher should not be afraid of scepticism, but should go on bruising77 his jaw78. Perhaps the failure of metaphysics lies in the caution and timidity of metaphysicians, who seem ostensibly so brave. They have sought for rest—which they describe as the highest boon79. Whereas they should have valued more than anything restlessness, aimlessness, even purposelessness. How can you tell when the partition will be removed? Perhaps at the very moment when man ceased his painful pursuit, settled all his questions and rested on his laurels80, inert81, he could with one strong push have swept through the pernicious fence which separated him from the unknowable. There is no need for man to move according to a carefully-considered plan. This is a purely82 aesthetic83 demand which need not bind7 us. Let man senselessly and deliriously84 knock his head against the wall—if the wall go down at last, will he value his triumph any the less? Unfortunately for us the illusion has been established in us that plan and purpose are the best guarantee of success. What a delusion85 it is! The opposite is true. The best of all that genius has revealed to us has been revealed as the result of fantastic, erratic86, apparently87 ridiculous and useless, but relentlessly88 stubborn seeking. Columbus, tired of sitting on the same spot, sailed west to look for India. And genius, in spite of vulgar conception, is a condition of chaos89 and unutterable restlessness. Not for nothing has genius been counted kin18 to madness. Genius flings itself hither and thither90 because it has not the Sitzfleisch necessary for industrious91 success in mediocrity. We may be sure that earth has seen much more genius than history has recorded; since genius is acknowledged only when it has been serviceable. When the tossing-about has led to no useful issue—which is the case in the majority of instances—it arouses only a feeling of disgust and abomination in all witnesses. "He can't rest and he can't let others rest." If Lermontov and Dostoevsky had lived in times when there was no demand for books, nobody would have noticed them. Lermontov's early death would have passed unregretted. Perhaps some settled and virtuous92 citizen would have remarked, weary of the young man's eternal and dangerous freaks: "For a dog a dog's death." The same of Gogol, Tolstoy, Poushkin. Now they are praised because they left interesting books.... And so we need pay no attention to the cry about the futility93 and worthlessness of scepticism, even scepticism pure and unadulterated, scepticism which has no ulterior motive64 of clearing the way for a new creed94. To knock one's head against the wall out of hatred95 for the wall: to beat against established and obstructive ideas, because one detests96 them: is it not an attractive proposition? And then, to see ahead uncertainly and limitless possibilities, instead of up-to-date "ideals," is not this too fascinating? The highest good is rest! I shall not argue: de gustibus aut nihil aut bene.... By the way, isn't it a superb principle? And this superb principle has been arrived at perfectly by chance, unfortunately not by me, but by one of the comical characters in Tchekhov's Seagull. He mixed up two Latin proverbs, and the result was a splendid maxim97 which, in order to become an a priori, awaits only universal acceptance.
4
Metaphysicians praise the transcendental, and carefully avoid it. Nietzsche hated metaphysics, he praised the earth—bleib nur der Erde treu, O meine Bruder—and always lived in the realm of the transcendental. Of course the metaphysicians behave better: this is indisputable. He who would be a teacher must proclaim the metaphysical point of view, and he may become a hero without ever smelling powder. In these anxious days, when positivism seems to fall short, one cannot do better than turn to metaphysics. Then the young man need not any more envy Alexander the Macedonian. With the assistance of a few books not only earthly states are conquered, but the whole mysterious universe. Metaphysics is the great art of swerving98 round dangerous experience. So metaphysicians should be called the positivists par38 excellence99. They do not despise all experience, as they assert, but only the dangerous experiences. They adapt the safest of all methods of selfdefence, what the English call protective mimicry100. Let us repeat to all students—professors know it already: he who would be a sincere metaphysician must avoid risky101 experience. Schiller once asked: How can tragedy give delight? The answer—to put it in our own words—was: If we are to obtain delight from tragedy, it must be seen only upon the stage.—In order to love the transcendental it also should be known only from the stage, or from books of the philosophers. This is called idealism, the nicest word ever invented by philosophising men.
5
Poetae nascuntur.—Wonderful is man. Knowing nothing about it, he asserts the existence of an objective impossibility. Even a little while ago, before the invention of the telephone and telegraph, men would have declared it impossible for Europe to converse102 with America. Now it is possible. We cannot produce poets, therefore we say they are born. Certainly we cannot make a child a poet by forcing him to study literary models, from the most ancient to the most modern. Neither will anybody hear us in America no matter how loud we shout here. To make a poet of a man, he must not be developed along ordinary lines. Perhaps books should be kept from him. Perhaps it is necessary to perform some apparently dangerous operation on him: fracture his skull103 or throw him out of a fourth-storey window. I will refrain from recommending these methods as a substitute for paedagogy. But that is not the point. Look at the great men, and the poets. Except John Stuart Mill and a couple of other positivist thinkers, who had learned fathers and virtuous mothers, none of the great men can boast of, or better, complain of, a proper upbringing. In their lives nearly always the decisive part was played by accident, accident which reason would dub104 meaninglessness, if reason ever dared raise its voice against obvious success. Something like a broken skull or a fall from the fourth floor—not metaphorically105, but often absolutely literally—has proved the commencement, usually concealed107 but occasionally avowed108, of the activity of genius. But we repeat automatically: poetae nascuntur, and are deeply convinced that this extraordinary truth is so lofty it needs no verification.
6
"Until Apollo calls him to the sacrifice, ignobly109 the poet is plunged110 in the cares of this shoddy world; silent is his lyre, cold sleeps his soul, of all the petty children of earth most petty it seems is he." Pisaryev, the critic, was exasperated111 by these verses. Presumably, if they had not belonged to Poushkin, all the critics along with Pisaryev would have condemned112 them and their author to oblivion. Suspicious verse! Before Apollo calls to him—the poet is the most insignificant114 of mortals! In his free hours, the ordinary man finds some more or less distinguished115 distraction116 fox himself: he hunts, attends exhibitions of pictures, or the theatre, and finally rests in the bosom117 of his family. But the poet is incapable118 of normal existence. Immediately he has finished with Apollo, forgetting all about altars and sacrifices, he proceeds to occupy himself with unworthy objects. Or he abandons himself to the dolce far niente, the customary pastime of all favourites of the Muses121. Let us here remark that not only all poets, but all writers and artists in general are inclined to lead bad lives. Think what Tolstoy tells us, in Confession122 and elsewhere, of the best representatives of literature in the fifties. On the whole it is just as Poushkin says in his verses. Whilst he is engaged in composition, an author is a creature of some consequence: apart from this, he is nothing. Why are Apollo and the Muses so remiss123? Why do they draw to themselves wayward or vicious votaries124, instead of rewarding virtue13? We dare not suspect the gods, even the dethroned, of bad intentions. Apollo loved virtuous persons—and yet virtuous persons are evidently mediocre125 and unfit for the sacred offices. If any man is overcome with a great desire to serve the god of song, let him get rid of his virtues at once. Curious that this truth is so completely unknown to men. They think that through virtue they can truly deserve the favour and choice of Apollo. And since industry is the first virtue, they peg126 away, morning, noon, and night. Of course, the more they work the less they do. Which really puzzles and annoys them. They even fling aside the sacred arts, and all the labours of a devotee; they give themselves up to idleness and other bad habits. And sometimes it so happens, that just as a man decides that it is all no good, the Muses suddenly visit him. So it was with Dostoevsky and others; Schiller alone managed to get round Apollo. But perhaps it was only his biographers he got round. Germans are so trustful, so easy to deceive. The biographers saw nothing unusual in Schiller's habit of keeping his feet in cold water whilst he worked. No doubt they felt that if the divine poet had lived in the Sahara, where water is precious as gold, and the inspired cannot take a footbath every day, then the speeches of the Marquis of Pola would have lacked half their nobleness, at least. And apparently Schiller was not so wonderfully chaste127, if he needed such artificial resources in the composition of his fine speeches. In a word, we must believe Poushkin. A poet is, on the one hand, among the elect; on the other hand, he is one of the most insignificant of mortals. Hence we can draw a very consoling conclusion: the most insignificant of men are not altogether so worthless as we imagine. They may not be fit to occupy government positions or professorial chairs, but they are often extremely at home on Parnassus and such high places. Apollo rewards vice26, and virtue, as everybody knows, is so satisfied with herself she needs no reward. Then why do the pessimists128 lament129? Leibnitz was quite right: we live in the best possible of worlds. I would even suggest that we leave out the modification130 "possible."
7
It is Das Ewig Weibliche, with Russian writers. Poushkin and Lermontov loved women and were not afraid of them; Poushkin, who trusted his own nature, was often in love, and always sang his love of the moment. When infatuated with a bacchante, he glorified131 bacchantes. When he married, he warbled of a modest, nun-like beauty, his wife. A synthesising mind would probably not know what to do with all Poushkin's sorts of love. Nor is Lermontov any better. He abused women, but, as Byelinsky observed after meeting him, he loved women more than anything in the world. And again, not women of one mould only: any and all attractive females: the wild Bella, the lovely Mary, Thamar; one and all, no matter of what race or condition. Every time Lermontov is in love, he assures us his love is so deep and ardent132 and even moral, that we cannot judge him without conpunction. Vladimir Soloviov alone was not afraid to condemn113 him. He brought Poushkin as well as Lermontov to account for their moral irregularities, and he even went so far as to say that it was not he himself who judged them, but Fate, in whose service he acted as public denouncer. Lermontov and Poushkin, both dying young, had deserved death for their frivolities. But there was nobody else besides Vladimir Soloviov to darken the memories of the two poets. It is true Tolstoy cannot forgive Poushkin's dissolute life, but he does not apply to Fate for a verdict. According to Tolstoy morality can cope even with a Titan like Poushkin. In Tolstoy's view morality grows stronger the harder the job it has to tackle. It pardons the weak offenders133 without waste of words, but it never forgives pride and self-confidence. If Tolstoy's edicts had been executed, all memorials to Poushkin would have disappeared; chiefly because of the poet's addiction135 to the eternal female. In such a case Tolstoy is implacable. He admits the the kind of love whose object is the establishing of a family, but no more. Don Juan is a hateful transgressor136. Think of Levin, and his attitude to prostitutes. He is exasperated, indignant, even forgets the need for compassion, and calls them "beasts." In the eternal female Tolstoy sees temptation, seduction, sin, great danger. Therefore it is necessary to keep quite away from the danger. But surely danger is the dragon which guards every treasure on earth. And again, no matter what his precautions, a man will meet his fate sooner or later, and come into conflict with the dragon. Surely this is an axiom. Poushkin and Lermontov loved danger, and therefore sought women. They paid a heavy price, but while they lived they lived freely and lightly. If they had cared to peep in the book of destinies, they might have averted137 or avoided their sad end. But they preferred to trust their star—lucky or unlucky. Tolstoy was the first among us—we cannot speak of Gogol—who began to fear life. He was the first to start open moralising. In so far as public opinion and personal dignity demand it, he did go to meet his dangers: but not a step further. So he avoided women, art, and philosophy. Love per se, that is, love which does not lead to a family, like wisdom per se, which is wisdom that has no utilitarian139 motive, and like art for art's sake, seemed to him the worst of temptations, leading to the destruction of the soul. When he plunged too deep in thinking, he was seized with panic. "It seemed to me I was going mad, so I went away to the Bashkirs for koumiss." Such confessions140 are common in his works. And surely there is no other way with temptations, than to cut short, at once, before it is too late. Tolstoy preserved himself on account of his inborn141 instinct for departing betimes from a dangerous situation. Save for this cautious prompting he would probably have ended like Lermontov or Poushkin. True, he might have gone deeper into nature, and revealed us rare secrets, instead of preaching at us abstinence, humility142, simplicity143 and so on. But such luck fell to the fate of Dostoevsky. Dostoevsky had very muddled144 relations with morality. He was too racked by disease and circumstance to get much profit out of the rules of morality. The hygiene145 of the soul, like that of the body, is beneficial only to healthy men. To the sick it is simply harmful. The more Dostoevsky engaged himself with high morality, the more inextricably entangled146 he became. He wanted to respect the personality in a woman, and only the personality, and so he came to the point where he could not look on any woman, however ugly, with indifference147. The elder Karamazov and his affair with Elizabeth Smerdyascha (Stinking148 Lizzie)—in what other imagination could such a union have been contemplated149? Dostoevsky, of course, reprimands Karamazov, and thanks to the standards of modern criticism, such a reprimand is accounted sufficient to exonerate150 our author. But there are other standards. If a writer sets out to tell you that no drab could be so loathsome151 that her ugliness would make you forget she was woman; and if for illustration of this novel idea we are told the history of Fiodov Karamazov with the deformed152, repulsive153 idiot, Stinking Lizzie; then, in face of such "imaginative art" it is surely out of place to preserve the usual confidence in that writer. We do not speak of the interest and appreciation154 of Dostoevsky's tastes and ideas. Not for one moment will I assert that those who with Poushkin and Lermontov can see the Eternal Female only in young and charming women, have any advantage over Dostoevsky. Of course, we are not forbidden to live according to our tastes, and we may, like Tolstoy, call certain women "beasts." But who has given us the right to assert that we are higher or better than Dostoevsky? Judging "objectively," all the points go to show that Dostoevsky is better—at any rate he saw further, deeper. He could find an original interest, he could discover das ewig Weibliche where we should see nothing of attraction at all, where Goethe would avert138 his face. Stinking Lizzie is not a beast, as Levin would say, but a woman who is able, if even for a moment, to arouse a feeling of love in a man. And we thought she was worse than nothing, since she roused in us only disgust. Dostoevsky made a discovery, we with our refined feelings missed it. His distorted, abnormal sense showed a greater sensitiveness, in which our high morality was deficient155.... And the road to the great truth this time, as ever, is through deformity. Idealists will not agree. They are quite justly afraid that one may not reach the truth, but may get stuck in the mud. Idealists are careful men, and not nearly so stupid as their ideals would lead us to suppose.
8
New ideas, even our own, do not quickly conquer our sympathies. We must first get accustomed to them.
9
A point of view.—Every writer, thinker—even every educated person thinks it necessary to have a permanent point of view. He climbs up some elevation156 and never climbs down again all his days. Whatever he sees from this point of view, he believes to be reality, truth, justice, good—and what he does not see he excludes from existence. Man is not much to blame for this. Surely there is no very great joy in moving from point of view to point of view, shifting one's camp from peak to peak. We have no wings, and "a winged thought" is only a nice metaphor106—unless, of course, it refers to logical thinking. There to be sure great volatility157 is usual, a lightness which comes from perfect na?veté, if not ignorance. He who really wishes to know something, and not merely to have a philosophy, does not rely on logic and is not allured158 by reason. He must clamber from summit to summit, and, if necessary, hibernate159 in the dales. For a wide horizon leads to illusions, and in order to familiarise oneself with any object, it is essential to go close up to it, touch it, feel it, examine it from top to bottom and on every side. One must be ready, should this be impossible otherwise, to sacrifice the customary position of the body: to wriggle161, to lie flat, to stand on one's head, in a word, to assume the most unnatural162 of attitudes. Can there be any question of a permanent point of view? The more mobility163 and elasticity164 a man has, the less he values the ordinary equilibrium165 of his body; the oftener he changes his outlook, the more he will take in. If, on the other hand, he imagines that from this or the other pinnacle166 he has the most comfortable survey of the world and life, leave him alone; he will never know anything. Nay, he does not want to know, he cares more about his personal convenience than about the quality of his work. No doubt he will attain167 to fame and success, and thus brilliantly justify168 his "point of view."
10
Fame.—"A thread from everyone, and the naked will have a shirt." There is no beggar but has his thread of cotton, and he will not grudge169 it to a naked man—no, nor even to a fully23 dressed one; but will bestow170 it on the first comer. The poor, who want to forget their poverty, are very ready with their threads. Moreover, they prefer to give them to the rich, rather than to a fellow-tramp. To load the rich with benefits, must not one be very rich indeed? That is why fame is so easily got. An ambitious person asks admiration171 and respect from the crowd, and is rarely denied. The mob feel that their throats are their own, and their arms are strong. Why not vociferate and clap, seeing that you can turn the head not only of a beggar like yourself, but of a future hero, God knows how almighty172 a person. The humiliated173 citizen who has hitherto been hauled off to the police station if he shouted, suddenly feels that his throat has acquired a new value. Never before has anyone given a rap for his worthless opinion, and now seven cities are ready to quarrel for it, as for the right to claim Homer. The citizen is delighted, he shouts at the top of his voice, and is ready to throw all his possessions after his shouts. So the hero is satisfied. The greater the shout, the deeper his belief in himself and his mission. What will a hero not believe! For he forgets so soon the elements of which his fame and riches are made. Heroes usually are convinced that they set out on their noble career, not to beg shouts from beggars, but to heap blessings174 on mankind. If they could only call to mind with what beating hearts they awaited their first applause, their first alms, how timidly they curried175 favour with ragged176 beggars, perhaps they would speak less assuredly of their own merits. But our memory is fully acquainted with Herbert Spencer and his law of adaptability177, and thus many a worthy120 man goes gaily178 on in full belief in his own stupendous virtue.
11
In defence of righteousness.—Inexperienced and ingenuous179 people see in righteousness merely a burden which lofty people have assumed out of respect for law or for some other high and inexplicable180 reason. But a righteous man has not only duties but rights. True, sometimes, when the law is against him, he has to compromise. Yet how rarely does the law desert him! No cruelty matters in him, so long as he does not infringe181 the statutes182. Nay, he will ascribe his cruelty as a merit to himself, since he acts out of no personal considerations, but in the name of sacred justice. No matter what he may do, once he is sanctioned he sees in his actions only merit, merit, merit. Modesty183 forbids him to say too much—but if he were to let go, what a luxurious184 panegyric185 he might deliver to himself! Remembering his works, he praises himself at all times; not aloud, but inwardly. The nature of virtue demands it: man must rejoice in his morality and ever keep it in mind. And after that, people declare that it is hard to be righteous. Whatever the other virtues may be, certainly righteousness has its selfish side. As a rule it is decidedly worth while to make considerable sacrifices in order later on to enjoy in calm confidence all that surety and those rights bestowed186 on a man by morality and public approval. Look at a German who has paid his contribution to a society for the assistance of the indigent187. Not one stray farthing will he give, not to a poor wretch188 who is starving before his eyes. And in this he feels right. This is righteousness out and out: pay your tax and enjoy the privileges of a high-principled man. So righteousness is much in vogue189 with cultured, commercial nations. Russians have not quite got there. They are afraid of the exactions of righteousness, not guessing the enormous advantages derived190. A Russian has a permanent relationship with his conscience, which costs him far more than the most moral German, or even Englishman, has to pay for his righteousness.
12
The best way of getting rid of tedious, played-out truths is to stop paying them the tribute of respect and to treat them with a touch of easy familiarity and derision. To put into brackets, as Dostoevsky did, such words as good, self-sacrifice, progress, and so on, will alone achieve you much more than many brilliant arguments would do. Whilst you still contest a certain truth, you still believe in it, and this even the least penetrating191 individual will perceive. But if you favour it with no serious attention, and only throw out a scornful remark now and then, the result is different. It is evident you have ceased to be afraid of the old truth, you no longer respect it. And this sets people thinking.
13
Four walls.—Arm-chair philosophy is being condemned—rightly. An arm-chair thinker is busy deciding on everything that is taking place in the world: the state of the world market, the existence of a world-soul, wireless192 telegraphy and the life after death, the cave dweller193 and the perfectibility of man, and so on and so on. His chief business is so to select his statements that there shall be no internal contradiction; and this will give an appearance of truth. Such work, which is quite amusing and even interesting, leads at last to very poor results. Surely verisimilitudes of truth are not truth: nor have necessarily anything in common with truth. Again, a man who undertakes to talk of everything probably knows nothing. Thus a swan can fly, and walk, and swim. But it flies indifferently, walks badly, and swims poorly. An arm-chair philosopher, enclosed by four walls, sees nothing but those four walls, and yet of these precisely194 he does not choose to speak. If by accident he suddenly realised them and spoke195 of them his philosophy might acquire an enormous value. This may happen when a study is converted into a prison: the same four walls, but impossible not to think of them! Whatever the prisoner turns his mind to—Homer, the Greek-Persian wars, the future world-peace, the bygone geological cataclysms—still the four walls enclose it all. The calm of the study supplanted196 by the pathos197 of imprisonment198. The prisoner has no more contact with the world, and no less. But now he no longer slumbers199 and has grayish dreams called world-conceptions. He is wide awake and strenuously200 living. His philosophy is worth hearing. But man is not distinguished for his powers of discrimination. He sees solitude201 and four walls, and says: a study. He dreams of the market-place, where there is noise and jostling, physical bustle202, and decides that there alone life is to be met. He is wrong as usual. In the market-place, among the crowd, do not men sleep their deadest sleep? And is not the keenest spiritual activity taking place in seclusion203?
14
The Spartans204 made their helots drunk as an example and warning to their noble youths. A good method, no doubt, but what are we of the twentieth century to do? Whom shall we make drunk? We have no slaves, so we have instituted a higher literature. Novels and stories describe drunken, dissolute men, and paint them in such horrid205 colours that every reader feels all his desire for vice depart from him. Unfortunately only our Russians are either too conscientious206 or not sufficiently207 rectilinear in their minds. Instead of showing the drunken helot as an object of repugnance208, as the Spartans did, they try to describe vice truthfully. Realism has taken hold. Indeed, why make a fuss? What does it matter if the writer's description is a little more or less ugly than the event? Was justice invented that everything, even evil, should be kept intact? Surely evil must be simply rooted out, banned, placed outside the pale. The Spartans did not stand on ceremony with living men, and yet our novelists are afraid of being unjust to imaginary drunken helots. And, so to speak, out of humane209 feeling too.... How naive210 one must be to accept such a justification211! Yet everybody accepts it. Tolstoy alone, towards the end, guessed that humanitarianism212 is only a pretext213 in this case, and that we Russians have described vice not only for the purpose of scaring our readers. In modern masters the word vice arouses not disgust, but insatiable curiosity. Perhaps the wicked thing has been persecuted214 in vain, like so many other good things. Perhaps it should have been studied, perhaps it held mysteries.... On the strength of this "perhaps" morality was gradually abandoned, and Tolstoy remained almost alone in his indignation. Realism reigns215, and a drunken helot arouses envy in timid readers who do not know where to put their trust, whether in the traditional rules or in the appeal of the master. A drunken helot an ideal! What have we come to? Were it not better to have stuck to Lycurgus? Have we not paid too dearly for our progress?
Many people think we have paid too dearly—not to mention Tolstoy, who is now no longer taken quite seriously, though still accounted a great man. Any mediocre journalist enjoys greater influence than this master-writer of the Russian land. It is inevitable. Tolstoy insists on thinking about things which are nobody's concern. He has long since abandoned this world—and does he continue to exist in any other? Difficult question! "Tolstoy writes books and letters, therefore he exists." This inference, once so convincing, now has hardly any effect on us: particularly if we take into account what it is that Tolstoy writes. In several of his last letters he expresses opinions which surely have no meaning for an ordinary man. They can be summed up in a few words. Tolstoy professes216 an extreme egoism, sollipsism, solus-ipse-ism. That is, in his old age, after infinite attempts to love his neighbour, he comes to the conclusion that not only is it impossible to love one's neighbour, but that there is no neighbour, that in all the world Tolstoy alone exists, that there is even no world, but only Tolstoy: a view so obviously absurd, that it is not worth refuting. By the way, there is also no possibility of refuting it, unless you admit that logical inferences are non-binding. Sollipsism dogged Tolstoy already in early youth, but at that time he did not know what to do with the impertinent, oppressive idea, so he ignored it. Finally, he came to it. The older a man becomes, the more he learns how to make use of impertinent ideas. Fairly recently Tolstoy could pronounce such a dictum: "Christ taught men not to do stupid things." Who but Tolstoy could have ventured on such an interpretation of the gospels? Why have we all held—all of us but Tolstoy—that these words contained the greatest blasphemy217 on Christ and His teaching? But it was Tolstoy's last desperate attempt to save himself from sollipsism, without at the same time flying in the face of logic: even Christ appeared among men only to teach them common sense. Whence follows that "mad" thoughts may be rejected with an easy conscience, and the advantage, as usual, remains218 with the wholesome219, reasonable, sensible thoughts. There is room for good and for reason. Good is self-understood; it need not be explained. If only good existed in the world, there would exist no questions, neither simple nor ultimate. This is why youth never questions. What indeed should it question: the song of the nightingale, the morning of May, happy laughter, all the predicates of youth? Do these need interpretation? On the contrary, any explanation is reduced to these The proper questions arise only on contact with evil. A hawk220 struck a nightingale, flowers withered, Boreas froze laughing youth—and in terror our questions arose. "That is evil. The ancients were right. Not in vain is our earth called a vale of tears and sorrow." And once questions are started, it is impossible and unseemly to hurry the answers, still less anticipate the questions. The nightingale is dead and will sing no longer, the listener is frozen to death and can hear no more songs. The situation is so palpably absurd that only with the intention of getting rid of the question at any cost will one strive for a sensible answer. The answer must be absurd—if you don't want it, don't question. But if you must question, then be ready beforehand to reconcile yourself with something like sollipsism or modern realism. Thought is in a dilemma221, and dare not take the leap to get out. We laugh at philosophy, and, as long as possible, avoid evil. But nearly all men feel the intolerable cramp222 of such a situation, and each at his risk ventures to swim to shore on some more or less witty223 theory. A few courageous224 ones speak the truth—but they are neither understood nor respected. When a man's words show the depth of the pain through which he has passed, he is not, indeed, condemned, but the world begins to talk of his tragic state of soul, and to take on a mournful look fitting to the occasion. Others more scrupulous225 feel that phrases and mournful looks are unfitting, yet they cannot dwell at length on the tragedies of outsiders, so they take on an exaggeratedly stern bearing, as if to say, "We feel deeply, but we do not wish to show our feeling." They really feel nothing, only want to make others believe how sensitive and modest they are. At times this leads to curious results, even in writers of the first order of renown226. Thus Anatole France, the inventor of that most charming smile which is intended to convince men that he feels everything and understands everything, but does not cry out, because that would not be fitting, in one of his novels takes upon himself the noble r?le of advocate of the victims of a crime, against the criminal. "Our time," he says, "out of pity to the criminal forgets the sufferings of his victim." This, I repeat, is one of the most curious misrepresentations of modern endeavour. It is true we in Russia talk a good deal about compassion, particularly to criminals, and Anatole France is by no means the only man who thinks that our distinguishing characteristic is extreme sensitiveness and tender-heartedness. But as a matter of fact the modern man who thinks for himself is not drawn227 to the criminal by a sense of compassion, which would incontestably be better applied228 to the victim, but by curiosity, or if you like, inquisitiveness229. For thousands of years man has sought to solve the great mystery of life through a God-conception—with theodicy and metaphysical theories as a result, both of which deny the possibility of a mystery. Theodicy has long ago wearied us. The mechanistic theories, which contend that there is nothing special in life, that its appearance and disappearance230 depend on the same laws as those of the conservation of energy and the indestructibility of matter, these look more plausible231 at first sight, but people do not take to them. And no theory can survive men's reluctance232 to believe in it. In a word, good has not justified233 the expectations placed on it. Reason has done no better. So overwrought mankind has turned from its old idols234 and enthroned madness and evil. The smiling Anatole argues, and proves—proves excellently. But who does not know what his proofs amount to?—and who wants them? It may be our children will take fright at the task we have undertaken, will call us "squandering235 parents," and will set themselves again to heaping up treasures, spiritual and material. Again they will believe in ideals, progress, and such like. For my own part, I have hardly any doubt of it. Sollipsism and the cult27 of groundlessness are not lasting, and, most of all, they are not to be handed down. The final triumph, in life as in old comedies, rests with goodness and common sense. History has known many epochs like ours, and gone through with them. Degeneration follows on the heels of immoderate curiosity, and sweeps away all refined and exaggerately well-informed individuals. Men of genius have no posterity237—or their children are idiots. Not for nothing is nature so majestically238 serene239: she has hidden her secrets well enough. Which is not surprising, considering how unscrupulous she is. No despot, not the greatest villain240 on earth, has ever wielded241 power with the cruelty and heartlessness of nature. The least violation242 of her laws—and the severest punishment follows. Disease, deformity, madness, death -what has not our common mother contrived243 to keep us in subjection? True, certain optimists244 think that nature does not punish us, but educates us. So Tolstoy sees it. "Death and sufferings, like animated245 scarecrows, boo at man and drive him into the one way of life open to him: for life is subject to its own law of reason." Not a bad method of upbringing. Exactly like using wolves and bears. Unfortunate man, bolting from one booing monster, is not always able in time to dodge246 into the one correct way, and dashes straight into the maw of another beast of prey. Then what? And this often happens. Without disparagement247 of the optimists, we may say that sooner or later it happens to every man. After which no more running. You won't tear yourself out of the claws of madness or disease. Only one thing is left: in spite of traditions, theodicy, wiseacres, and most of all in spite of oneself, to go on praising mother nature and her great goodness. Let future generations reject us, let history stigmatise our names, as the names of traitors248 to the human cause—still we will compose hymns249 to deformity, destruction, madness, chaos, darkness. And after that—let the grass grow.
15
Astrology and alchemy lived their day and died a natural death. But they left a posterity—chemistry inventing dyes, and astronomy accumulating formulae. So it is. Geniuses beget250 idiots: especially when the mothers are very virtuous, as in this case, when their virtue is extraordinary. For the mothers are public utility and morality. The alchemists wasted their time seeking the philosopher's stone; the astrologers, swindled people telling fortunes by the stars. Wedded251 to utility these two fathers have begotten252 the chemists and astronomers253. ... Nobody will dispute the genealogy254. Perhaps even none will dispute that, from idiotic255 children one may, with a measure of probability, infer genius in the parents. There are certain indications that this is so—though of course one may not go beyond supposition. But supposition is enough. There are more arguments in store. For instance—our day is so convinced of the absolute nonsense and uselessness of alchemy and astrology that no one dreams of verifying the conviction. We know there were many charlatans256 and liars257 amongst alchemists and astrologers. But what does this prove? In every department there are the same mediocre creatures who speculate on human credulity. However positive our science of medicine is, there are many fraudulent doctors who rob their patients. The alchemists and astrologers were, in all probability, the most remarkable258 men of their time. I will go further: in spite of dye-stuffs and formulae, even in our nineteenth century, which was so famous for its inventions and discoveries, the most eminent259, talented men still sought the philosopher's stone and forecast the destinies of man. And those among them who were possessed260 of a poetic261 gift won universal attention. In the old days, consensu sapientium, a poet was allowed all kinds of liberties: he might speak of fate, miracles, spirits, the life beyond—indeed of anything, provided he was interesting. That was enough. The nineteenth century paid its tribute to restlessness. Never were there so many disturbing, throbbing262 writers as during the epoch236 of telephones and telegraphs. It was held indecent to speak in plain language of the vexed263 and troubled aspirations264 of the human spirit. Those guilty of the indecency were even dosed with bromides and treated with shower-baths and concentrated foods. But all this is external, it belongs to a history of "fashions" and cannot interest us here. The point is that alchemy and astrology did not die, they only shammed265 death and left the stage for a time. Now, apparently, they are tired of seclusion and are coming forward again, having pushed their unsuccessful children into the background. Well, so be it. A la bonne heure!...
16
Man comes to the pass where all experience seems exhausted266. Wherever he go, whatever he see, all is old and wearyingly familiar. Most people explain this by saying that they really know everything, and that from what they have experienced they can infer all experience. This phase of the exhaustion267 of life usually comes to a man between thirty-five and forty—the best period, according to Karamzin. Not seeing anything new, the individual assumes he is completely matured and has the right to judge of everything. Knowing what has been he can forecast what will be. But Karamzin was mistaken about the best period, and the "mature" people are mistaken about the "nothing new can happen." The fact of spiritual stagnation268 should not be made the ground for judging all life's possibilities from known possibilities. On the contrary, such stagnation should prove that however rich and multifarious the past may have been, it has not exhausted a tittle of the whole possibilities. From that which has been it is impossible to infer what will be. Moreover, it is unnecessary—except, perhaps, to give us a sense of our full maturity269 and let us enjoy all the charms of the best period of life, so eloquently270 described by Karamzin. The temptation is not overwhelming. So that, if man is under the necessity of enduring a period of arrest and stagnation, and until such time as life re-starts is doomed271 to meditation272, would it not be better to use this meditating interregnum for a directly opposite purpose from the one indicated: that is to say, for the purpose of finding in our past signs which tell us that the future has every right to be anything whatsoever273, like or utterly274 unlike the past. Such signs, given a good will to find them, may be seen in plenty. At times one comes to the conclusion that the natural connection of phenomena275, as hitherto observed, is not at all inevitable for the future, and that miracles which so far have seemed impossible, may come to seem possible, even natural, far more natural than that loathsome law of sequence, the law of the regularity276 of phenomena. We are bored stiff with regularity and sequence—confess it, you also, you men of science. At the mere thought that, however we may think, we can get no further than the acknowledgment of the old regularity, an invincible277 disgust to any kind of mental work overcomes us. To discover another law—still another—when already we have far more than we can do with! Surely if there is any will-to-think left in us, it is established in the supposition that the mind cannot and must not have any bounds, any limits; and that the theory of knowledge, which is based on the history of knowledge and on a few very doubtful assumptions, is only a piece of property belonging to a certain caste, and has nothing to do with us others—und die Natur zuletzt sich doch ergründe. What a mad impatience278 seizes us at times when we realise that we shall never fathom21 the great mystery! Every individual in the world must have felt at one time the mad desire to unriddle the universe. Even the stodgy280 philosophers who invented the theory of knowledge have at times made surreptitious sorties, hoping to open a path to the unknown, in spite of their own fat, senseless books that demonstrate the advantages of scientific knowledge. Man either lives in continuous experience, or he frees himself from conclusions imposed by limited experience. All the rest is the devil. From the devil come the blandishments with which Karamzin charmed himself and his readers.... Or is it the contrary? Who will answer! Once again, as usual, at the end of a pathetic speech one is left with a conjecture281. Let every man please himself. But what about those who would like to live according to Karamzin, but cannot? I cannot speak for them. Schiller recommended hope. Will it do? To be frank, hardly. He who has once lost his peace of mind will never find it again.
17
Ever since Kant succeeded in convincing the learned that the world of phenomena is quite other than the world of true reality, and that even our own existence is not our real existence, but only the visible manifestation282 of a mysterious, unknown substance (substantia)—philosophy has been stuck in a new rut, and cannot move a single millimetre out of the track laid out by the great K?nigsbergian. Backward or forward it can go, but necessarily in the Kantian rut. For how can you get out of the counterposing of the phenomenon against the thing-in-itself? This proposition, this counterposing seems inalterable, so there is nothing left but to stick your head in the heavy draught-collar of the theory of knowledge. Which most philosophers do, even with a glad smile, which inevitably283 rouses a suspicion that they have got what they wanted, and their "metaphysical need" was nothing more than a need for a harness. Otherwise they would have kicked at the sight of the collar. Surely the contraposition between the world of phenomena and the thing-in-itself is an invention of the reasoning mind, as is the theory of knowledge deduced from this contraposing. Therefore the freedom-loving spirit could reject it in the very beginning—and basta! With the devil one must be very cautious. We know quite well that if he only gets hold of the tip of your ear he will carry off your whole body. So it is with Reason. Grant it one single assumption, admit but one proposition—and finita la commedia. You are in the toils284. Metaphysics cannot exist side-by-side with reason. Everything metaphysical is absurd, everything reasonable is—positive. So we come upon a dilemma. The fundamental predicate of metaphysics is absurdity285: and yet surely many positive assertions can lay legitimate286 claim to that self-same, highly-respectable predicate. What then? Is there means of distinguishing a metaphysical absurdity from a perfectly ordinary one? May one have recourse to criteria287? Will not the very criterion prove a pitfall288 wherein cunning reason will catch the poor man who was rushing out to freedom? There can be no two answers to this question. All services rendered by reason must be paid for sooner or later at the exorbitant290 price of self-renunciation. Whether you accept the assistance in the noble form of the theory of knowledge, or merely as a humble291 criterion, at last you will be driven forth292 into the streets of positivism. This happens all the time to young, inexperienced minds. They break the bridle293 and dash forward into space, to find themselves rushing into the same old Rome, whither, as we know, all roads lead: or, to use more lofty language, rushing into the stable whither also all roads lead. The only way to guard against positivism—granting, of course, that positivism no longer attracts your sympathies—is to cease to fear any absurdities294, whether rational or metaphysical, and systematically295 to reject all the services of reason. Such behaviour has been known in philosophy; and I make bold to recommend it. Credo, quia absurdum comes from the Middle Ages. Modern instances are Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. Both present noble examples of indifference to logic and common-sense: particularly Schopenhauer, who, a Kantian, even in the name of Kant made such daring sallies against reason, driving her into confusion and shame. That astounding296 Kantian even went so far, in the master's name still, as to attempt the overthrow297 of the space and time notions. He admitted clairvoyance—and to this day the learned are bothered whether to class that admission among the metaphysical or the ordinary absurdities. Really, I can't advise them. A very clever man insists on an enormous absurdity, so I am satisfied. Schopenhauer's whole campaign against intellect is very comforting. It is evident that, though he set out from the Kantian stable, he soon got sick of hauling along down the cart-ruts, and having broken the shafts299, he trotted300 jauntily301 into a jungle of irreconcilable302 contradictions, without reflecting in the least where he was making for. The primate303 of will over reason; and music as the expression of our deepest essence; are not these assertions sufficient to show us how dexterously304 he wriggled305 out from the harness of synthetic306 judgments308 a priori which Kant had placed upon every thinker. There is indeed much more music than logic in the philosophy of Schopenhauer; Not for nothing is he excluded from the universities. But of course one may speak of him in the open; not of his ideas, naturally, but of his music. The European market is glutted309 with ideas. How neat and nicely-finished and logically well-turned-out those ideas are. Schopenhauer had no such goods. But what lively and splendid contradictions he boldly spreads on his stall, often even without suspicion that he ought to hide them from the police. Schopenhauer cries and laughs and gets furious or glad, without ever realising that this is forbidden to a philosopher. "Do not speak, but sing," said Zarathustra, and Schopenhauer ready fulfilled the command in great measure. Philosophy may be music—though it doesn't follow that music may be called philosophy. When a man has done his work, and gives himself up to looking and listening and pleasantly accepting everything, hiding nothing from himself, then he begins to "philosophise." What good are abstract formulae to him? Why should he ask himself, before he begins to think: "What can I think about, what are the limits of thought?" He will think, and those who like can do the summing up and the building of theories of knowledge. What is the earthly use of talking about beauty? Beautiful things must be created. Not one single aesthetic theory has so far been able to guess what direction the artists' mind will next take, or what are the limits to his creative activity. The same with the theory of knowledge. It may arrest the work of a man of learning, if he be himself afraid that he is going too far, but it is powerless to pre-determine human thought. Even Kant's counterposing of things-in-themselves to the world of phenomena cannot finally clip the wings of human curiosity. There will come a time when this unshakeable foundation of positivism will be shaken. All gnosiological disputes as to what thought can or cannot achieve will seem to our posterity just as amusing as the disputes of the schoolmen seem to us. "Why did they argue about the nature of truth, when they might have gone out and looked for truth itself?" the future historians will ask. Let us have an answer ready for them. Our contemporaries do not want to go out and seek, so they make a great deal of talk about a theory of knowledge.
18
"Trust not thyself, young dreamer."—However sincerely you may long for truth, whatever sufferings and horrors you may have surpassed, do not believe your own self, young dreamer. What you are looking for, you won't find. At the utmost, if you have a gift for writing you will bring out a nice original book. Even—do not be offended—you may be satisfied with such a result. In Nietzsche's letters relating to the year 1888, the year when Brandes discovered him, you will find a sad confirmation310 of the above. Had not Nietzsche struggled, sought, suffered?—and behold311, towards the end of his life, when it would have seemed that all mundane312 rewards had become trivial to him, he threw himself with rapture on the tidings of first fame, and rushed to share his joy with all his friends, far and near. He does not tire of telling in dozens of letters and in varying forms the story of how Brandes first began his lectures on him, Nietzsche, how the audience consisted of three hundred people, and he even quotes Brandes' placard announcement in the original Danish. Fame just threw him a smile, and forgotten are all the horrible experiences of former days. The loneliness, the desertedness, the cave in the mountain, the man into whose mouth the serpent climbed—all forgotten, every thought turned to the ordinary, easily-comprehensible good. Such is man.
Mit gier'ger Hand nach Sch?tzen gr?bt
Und froh ist wenn er Regenwürmer findet.
19
When a man is young he writes because it seems to him he has discovered a new almighty truth which he must make haste to impart to forlorn mankind. Later, becoming more modest, he begins to doubt his truths: and then he writes to convince himself. A few more years go by, and he knows he was mistaken all round, so there is no need to convince himself. Nevertheless he continues to write, because he is not fit for any other work, and to be accounted a "superfluous313" man is so horrible.
20
A very original man is often a banal314 writer, and vice versa. We tend so often to write not about what is going on in us, but of our pia desideria. Thus restless, sleepless315 men sing the glory of sleep and rest, which have long been sung to death. And those who sleep ten hours on end and are always up to the mark must perforce dream about adventures and storms and dangers, and even extol317 everything problematical.
21
When one reads the books of long-dead men, a strange sensation comes over one. These men who lived two hundred, three hundred, three thousand years ago are so far off now from this writing which they have left on earth. Yet we look for eternal truths in their works.
22
The truth which I have the right to announce so solemnly to-day, even to the first among men, will probably be a stale old lie on my lips to-morrow. So I will deprive myself of the right of calling such a truth my own. Probably I shall deprive no one but myself: others will go on loving and praising the self-same truth, living with it.
23
A writer who cannot lie with inspiration—and that is a great art, which few may accomplish—loves to make an exhibition of honesty and frankness. Nothing else is left him to do.
24
The source of originality318.—A man who has lost all hope of rooting out of himself a certain radical319 defect of character, or even of hiding the flaw from others, turns round and tries to find in his defect a pertain320 merit. If he succeeds in convincing his acquaintances, he achieves a double gain: first, he quiets his conscience, and then he acquires a reputation for being original.
25
Men begin to strive towards great ends when they feel they cannot cope with the little tasks of life. They often have their measure of success.
26
A belch321 interrupts the loftiest meditation. You may draw a conclusion if you like: if you don't like, you needn't.
27
A woman of conviction.—We forgive a man his "convictions," however unwillingly322. It goes without saying that we balk323 at any individual who believes in his own infallibility, but one must reconcile oneself with necessity. It is ugly and preposterous324 to have corns on one's hands, but still, they can't be avoided in this unparadisal earth of sweat and labour. But why see an ideal in callosities? In practical life, particularly in the social political life to which we are doomed, convictions are a necessity. Unity325 is strength, and unity is possible only among people who think alike. Again, a deep conviction is in itself a strong force, far more powerful than the most logical argumentation. Sometimes one has only to pronounce in a full, round, vibrating chest voice, such as is peculiar326 to people of conviction, some trifling327 sentence, and an audience hitherto unconvinced is carried away. Truth is often dumb, particularly a new truth, which is most shy of people, and which has a feeble, hoarse328 voice. But in certain situations that which will influence the crowd is more important than that which is genuine truth. Convictions are necessary to a public man; but he who is too clever to believe in himself entirely329, and is not enough of an actor to look as if he believed, he had best give up public work altogether. At the same time he will realise that lack of convictions is not profitable, and will look with more indulgence on such as are bound to keep themselves well supplied. Yet all the more will he dislike those men who without any necessity disfigure themselves with the coarse tattoo330 marks. And particularly he will object to such women. What can be more intolerable than a woman of conviction. She lives in a family, without having to grind for her daily bread—why disfigure herself? Why wilfully331 rub her hands into corns, when she might keep them clean and pretty! Women, moreover, usually pick up their convictions ready-made from the man who interests them most at the moment. And never do they do this so vigorously as when the man himself seems incapable of paving the way to his ideas! They are full of feeling for him; they rush to the last extremities332 of resource. Will not their feeble little fists help him? It may be touching333, but in the end it is intolerable. So it is much pleasanter to meet a woman who believes in her husband and does not consider it necessary to help him. She can then dispense with convictions.
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Emancipation334 of women.—The one and only way of mastering an enemy is to learn the use of his weapons. Starting from this, modern woman, weary of being the slave of man, tries to learn all his tricks. Hard is slavery, wonderful is freedom! Slavery at last is so unendurable that a human being will sacrifice, everything for freedom. Of what use are his virtues to a prisoner languishing335 in prison? He has one aim, one object—to get out of prison, and he values only such qualities in himself as will assist his escape. If it is necessary to break an iron grating by physical force, then strong muscles will seem to the prisoner the most desirable of all things. If cunning will help him, cunning is the finest thing on earth. Something the same happens with woman. She became convinced that man owed his priority chiefly to education and a trained mind, so she threw herself on books and universities. Learning that promises freedom is light, everything else darkness. Of course, it is a delusion, but you could never convince her of it, for that would mean the collapse337 of her best hopes of freedom. So that in the end woman will be as well-informed as man, she will furnish herself with broad views and unshakeable convictions, with a philosophy also—and in the end she may even learn to think logically. Then, probably, the many misunderstandings between the sexes will cease. But heavens, how tedious it will be! Men will argue, women will argue, children will probably be born fully instructed, understanding everything. With what pain will the men of the future view our women, capricious, frivolous338, uninformed creatures, understanding nothing and desiring to understand nothing. A whole half of the human race neither would nor could have any understanding! But the hope lies there. Maybe we can do without understanding. Perhaps a logical mind is not an attribute, but a curse. In the struggle for existence, however, and the survival of the fittest, not a few of the best human qualities have perished. Obviously woman's illogicality is also destined339 to disappear. It is a thousand pities.
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All kinds of literature are good, except the tedious, said Voltaire. We may enlarge the idea. All men and all activities are good, except the tedious. Whatever your failings and your vices289, if you are only amusing or interesting all is forgiven you. Accordingly, frankness and naturalness are quite rightly considered doubtful virtues. If people say that frankness and naturalness are virtues, always take it cum grano salis. Sometimes it is permissible340 and even opportune341 to fire off truth of all sorts. Sometimes one may stretch oneself like a log across the road. But God forbid that such sincere practices should be raised into a principle. To out with the truth at all times, always to reveal oneself entirely, besides being impossible to accomplish, never having been accomplished342 even in the confessions of the greatest men, is moreover a far more risky business than it seems. I can confidently assert that if any man tried to tell the whole truth about himself, not metaphorically, for every metaphor is a covering ornament343, but in plain bare words, that man would ruin himself for ever, for he would lose all interest in the eyes of his neighbours, and even in his own eyes. Each of us bears in his soul a heavy wound, and knows it, yet carries himself, must carry himself as if he were aware of nothing, while all around keep up the pretence344. Remember Lermontov:
Look! around you, playfully
The crowd moves on the usual road.
Scarce a mark of trouble on the festive345 faces,
Not one indecent tear!
And yet is barely one amongst them
But is crushed by heavy torture,
Or has gathered the wrinkles of young age
Save from crime or loss.
These words are horribly true—and the really horrible should be concealed, it frightens one off. I admit, Byron and Lermontov could make it alluring346. But all that is alluring depends on vagueness, remoteness. Any monster may be beautiful in the distance. And no man can be interesting unless he keep a certain distance between himself and people. Women do not understand this. If they like a man, they try to come utterly near to him, and are surprised that he does not meet their frankness with frankness, and admit them to his holy of holies. But in the innermost sanctuary347 the only beauty is inaccessibility348. As a rule it is not a sanctuary but a lair298 where the wounded beast in man has run to lick his wounds. And shall this be done in public? People generally, and women particularly, ought to be given something positive. In books one may still sing the praise of wounds, hopelessness, and despair—whatever you like, for books are still literature, a conventionality. But to strip one's anguish336 in the open market, to confess an incurable349 disease to others, this is to kill one's soul, not to relieve it. All, even the best men, have some aversion for you. Perhaps in the interest of order and decorum they will grant you a not-too-important place in their philosophy of life. For in a philosophy of life, as in a cemetery350, a place is prepared for each and all, and everyone is welcome. There also are enclosures where rubbish is dumped to rot. But for those who have as yet no desire to be fitted into a world-philosophy, I would advise them to keep their tongue between their teeth, or like Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, take to literature. To a writer, in books and only in books, all is permitted provided he has talent. But in actual living even a writer must not let loose too much, lest people should guess that in his books he is telling the truth.
30
Poushkin asserts that the poet himself can and must be the judge of his own work. "Are you content, exacting351 artist? Content, then let the mob revile352." It is needless to argue against this, for how could you prove that the supreme353 verdict belongs not to the poet himself, but to public opinion? Nor, for that matter, can we prove Poushkin right. We must agree or disagree, as we like. But we cannot reject the evidence. Whether you like it or not, Poushkin was evidently satisfied with his own work, and did not need his reader's sanction. Happy man! And it seems to me he owed his happiness exclusively to his inability to pass beyond certain limits. I doubt-if all poets would agree to repeat Poushkin's verse quoted above. I decidedly refuse to believe that Shakespeare, for instance, after finishing Hamlet or King Lear could have said to himself: "I, who judge my work more strictly354 than any other can judge, am satisfied." I do not think he can even have thought for a moment of the merits of his works, Hamlet or King Lear. To Shakespeare, after Hamlet, the word "satisfied" must have lost all its meaning, and if he used it, it was only by force of habit, as we sometimes call to a dead person. His own works must have seemed to him imperfect, mean, pitiful, like the sob355 of a child or the moaning of a sick man. He gave them to the theatre, and most probably was surprised that they had any success. Perhaps he was glad that his tears were of some use, if only for amusing and instructing people. And probably in this sense the verdict of the crowd was dearer to him than his own verdict. He could not help accusing his own offspring—thank heaven, other people acquitted356 it. True, they acquitted it because they did not understand, or understood imperfectly, but this did not matter. "Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape a whipping?" asked Hamlet. Shakespeare knew that a strict tribunal would reject his works: for they contain so many terrible questions, and not one perfect answer. Could anyone be "satisfied" at that rate? Perhaps with Comedy of Errors, Twelfth Night, or even Richard III.—but after Hamlet a man may find rest only in his grave. To speak the whole truth, I doubt if Poushkin himself maintained the view we have quoted till the end of his days, or even if he spoke all he felt when he wrote the poem in 1830. Possibly he felt how little a poet can be satisfied with his work, but pride prevented his admitting it, and he tried to console himself with his superiority over the crowd. Which is undeniably a right thing to do. Insults—and Poushkin had to endure many—are answered with contempt; and woe357 to the poor wretch who feels impelled358 to justify his contempt by his own merits, according to the stern voice of conscience. Such niceness is dangerous and unnecessary. If a man would preserve his strength and his confidence he must give up magnanimity, he must learn to despise people, and even if he cannot despise them he must have the air of one who would not give a pin's head for anybody. He must appear always content. ... Poushkin was a clever man and a deep nature.
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Metaphysics against their will.—It often occurs to us that evil is not altogether so, unnecessary, after all. Diseases, humiliations, miseries359, deformity, failure, and all the rest of those plants which flourish with such truly tropical luxuriance on our planet, are probably essential to man. Poets sing plentifully360 of sorrow.
"Nous sommes les apprentis, la douleur est notre ma?tre," said de Musset. On this subject everybody can bring forth a quotation361, not only from the philosophers, who are a cold, heartless tribe, but from tender, gentle, or sentimental362 poets. Doubtless one knows many instances where suffering has profited a man. True also, one knows many cases of the direct opposite. And these are all cases of profound, earnest, outrageous363, incredibly outrageous suffering. Look at Tchekhov's men and women—plainly drawn from life, or at any rate, exceedingly life-' like. Uncle Vanya, an old man of fifty, cries beside himself all over the stage, "My life is done for, my life is done for," and senselessly shoots at a harmless professor. The hero in A Tedious Story was a quiet, happy man engaged in work of real importance, when suddenly a horrible disease stole upon him, not killing364 him, but taking him between its loathsome jaws365. But what for? Then Tchekhov's girls and women! They are mostly young, innocent, fascinating. And always there lies in wait for them round every corner a meaningless, rude, ugly misery which murders even the most modest hopes. They sob bitterly, but fate takes no notice. How explain such horrors? Tchekhov is silent. He does not weep himself—he left off long ago, and besides it is a humiliating thing for a grown-up person to do. Setting one's teeth, it is necessary either to keep silent or—to explain. Well, metaphysics under takes the explanation. Where common sense stops, metaphysics must take another stride. "We have seen," it says, "many instances where at first glance suffering seemed absurd and needless, but where later on a profound significance was revealed. Thus it may be that what we cannot explain may find its explanation in time. 'Life is lost,' cries Uncle Vanya, 'Life is done for,' repeat the voices of girls innocently perishing—yet nothing is lost. The very horror which a drowning man experiences goes to show that the drowning is nothing final. It is only the beginning of greater events. The less a man has fulfilled in experience, the more in him remains of unsatisfied passion and desire, the greater are the grounds for thinking that his essence cannot be destroyed, but must manifest itself somehow or other in the universe. Voluntary asceticism366 and self-denial, such common human phenomena, help to solve the riddle279. Nobody compels a man, he imposes suffering and abstinence on himself. It is an incomprehensible instinct, but still an instinct which, rooted in the depths of our nature, prompts us to a decision repugnant to reason: renounce367 life, save yourself. The majority of men do not hear or do not heed368 the prompting. And then nature, which cannot rely on our sensibility, has recourse to violence. She shows glimpses of Paradise to us in our youth, awakens370 hopes and impossible desires, and at the moment of our supreme expectation she shows us the hollowness of our hope. Nearly every life can be summed up in a few words: man was shown heaven—and thrown into the mud. We are all ascetics—voluntary or involuntary. Here on earth dreams and hopes are only awakened371, not fulfilled. And he who has endured most suffering, most privation, will awaken369 in the afterwards most keenly alive." Such long speeches metaphysics whispers to us. And we repeat them, often leaving out the "it may be." Sometimes we believe them, and forge our philosophies from them. Even we go so far as to assert that had we the power we would change nothing, absolutely nothing in the world. And yet, if by some miracle such power came into our hands, how triumphantly372 we would send to the devil all philosophies and lofty world-conceptions, all ideals and metaphysics, and plainly and simply, without reflection, abolish sufferings, deformities, failures, all those things to which we attach such a high educational value, abolish them from the face of the earth. We are fed up, oh, how fed up we are with carrying on our studies. But it can't be helped. Faute de mieux, let us keep on inventing systems, thinking them out. But let us agree not to be cross with those who don't want to have anything to do with our systems. Really, they have a perfect right.
32
Old age must be respected—so all say, even the old. And the young willingly meet the demand. But in such spontaneous, even often emphatic373 respect, is there not something insulting to old age. Every young man, by his voluntary deference374, seems to say: "And still the rising star shines brighter than the setting." And the old, accepting the respect, are well aware that they can count on nothing more. The young are attentive375 and respectful to the old only upon the express condition that the latter shall behave like old people, and stand aside from life. Let a real man try to follow Faust's example, and what a shindy there will be! The old, being as a rule helpless, are compelled to bow to public opinion and behave as if their only interests were the interests of righteousness, good name, and such-like Platonic376 attributes. Only a few go against the convention, and these are monsters and degenerates377. We do not wish old men to have desires, so that life is arranged as if old men desired nothing. This, of course, is no great matter: even the young are compelled to be satisfied with less than nothing, in our system. We are not out to meddle378 with human rights. Our point is that science and philosophy take enforced appearances for reality. Grey hair is supposed to be a sure sign of victory over the passions. Hence, seeing that we must all come to grey hairs, therefore the ultimate business of man is to overcome the passions.... On this granite379 foundation whole systems of philosophy are built. It is not worth while quarrelling with a custom—let us continue to pay respect to old age. But let us look in other directions for philosophic bases. It is time to open a free road to the passions even in the province of metaphysics.
33
Dostoevsky—advocatus diaboli.—Dostoevsky, like Nietzsche, disliked Protestantism, and tried every means of degrading it in the eyes of the world. As normally he was not over scrupulous, it is probable he never took the trouble to acquaint himself with Luther's teaching. His flair380 did not deceive him: the Protestant religion and morality was most unsuitable to him and his kind. But does this mean that it was to be calumniated381, and judged, as Dostoevsky judged it, merely by the etymological382 meaning of a word? Protestant—a protester, one who only protests and has no positive content. A child's text-book of history will show the absurdity of the definition. Protestantism is, on the whole, the most positive, assertive383 creed of all the Christian384 religions. It certainly protested against Catholicism, but against the destructive tendencies in the latter, and in the name of positive ideals. Catholicism relied too much on its power and its spell, and most of all on the infallibility of its dogmas to which it offered millions of victims. To maim385 and mutilate a man ad majorem gloriam Dei was considered a perfectly proper thing in the Middle Ages, the period of bloom for Catholicism. At the risk of appearing paradoxical, I venture to assert that ideas have been invented only for the purpose of giving the right to mutilate people. The Middle Ages nourished a mysterious, incomprehensible hatred for everything normal, self-satisfied, complete. A young, healthy, handsome man, at peace with himself, aroused suspicion and hostility386 in a believing Catholic. His very appearance offended religion and confuted dogma. It was not necessary to examine him. Even though he went to church, and gave no sign of doubt, either in deed or word, yet he must be a heretic, to be converted at all cost. And we know the Catholic cost: privation, asceticism, mortification387 of the flesh. The most normal person, kept on a monastic regime, will lose his spiritual balance, and all those virtues which belong to a healthy spirit and a healthy body. This was all Catholicism needed. It tried to obtain from people the extreme endeavour of their whole being. Ordinary, natural love, which found its satisfaction—this was sinful. Monks389 and priests were condemned to celibacy—hence monstrous390 and abnormal passions developed. Poverty was preached, and the most unheard-of greed appeared in the world, the more secret the stronger it became. Humility was essential—and out of bare-footed monks sprang despots who had no limits to their ambitions. Luther was the last man to understand the meaning and value of the tasks which Catholicism had set itself. What he saw in Rome was not the accidental outcome of this or the other historical circumstance, but a result of the age-long effort of generations that had striven to attribute to life as alarming and dangerous a nature as possible. The sincere, direct, rustic391 German monk388 was too simple-minded to make out what was going on in Rome. He thought there existed one truth, and that the essence of Catholicism lay in what seemed to him an exemplary, virtuous life. He went direct to his aim? What meaning can monasticism have? Why deprive a priest of family happiness? How accept the licentiousness393 of the pope's capital? The common sense of the normal German revolted against the absurdity of such a state of things—and Luther neither could nor would see any good where common sense was utterly forgotten. The violent oscillation of life resulting from the continuous quick passage from asceticism and blind faith to unbelief and freedom of the passions aroused a mystic horror in the honest monk and released the enormous powers in him necessary to start the great struggle. How could he help protesting? And who was the denier, Luther, or the Rome which passed on from the keeping of the Divine Word to the arbitrary ordaining394 of all the mysteries of life? Luther might have forgiven the monks had they confined themselves to sophistries395. But mediaeval monks had nothing in common with our philosophers. They did not look for world-conceptions in books, and logical tournaments amused them only moderately. They threw themselves into the deeps of life, they experimented on themselves and their neighbours. They passed from mortification to licentious392 bacchanalia. They feared nothing, spared nothing. In a word, the Rome against which Luther arose had undertaken to build Babylon again, not with stones, but with human souls. Luther, horrified396, withdrew, and with him half Europe was withdrawn397. That is his positive merit. And Dostoevsky attacked Lutheranism, and pitied the old Catholicism and the breathless heights to which its "spiritual" children had risen. Wholesome morality and its support is not enough for Dostoevsky. All this is not "positive," it is only "protest." Whether I am believed or not, I will repeat that Vladimir Soloviov, who held that Dostoevsky was a prophet, is wrong, and that N. K. Mikhailovsky, who calls him a cruel talent and a grubber after buried treasure, is right. Dostoevsky grubs after buried treasure—no doubt about that. And, therefore, it would be more becoming in the younger generation that still marches under the flag of pious398 idealism if, instead of choosing him as a spiritual leader, they avoided the old sorcerer, in whom only those gifted with great shortsightedness or lack of experience in life could fail to see the dangerous man.
34
It is boring and difficult to convince people, and after all, not necessary. It would be much better if every individual kept his own opinions. Unfortunately, it cannot be. Whether you like it or not, you have to admit the law of gravitation. Some people find it necessary to admit the origin of man from the monkey. In the empirical realm, however humiliating it may be, there are certain real, binding, universal truths against which no rebellion will avail. With what pleasure would we declare to a representative of science that fire does not burn, that rattlesnakes are not poisonous, that a fall from a high tower is perfectly agreeable, etc., etc., supposing he were obliged to prove to us the contrary. Unluckily the scientific person is free from the burden of proof: nature proves, and thoroughly399. If nature, like metaphysics, set out to compel us through syllogisms or sermons to believe in her, how little she would get out of us. She is much more sagacious. Morality and logic she has left to Hegel and Spinoza, for herself she has taken a cudgel. Now then, try to argue against this! You will give in against your will. The cleverest of all the metaphysicians, Catholic inquisitors, imitated nature. They rarely tried the word, and trusted to the fire of faggots rather than of the heart. Had they only had more power, it would not be possible to find two people in the whole world disbelieving in the infallibility of the Pope. Metaphysical ideas, dreamily expecting to conquer the world by reasoned exposition, will never attain dominion400. If they are bent35 on success, let them try more effective methods of convincing.
35
Evolution.—In recent years we see more and more change in the philosophies of writers and even of non-literary people. The old men are beside themselves—such shiftiness seems indecent. After all, convictions are not gloves. But the young carelessly pass on from one idea to another. Irresolute401 men are somewhat timid, and although they abandon their former convictions they do not declare the change openly. Others, however, plainly announce, as if it were nothing, how far they now are from the beliefs they held six months ago. One even publishes whole volumes relating how he passed on from one philosophy to another, and then to a third. People see nothing alarming in that kind of "evolution." They believe it is in the ordering of things. But not so at all! The readiness to leave off one set of convictions in order to assume another set shows complete indifference to convictions altogether. Not for nothing do the old sound the alarm. But to us who have fought so long against all kinds of constancy, the levity402 of the young is a pleasant sight. They will don materialism403, positivism, Kantianism, spiritualism, and so on, one after the other, till they realise that all theories, ideas and ideals are as of little consequence as the hoop-skirts and crinolines of our grandmothers. Then they will begin to live without ideals and pre-arranged purposes, without foresight404, relying on chance and their own ready wit. This way, too, must be tried. Perhaps we shall do better by it.... Anyhow, it will be more fun.
36
Strength of will.—Weakness and paralysis405 of the will, a very dangerous disease in our times, and in most other times, consists not in the absolute loss of desire, such as takes place in the very old, but in the loss of the capacity to translate desire into deed. A diseased will is often met in violently passionate406 men, so that the proverb—"Say I will not, not I cannot"—does not always hold good. Man often would, but cannot. And then the force of desire instead of moving to outward creation, works inwardly. This is justly considered the most dangerous effect of the weakening of the will. For inward working is destructive working. Man does not only, to put it scientifically, fail to adapt nature to his needs, but he loses his own power of adaptability to outward circumstances. The most ordinary doctor, or even anybody, decides that he has before him a pathological case which must be treated with care. The patient is of the same opinion, whilst he still hopes. But when the treatment has had no results, the doctor draws back and speaks of the inadequacy407 of his science. Then what is the patient to retire upon? It is disgusting to speak of an incurable disease. So he begins to think, think, think—all the time about things of which nobody thinks. He is gradually forgotten, and gradually he forgets everything—but first of all, that widespread truth which asserts that no judgments are valid408 save those that are accepted and universal. Not that he disputes the truth: he forgets it, and there is none to remind him. To him all his judgments seem valid and important. Of course he cannot advance the principle: let all men turn from the external world into themselves. But why advance a principle at all? One can simply say: I am indifferent to the destinies of the external world. I do not want to move mountains or turn rivers aside or rearrange the map of Europe. I don't even want to go to the tobacconist to buy cigarettes. I don't want to do anything. I want to think that my inaction is the most important thing on earth, that any "disease" is better than health, and so on and so on without end. To what thought's will not a man abandoned by medicine and doctors sink down! His judgments are not binding on us, that is as clear as day. But are they uninteresting? And is that paralysis, that weakness of will, a disease only?
37
Death and metaphysics.—A superficial observer knows that the best things in life are hard to attain. Some psychologists even consider that the chief beauty of the highest things consists in their unattainability. This is surely not true—yet there is a grain in it. The roads to good things are dangerous to travel. Is it because nature is so much poorer than we imagine, so she must lock up her blessings, or is there some greater meaning in it, that we have not guessed? For the fact is, the more alluring an end we have in view, the more risks and horrors we must undertake to get there. May we not also make a contrary suggestion: that behind every danger something good is hidden, and that therefore danger serves as an indication, a mark to guide us onwards, not as a warning, as we are taught to believe. To decide this would be to decide that behind death, the greatest of dangers, must lie the most promising409 things. It is as well not to speculate further. We had best stop lest we quarrel even with metaphysics. Traditional metaphysics has always been able to illumine our temporal existence with the reflected beams of eternity410. Let us follow the example. Let us make no attempt to know the absolute. If you have discovered a comforting hypothesis, even in the upper transcendental air, drag it quickly to earth where labouring men forever await even an imaginary relief from their lot. We must make use of everything, even of death, to serve the ends of this life of ours.
38
The future.—A clever, reasonable boy, accustomed to trust his common sense, read in a book for children a description of a shipwreck411 which occurred just as the passengers were eating their sweets at dessert. He was astonished to learn that everyone, women and children as well, who could give no assistance-whatever in saving the ship, left their dessert and rushed on deck with wailing413 and tears. Why wail412, why rush about, why be stupidly agitated414? The crew knew their business and would do all that could be done. If you are going to perish, perish you will, no matter how you scream. It seemed to the boy that if he had been on the ship he would just have gone on eating his sweets to the last moment. Justice should be done to this judicious415 and irreproachable416 opinion. There remained only a few minutes to live—would it not have been better to enjoy them? The logic is perfect, worthy of Aristotle. And it was found impossible to prove to the boy that he would have left his sweets, even his favourite sweets, under the same circumstances, and rushed, and screamed with the rest. Hence a moral—do not decide about the future. To-day common sense is uppermost, and sweets are your highest law. But to-morrow you will get rid of normality and sense, you will link on with nonsense and absurdity, and probably you will even get a taste for bitters. What do you think?
39
A priori synthetic judgments.—Kant, as we know, found in mathematics and the natural sciences a priori synthetic judgments. Was he right or wrong? Are the judgments he indicated a priori or a posteriori? Anyhow, one thing is certain: they are not accepted as absolutely, but only as relatively417 indisputable. In metaphysics, where the only curious and important truths are hidden, the case is different. Kant was compelled to admit that just where metaphysics begin the capacity of our human reason to judge a priori ends. But since we cannot dispense with metaphysical judgments, he proposed to substitute for them postulates418. At the same time he admitted the optimistic presupposition that in the domain419 of the transcendental we shall find all that we miss in the world of phenomena. So that, because he could not invent a truly scientific metaphysics, he contrived to present us with a non-scientific sort. Which is to say, after many round-about journeys he brings his readers along the opposite way right back to the very spot from which he led them off. Surely non-scientific metaphysics existed before Kant: the mediaeval philosophers had plenty of phantasies and speculations420, all supported by "moral" proofs. If Kant wanted to reform metaphysics, he should have got rid of its favourite method of obtaining truths through inferential "conclusions." Men are greedy, they want to learn much, and get their knowledge cheap. So they think that every truth they have paid for with experience and loss of energy entitles them to a few more truths gratis421: or, in philosophic language, a priori, by deduction422. They are not ashamed to speculate with a gift that has been given them. Instead of looking, listening, touching, seeking, they want to infer and conclude. Certainly if they could wring423 any secret out of nature, no matter by what means, cunning, impudence424, fraud, we would forgive them—conquerors are not judged. But nothing comes of their "conclusions" save metaphysical systems and empty prattle425. It is surely time to give up conclusions, and get truth a posteriori, as did Shakspeare, Goethe, Dostoevsky; that is, every time you want to know anything, go and look and find out. And if one is lazy, or horrified at a new experiment, let him train himself to look on ultimate questions with indifference, as the positivists do. But moral, ontological and such like arguments!—really, it is disgusting to talk about them. Every new experiment is interesting; but our conclusions, i.e., synthetic judgments a priori, are mostly pompous426 lies, not worth the scrap427 of paper on which they are recorded.
40
General rules.—People go to philosophers for general principles. And since philosophers are human, they are kept busy supplying the market with general principles. But what sense is there in them? None at all. Nature demands individual creative activity from us. Men won't understand this, so they wait forever for the ultimate truths from philosophy, which they will never get. Why should not every grown-up person be a creator, live in his own way at his own risk and have his own experience? Children and raw youths must go in leading strings428. But adult people who want to feel the reins429 should be despised. They are cowards, and slothful: afraid to try, they eternally go to the wise for advice. And the wise do not hesitate to take the responsibility for the lives of others. They invent general rules, as if they had access to the sources of knowledge. What foolery! The wise are no wiser than the stupid—they have only more conceit430 and effrontery431. Every intelligent man laughs in his soul at "bookish" views. And are not books the work of the wise? They are often extremely interesting—but only in so far as they do not contain general rules. Woe to him, who would build up his life according to Hegel, Schopenhauer, Tolstoy, Schiller, or Dostoevsky. He must read them, but he must have sense, a mind of his own to live with. Those who have tried to live according to theories from books have found this out. At the best, their efforts produced banality432. There is no alternative. Whether man likes or not he will at last have to realise that cliches are worthless, and that he must live from himself. There are no all-binding, universal judgments—let us manage with non-binding, non-universal ones. Only professors will suffer for it....
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Metaphysical consolations433.—Metaphysics mercilessly persecutes434 all eudaemonistic doctrines435, seeing in them a sort of laesio majestatis of human dignity. Our dignity forbids us to place human happiness in the highest goal. Suppose it is so? But why then invent consolations, even metaphysical ones? Why give to such a "pure" ideal concept as metaphysics such a coarse "sensual" partner as consolation?—sensual in the Kantian meaning of the word. Metaphysics had much better associate herself with proud disconsolation436. Consolation brings calm and ease, even quiet gratification to the soul. But surely, if metaphysics condescend437 to accept any assistance whatever, she must scorn all earthly gratifications, leave them to wingless positivism and materialism. What are joys and pains to metaphysics?—she is one thing, they another. Yet all of a sudden metaphysicians begin to shout about consolations. Evidently there is a misunderstanding here, and a big one. The more you pierce to the ultimate ends of the "infinite" metaphysical problems, the more finite they reveal themselves. Metaphysicians only look out for some new boon—I nearly said pleasure. Voltaire said that if there was no God, then He should be invented. We explain these words by the great Frenchman's extreme positivism. But the form only is positive, the content is purely metaphysical. All that a metaphysician wants to do is to convince himself that God exists. No matter whether he is mistaken or not, he has found a consolation. It is impossible for him to see that his belief in a certain fact does not make that fact veritable. The whole question is whether there does exist a supreme, conscious First Cause, or whether we are slaves to the laws of dead necessity. But what does the metaphysician care about this real question! Having declared himself the avowed enemy of eudaemonism, he next seeks consolation, nothing but consolation. To doubt his right to be consoled drives him to fury and madness. He is prepared to support his convictions by every means—ranging from righteous indignation to fists. It is obviously futile438 to try to enlighten such a creature. Once a man cares nothing for God, and seeks only to make the best of his life, you will not tear away his attention from the immediate119 moment. But perhaps there is a God, and neither Voltaire nor the metaphysicians have any need to invent Him. The metaphysicians never saw that an avowed disbelief in God does not prove the non-existence of God, but just the opposite; it is a surer sign of faith than ever belief is. Unfortunate metaphysicians! They might have found their greatest consolation here, and fists and moral indignation and other forms of chastisement439 to which they have been driven might have been spared us.
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Practical advice.—People who read much must always keep it in mind that life is one thing, literature another. Not that authors invariably lie. I declare that there are writers who rarely and most reluctantly lie. But one must know how to read, and that isn't easy. Out of a hundred book-readers ninety-nine have no idea what they are reading about. It is a common belief, for example, that any writer who sings of suffering must be ready at all times to open his arms to the weary and heavy-laden440. This is what his readers feel when they read his books. Then when they approach him with their woes441, and find that he runs away without looking back at them, they are filled with indignation and talk of the discrepancy442 between word and deed. Whereas the fact is, the singer has more than enough woes of his own, and he sings them because he can't get rid of them. L'uccello canto443, nella gabbia, non di gioia ma di rabbia, says the Italian proverb: "The bird sings in the cage, not from joy but from rage." It is impossible to love sufferers, particularly hopeless sufferers, and whoever says otherwise is a deliberate liar160. "Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." But you remember what the Jews said about Him: "He speaks as one having authority!" And if Jesus had been unable, or had not possessed the right, to answer this sceptical taunt444, He would have had to renounce His words. We common mortals have neither divine powers nor divine rights, we can only love our neighbours whilst they still have hope, and any pretence of going beyond this is empty swagger. Ask him who sings of suffering for nothing but his songs. Rather think of alleviating445 his burden than of requiring alleviation446 from him. Surely not for ever should we ask any poet to sob and look upon tears. I will end with another Italian saying: Non e un si triste cane447 che non meni la coda. ... "No dog so wretched but he wags his tail sometimes."
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If a patient fulfils all the orders of a sensible doctor, we say he behaves wisely. If he wantonly neglects his treatment, we say he acts stupidly. If a healthy person wished to inoculate448 himself with some dangerous disease—say phthisis—we should say he was mad, and forcibly restrain him. To such an extent are we convinced that disease is evil, health good. Well—on what is our conviction based? At a glance the question seems absurd. But then at a glance people would absolutely refuse to doubt the fixity of the earth, at a glance an ordinary person would giggle449 if he was shown the problem of the relation between the real world and the ideal. Who knows what would seem amenable450 to discussion to the ordinary person? The philosopher has no right to appeal to the ordinary person. The philosopher must doubt and doubt and doubt, and question when nobody questions, and risk making a laughing-stock of himself. If common sense were enough to settle all problems, we should have known everything long age. So that—why do we value health more than sickness? Or even further—which is better, health or sickness. If we will drop the utilitarian point of view—and all are agreed that this has no place in philosophy—then we shall see at once that we have no grounds whatever for preferring health and sickness. We have invented neither the one nor the other. We found them both in the world along with us. Why then do we, who know so little about it, take upon ourselves to judge which are nature's successes, which her failures? Health is agreeable—sickness disagreeable. But this consideration is unworthy of a philosopher: otherwise why be a philosopher, why distinguish oneself from the herd451? The philosopher invented morality, which has at its disposal various pure ideas that have no relation to empirical life. Then let us go further. Reason should have a supply of pure ideas also. Let Reason judge in her own independent way, without conforming to conventional ideas. When she has no other resort, let her proceed by the method of negation452: everything that common sense asserts, I, Reason, declare to be false. So—common sense Says sickness is bad, reason therefore asserts that sickness is the highest boon. Such Reason we should call autonomous453, law-unto-itself. Like a real monarch454, it is guided only by its own will. Let all considerations point in favour of health, Reason must remain inexorable and keep her stand till we are all brought to obedience455. She must praise suffering, deformity, failure, hopelessness. At every step she must fight common-sense and utilitarianism, until mankind is brought under. Is she afraid of rebellion? Must she in the last issue, like morality, adapt herself to the inclinations456 of the mob?
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Experience and Science.—As we are well aware, science does not, nay cannot, admit experience in all its extent. She throws overboard an enormous quantity of individual facts, regarding them as the ballast of our human vessel457. She takes note only of such phenomena as alternate constantly and with a certain regularity. Best of all she likes those phenomena which can be artificially provoked, when, so to speak, experiment is possible. She explains the rotation458 of the earth and succession of the seasons since a regular recurrence460 is observable, and she demonstrates thunder and lightning with a spark from an electric machine. In a word, in so far as a regular alternation of phenomena is observable, so far extends the realm of science. But what about those individual phenomena which do not recur459, and which cannot be artificially provoked? If all men were blind, and one for a moment recovered his sight and opened his eyes on God's world, science would reject his evidence. Yet the evidence of one seeing man is worth that of a million blind. Sudden enlightenments are possible in our life—even if they endure only for a few seconds. Must they be passed over in silence because they are not normal and cannot be provoked?—or treated poetically461, as beautiful fictions? Science insists on it. She declares that no judgments are true except such as can be verified by all and everyone. She exceeds her bounds. Experience is wider than scientific experiment, and individual phenomena mean much more to us than the constantly recurrent.
Science is useful—but she need not pretend to truth. She cannot know what truth is, she can only accumulate universal laws. Whereas there are, and always have been, non-scientific ways of searching for truth, ways which lead, if not to the innermost secrets, yet to the threshold. These roads, however, we have let fall into ruin whilst we followed our modern methodologies, so now we dare not even think of them. What gives us the right to assert that astrologers, alchemists, diviners, and sorcerers who passed the long nights alone with their thoughts, wasted their time in vain? As for the philosopher's stone, that was merely a plausible excuse invented to satisfy the uninitiated. Could an alchemist dare to confess openly that all his efforts were towards no useful or utilitarian end? He had to guard against importunate462 curiosity and impertinent authority in outsiders. So he lied, now frightening, now alluring the mob through its cupidity463. But certainly he had his own important work to do: and it had only one fault, that it was purely personal to him. And about personal matters it is considered correct to keep silent.... Astonishing fact! As a rule a man hesitates over trifles. But it does sometimes occur that a moment arrives when he is filled with unheard-of courage and resolution in his judgments. He is ready to stand up for his opinions against all the world, dead or living. Whence such sudden surety, what does it mean? Rationally we can discover no foundation for it. If a lover has got into his head that his beloved is the fairest woman on earth, worth the whole of life to him; if one who has been insulted feels that his offender134 is the basest wretch, deserving torture and death; if a would-be Columbus persuades himself that America is the only goal for his ambition—who will convince such men that their opinions, shared by none but themselves, are false or unjustifiable? And for whose sake will they renounce their tenets? For the sake of objective truth? that is, for the pleasure of the assurance that all men after them will repeat their judgment307 for truth? They don't care. Let Don Quixote run broadcast with drawn sword, proving the beauty of Dulcinea or the impending464 horror of windmills. As a matter of fact, he and the German philosophers with him have a vague idea, a kind of presentiment465, that their giants are but mill-sails, and that their ideal on the whole is but a common girl driving swine to pasture. To defy such deadly doubt they take to the sword or to argument, and do not rest until they have succeeded in stopping the mouth of everybody. When from all lips they hear the praise of Dulcinea they say: yes, she is beautiful, and she never drove pigs. When the world beholds466 their windmilling exploits with amazement467 they are filled with triumph; sheep are not sheep, mills are not mills, as you might imagine; they are knights468 and cyclops. This is called a proven, all-binding, universal truth. The support of the mob is a necessary condition of the existence of modern philosophy and its knights of the woful countenance469. Scientific philosophy wearies for a new Cervantes who will put a stop to its paving the way to truth by dint470 of argument. All opinions have a right to exist, and if we speak of privilege, then preference should be given to such as are most run down to-day; namely, to such opinions as cannot be verified and which are, for that self-same reason, universal. Once, long ago "man invented speech in order to express his real relation to the universe." So he may be heard, even though the relation he wishes to express be unique, not to verified by any other individual. To attempt to verify it by observations and experiments is strictly forbidden. If the habit of "objective verification" has destroyed your native receptivity to such an extent that your eyes and ears are gone, and you must rely only on the evidence of instruments or objects not subject to your will, then, of course, nothing is left you but to stick to the belief that science is perfect knowledge. But if your eyes live and your ear is sensitive—throw away instruments and apparatuses471, forget methodology and scientific Don-Quixotism, and try to trust yourself. What harm is there in not having universal judgments or truths? How will it hurt you to see sheep as sheep? It is a step forward. You will learn not to see with everybody's eyes, but to see as none other sees. You will learn not to meditate472, but to conjure473 up and call forth with words alien to all but yourself an unknown beauty and an unheard-of power. Not for nothing, I repeat, did astrologers and alchemists scorn the experimental method—which, by the way, far from being anything new or particularly modern, is as old as the hills. Animals experiment, though they do not compose treatises474 on inductive logic or pride themselves on their reasoning powers. A cow who has burnt her mouth in her trough will come up cautiously next time to feed. Every experimenter is the same—only he systematises. But animals can often trust to instinct when experience is lacking. And have we humans got sufficient experience? Can experience give us what we want most? If so, let science and craftsmanship475 serve our everyday need, let even philosophy, also eager to serve, go on finding universal truths. But beyond craft, science, and philosophy there is another region of knowledge. Through all the ages men, each one at his own risk, have sought to penetrate49 into this region. Shall we, men of the twentieth century, voluntarily renounce our supreme powers and rights, and because public opinion demands it, occupy ourselves exclusively with discovering useful information? Or, in order not to appear mean or poverty-stricken in our own eyes, shall we accept in place of the philosopher's stone our modern metaphysics, which muffles476 her dread45 of actuality in postulates, absolutes, and such-like apparently transcendental paraphernalia477?
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The Russian Spirit.—It will easily be admitted that the distinguishing qualities of Russian literature, and of Russian art in general, are simplicity, truthfulness478, and complete lack of rhetorical ornament. Whether it be to our credit or to our discredit480 is not for me to judge, but one thing seems certain: that our simplicity and truthfulness are due to our relatively scanty481 culture. Whilst European thinkers have for centuries been beating their brains over insoluble problems, we have only just begun to try our powers. We have no failures behind us. The fathers of the profoundest Russian writers were either landowners, dividing their time between extravagant482 amusement and State service, or peasants whose drudgery483 left them no time for idle curiosity. Such being the case, how can we know whether human knowledge has any limits? And if we don't know, it seems to us it is only because we haven't tried to find out. Other people's experience is not ours. We are not bound by their conclusions. Indeed, what do we know of the experience of others, save what we gather, very vaguely484 and fragmentarily and unreliably, from books? It is natural for us to believe the best, till the contrary is proved to us. Any attempt to deprive us of our belief meets with the most energetic resistance.
The most sceptical Russian hides a hope at the bottom of his soul. Hence our fearlessness of the truth, realistic truth which so stunned485 European critics. Realism was invented in the West, established there as a theory. But in the West, to counteract486 it, were invented numberless other palliating theories whose business it was to soften487 down the disconsolate488 conclusions of Realism. There in Europe they have the l'être suprême, the deus sive natura, Hegel's absolute, Kant's postulates, English utilitarianism, progress, humanitarianism, hundreds of philosophic and sociological theories in which even extreme realists can so cleverly dish up what they call life, that life, or realism, ceases to be life or reality altogether.
The Westerner is self-reliant. He knows that if he doesn't help himself nobody will help him. So he directs all his thoughts to making the best of his opportunities. A limited time is granted him. If he can't get to the end of his song within the time-limit, the song must remain unsung. Fate will not give him one minute's grace for the unbeaten bars. Therefore as an experienced musician he adapts himself superbly. Not a second is wasted. The tempo60 must not drag for an instant, or he is lost. The tempo is everything, and it exacts facility and quickness of movement. During a few short beats the artist must produce many notes, and produce them so as to leave the impression that he was not hurried, that he had all the time in the world at his disposal. Moreover, each note must be complete, accomplished, have its fulness and its value. Native talent alone will not suffice for this. Experience is necessary, tradition, training, and inherited instinct. Carpe diem—the European has been living up to the motto for two thousand years. But if we Russians are convinced of anything, it is that we have time enough and to spare. To count days, much less hours and minutes—find me the Russian who could demean himself to such a bourgeois occupation. We look round, we stretch ourselves, we rub our eyes, we want first of all to decide what we shall do, and how we shall do it, before we can begin to live in earnest. We don't choose to decide anyhow, nor at second-hand489, from fragments of other people's information. It must be from our own experience, with our own brains, that we judge. We admit no traditions. In no literature has there been such a-determined struggle with tradition as in ours. We have wanted to re-examine everything, re-state everything. I won't deny that our courage is drawn from our quite uncultured confidence in our own powers. Byelinsky, a half-baked undergraduate, deriving490 his knowledge of European philosophy at third hand, began a quarrel with the universe over the long-forgotten victims of Philip II. and the Inquisition. In that quarrel is the sense and essence of all creative Russian literature. Dostoevsky, towards his end, raised the same storm and the same question over the little tear of an unfortunate child.
A Russian believes he can do anything, hence he is afraid of nothing. He paints life in the gloomiest colours—and were you to ask him: How can you accept such a life? how can you reconcile yourself with such horrors of reality as have been described by all your writers, from Poushkin to Tchekhov? he would answer in the words of Dmitri Karamazov: I do not accept life. This answer seems at first sight absurd. Since life is here, impossible not to accept it. But there is a sub-meaning in the reply, a lingering belief in the possibility of a final triumph over "evil." In the strength of this belief the Russian goes forth to meet his enemy—he does not hide from him. Our sectarians immolate491 themselves. Tolstoyans and votaries of the various sects492 that crop up so plentifully in Russia go in among the people, they go, God knows to what lengths, destroying their own lives and the lives of others. Writers do not lag behind sectarians. They, too, refuse to be prudent493, to count the cost or the hours. Minutes, seconds, time-beats, all this is so insignificant as to be invisible to the naked eye. We wish to draw with a generous hand from fathomless eternity, and all that is limited we leave to European bourgeoisie. With few exceptions Russian writers really despise the pettiness of the West. Even those who have admired Europe most have done so because they failed most completely to understand her. They did not want to understand her. That is why we have always taken over European ideas in such fantastic forms. Take the sixties for example. With its loud ideas of sobriety and modest outlook, it was a most drunken period. Those who awaited the New Messiah and the Second Advent316 read Darwin and dissected494 frogs. It is the same to-day. We allow ourselves the greatest luxury that man can dream of—sincerity, truthfulness—as if we were spiritual Croesuses, as if we had plenty of everything, could afford to let everything be seen, ashamed of nothing. But even Croesuses, the greatest sovereigns of the world, did not consider they had the right to tell the truth at all times. Even kings have to pretend—think of diplomacy495. Whereas, we think we may speak the truth, and the truth only, that any lie which obscures our true substance is a crime; since our true substance is the world's finest treasure, its finest reality.... Tell this to a European, and it will seem a joke to him, even if he can grasp it at all. A European uses all his powers of intellect and talent, all his knowledge and his art for the purpose of concealing496 his real self and all that really affects him:—for that the natural is ugly and repulsive, no one in Europe will dispute for a moment. Not only the fine arts, but science and philosophy in Europe tell lies instinctively497, by lying they justify their existence. First and last, a European student presents you with a finished theory. Well, and what does all the "finish" and the completeness signify? It merely means that none of our western neighbours will end his speech before the last reassuring498 word is said; he will never let nature have the last word; so he rounds off his synthesis. With him, ornament and rhetoric479 is a sine qua non of creative utterance499, the only remedy against all ills. In philosophy reigns theodicy, in science, the law of sequence. Even Kant could not avoid declamation500, even with him the last word is "moral necessity." Thus there lies before us the choice between the artistic501 and accomplished lie of old, cultured Europe, a lie which is the outcome of a thousand years of hard and bitter effort, and the artless, sincere simplicity of young, uncultured Russia.
They are nearer the end, we are nearer the beginning. And which is nearer the truth? And can there be a question of voluntary, free choice? Probably neither the old age of Europe nor the youth of Russia can give us the truth we seek. But does such a thing as ultimate truth exist? Is not the very conception of truth, the very assumption of the possibility of truth, merely an outcome of our limited experience, a fruit of limitation? We decide a priori that one thing must be possible, another impossible, and from our arbitrary assumptions we proceed to deduce the body of truth. Each one judges in his own way, according to his powers and the conditions of his existence. The timid, scared man worries after order, that will give him a day of peace and quiet, youth dreams of beauty and brilliance502, old age doesn't want to think of anything, having lost the faculty503 for hope. And so it goes on, ad infinitum. And this is called truth, truths! Every man thinks that his own experience covers the whole range of life. And, therefore, the only men who turn out to be at all in the right are empiricists and positivists. There can be no question of truth once we tear ourselves away from the actual conditions of life.
Our confident truthfulness, like European rhetoric, turns out to be "beyond truth and falsehood." The young East and the old West alike suffer from the restrictions504 imposed by truth—but the former ignores the restrictions, whilst the latter adapts itself to them. After all, it comes to pretty much the same in the end. Is not clever rhetoric as delightful505 as truthfulness? Each is equally life. Only we find unendurable a rhetoric which poses as truth, and a truthfulness which would appear cultured. Such a masquerade would try to make us believe that truth, which is only limitedness, has a real objective existence. Which is offensive. Until the contrary is proved, we need to think that only one assertion has or can have any objective reality: that nothing on earth is impossible. Every time somebody wants to force us to admit that there are other, more limited and limiting truths, we must resist with every means we can lay hands on. We do not hesitate even to make use of morality and logic, both of which we have abused so often. But why not use them!
When a man is at his last resources, he does not care what weapons he picks up.
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Nur für Schwindelfreie.—To be proper, I ought to finish with a moral. I ought to say to the reader that in spite of all I have said, or perhaps because of all I have said—for in conclusions, as you are aware, "in spite of" is always interchangeable with "because of," particularly if the conclusion be drawn from many scattered506 data—well then, because of all I have said, hope is not lost. Every destruction leads to construction, sweet rest follows labour, dawn follows the darkest hour, and so on and so on and so on—all the banalities with which a writer reconciles his reader. But it is never too late for reconciliation507, and it is often too early. So why not postpone508 the moral for a few years—even a few dozen years, God granting us the length of life? Why make the inevitable "conclusion" at the end of every book? I am almost certain that sooner or later I can promise the reader all his heart desires. But not yet. He may, of course, dispense with my consolations. What do promises matter, anyhow? especially when neither reader nor writer can fulfil them. But if there is no escape, if a writer is finally obliged to admit in everybody's hearing that the secret desires of poor mankind may yet be realised, let "us at least give the wretched writer a respite509, let him postpone his confession till old age—usque ad infinitum,... Meanwhile our motto "Nur für Schwindelfreie." There are in the Alps narrow, precipitous paths where only mountaineers may go, who feel no giddiness. Giddy-free! "Only for the giddy-free," it says on the notice-board. He who is subject to giddiness takes a broad, safe road, or sits away below and admires the snowy summits. Is it inevitably necessary to mount up? Beyond the snow-line are no fat pastures nor goldfields. They say that up there is to be found the clue to the eternal mystery—but they say so many things. We can't believe everything. He who is tired of the valleys, loves climbing, and is not afraid to look down a precipice510, and, most of all, has nothing left in life but the "metaphysical craving," he will certainly climb to the summits without asking what awaits him there. He does not fear, he longs for giddiness. But he will hardly call people after him: he doesn't want just anybody for a companion. In such a case companions are not wanted at all, much less those tender-footed ones who are used to every convenience, roads, street lamps, guide-posts, careful maps which mark every change in the road ahead. They will not help, only hinder. They will prove superfluous, heavy ballast, which may not be thrown overboard. Fuss over them, console them, promise them! Who would be bothered? Is it not better to go one's way alone, and not only to refrain from enticing511 others to follow, but frighten them off as much as possible, exaggerate every danger and difficulty? In order that conscience may not prick512 too hard—we who love high altitudes love a quiet conscience—let us find a justification for their inactivity. Let us tell them they are the best, the worthiest513 of people, really the salt of the earth. Let us pay them every possible mark of respect. But since they are subject to giddiness, they had better stay down. The upper Alpine ways, as any guide will tell you, are nur für Schwindelfreie.
The End
点击收听单词发音
1 alpine | |
adj.高山的;n.高山植物 | |
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2 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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3 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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4 dispelled | |
v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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6 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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7 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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8 vagaries | |
n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 );异想天开;异常行为;难以预测的情况 | |
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9 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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10 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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11 dispense | |
vt.分配,分发;配(药),发(药);实施 | |
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12 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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13 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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14 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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15 qualms | |
n.不安;内疚 | |
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16 annul | |
v.宣告…无效,取消,废止 | |
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17 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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18 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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19 loom | |
n.织布机,织机;v.隐现,(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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20 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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21 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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22 fathomless | |
a.深不可测的 | |
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23 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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24 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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25 glorify | |
vt.颂扬,赞美,使增光,美化 | |
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26 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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27 cult | |
n.异教,邪教;时尚,狂热的崇拜 | |
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28 retractive | |
adj.缩进的 | |
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29 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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30 tempting | |
a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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31 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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32 rhinoceros | |
n.犀牛 | |
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33 mules | |
骡( mule的名词复数 ); 拖鞋; 顽固的人; 越境运毒者 | |
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34 incumbent | |
adj.成为责任的,有义务的;现任的,在职的 | |
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35 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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36 savages | |
未开化的人,野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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37 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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38 par | |
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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39 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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40 materialist | |
n. 唯物主义者 | |
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41 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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42 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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43 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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44 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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45 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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46 dreads | |
n.恐惧,畏惧( dread的名词复数 );令人恐惧的事物v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47 relinquishing | |
交出,让给( relinquish的现在分词 ); 放弃 | |
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48 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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49 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
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50 penetrates | |
v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 );刺入;了解;渗透 | |
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51 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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52 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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53 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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54 covenants | |
n.(有法律约束的)协议( covenant的名词复数 );盟约;公约;(向慈善事业、信托基金会等定期捐款的)契约书 | |
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55 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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56 yearned | |
渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 withered | |
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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58 numbing | |
adj.使麻木的,使失去感觉的v.使麻木,使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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59 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 tempo | |
n.(音乐的)速度;节奏,行进速度 | |
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61 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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62 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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63 underlie | |
v.位于...之下,成为...的基础 | |
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64 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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65 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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66 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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67 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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68 naturalist | |
n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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69 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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70 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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71 prey | |
n.被掠食者,牺牲者,掠食;v.捕食,掠夺,折磨 | |
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72 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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73 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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74 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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75 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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76 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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77 bruising | |
adj.殊死的;十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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78 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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79 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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80 laurels | |
n.桂冠,荣誉 | |
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81 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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82 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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83 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
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84 deliriously | |
adv.谵妄(性);发狂;极度兴奋/亢奋;说胡话 | |
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85 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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86 erratic | |
adj.古怪的,反复无常的,不稳定的 | |
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87 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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88 relentlessly | |
adv.不屈不挠地;残酷地;不间断 | |
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89 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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90 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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91 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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92 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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93 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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94 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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95 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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96 detests | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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98 swerving | |
v.(使)改变方向,改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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99 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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100 mimicry | |
n.(生物)拟态,模仿 | |
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101 risky | |
adj.有风险的,冒险的 | |
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102 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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103 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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104 dub | |
vt.(以某种称号)授予,给...起绰号,复制 | |
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105 metaphorically | |
adv. 用比喻地 | |
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106 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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107 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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108 avowed | |
adj.公开声明的,承认的v.公开声明,承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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109 ignobly | |
卑贱地,下流地 | |
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110 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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111 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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112 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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114 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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115 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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116 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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117 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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118 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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119 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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120 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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121 muses | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的第三人称单数 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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122 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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123 remiss | |
adj.不小心的,马虎 | |
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124 votaries | |
n.信徒( votary的名词复数 );追随者;(天主教)修士;修女 | |
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125 mediocre | |
adj.平常的,普通的 | |
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126 peg | |
n.木栓,木钉;vt.用木钉钉,用短桩固定 | |
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127 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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128 pessimists | |
n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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129 lament | |
n.悲叹,悔恨,恸哭;v.哀悼,悔恨,悲叹 | |
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130 modification | |
n.修改,改进,缓和,减轻 | |
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131 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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132 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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133 offenders | |
n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 );犯规者;罪犯;妨害…的人(或事物) | |
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134 offender | |
n.冒犯者,违反者,犯罪者 | |
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135 addiction | |
n.上瘾入迷,嗜好 | |
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136 transgressor | |
n.违背者 | |
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137 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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138 avert | |
v.防止,避免;转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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139 utilitarian | |
adj.实用的,功利的 | |
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140 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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141 inborn | |
adj.天生的,生来的,先天的 | |
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142 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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143 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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144 muddled | |
adj.混乱的;糊涂的;头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱,弄糟( muddle的过去式);使糊涂;对付,混日子 | |
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145 hygiene | |
n.健康法,卫生学 (a.hygienic) | |
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146 entangled | |
adj.卷入的;陷入的;被缠住的;缠在一起的v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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148 stinking | |
adj.臭的,烂醉的,讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 );发臭味;名声臭;糟透 | |
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149 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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150 exonerate | |
v.免除责任,确定无罪 | |
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151 loathsome | |
adj.讨厌的,令人厌恶的 | |
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152 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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153 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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154 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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155 deficient | |
adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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156 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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157 volatility | |
n.挥发性,挥发度,轻快,(性格)反复无常 | |
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158 allured | |
诱引,吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159 hibernate | |
v.冬眠,蛰伏 | |
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160 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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161 wriggle | |
v./n.蠕动,扭动;蜿蜒 | |
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162 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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163 mobility | |
n.可动性,变动性,情感不定 | |
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164 elasticity | |
n.弹性,伸缩力 | |
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165 equilibrium | |
n.平衡,均衡,相称,均势,平静 | |
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166 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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167 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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168 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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169 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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170 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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171 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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172 almighty | |
adj.全能的,万能的;很大的,很强的 | |
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173 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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174 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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175 curried | |
adj.加了咖喱(或咖喱粉的),用咖哩粉调理的 | |
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176 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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177 adaptability | |
n.适应性 | |
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178 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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179 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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180 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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181 infringe | |
v.违反,触犯,侵害 | |
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182 statutes | |
成文法( statute的名词复数 ); 法令; 法规; 章程 | |
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183 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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184 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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185 panegyric | |
n.颂词,颂扬 | |
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186 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187 indigent | |
adj.贫穷的,贫困的 | |
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188 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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189 Vogue | |
n.时髦,时尚;adj.流行的 | |
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190 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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191 penetrating | |
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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192 wireless | |
adj.无线的;n.无线电 | |
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193 dweller | |
n.居住者,住客 | |
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194 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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195 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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196 supplanted | |
把…排挤掉,取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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198 imprisonment | |
n.关押,监禁,坐牢 | |
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199 slumbers | |
睡眠,安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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200 strenuously | |
adv.奋发地,费力地 | |
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201 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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202 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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203 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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204 spartans | |
n.斯巴达(spartan的复数形式) | |
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205 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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206 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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207 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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208 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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209 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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210 naive | |
adj.幼稚的,轻信的;天真的 | |
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211 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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212 humanitarianism | |
n.博爱主义;人道主义;基督凡人论 | |
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213 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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214 persecuted | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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215 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
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216 professes | |
声称( profess的第三人称单数 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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217 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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218 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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219 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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220 hawk | |
n.鹰,骗子;鹰派成员 | |
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221 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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222 cramp | |
n.痉挛;[pl.](腹)绞痛;vt.限制,束缚 | |
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223 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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224 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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225 scrupulous | |
adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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226 renown | |
n.声誉,名望 | |
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227 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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228 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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229 inquisitiveness | |
好奇,求知欲 | |
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230 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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231 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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232 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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233 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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234 idols | |
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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235 squandering | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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236 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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237 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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238 majestically | |
雄伟地; 庄重地; 威严地; 崇高地 | |
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239 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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240 villain | |
n.反派演员,反面人物;恶棍;问题的起因 | |
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241 wielded | |
手持着使用(武器、工具等)( wield的过去式和过去分词 ); 具有; 运用(权力); 施加(影响) | |
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242 violation | |
n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
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243 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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244 optimists | |
n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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245 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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246 dodge | |
v.闪开,躲开,避开;n.妙计,诡计 | |
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247 disparagement | |
n.轻视,轻蔑 | |
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248 traitors | |
卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 ); 叛徒; 背叛者; 背信弃义的人 | |
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249 hymns | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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250 beget | |
v.引起;产生 | |
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251 wedded | |
adj.正式结婚的;渴望…的,执著于…的v.嫁,娶,(与…)结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252 begotten | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 );产生,引起 | |
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253 astronomers | |
n.天文学者,天文学家( astronomer的名词复数 ) | |
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254 genealogy | |
n.家系,宗谱 | |
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255 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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256 charlatans | |
n.冒充内行者,骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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257 liars | |
说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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258 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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259 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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260 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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261 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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262 throbbing | |
a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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263 vexed | |
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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264 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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265 shammed | |
假装,冒充( sham的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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267 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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268 stagnation | |
n. 停滞 | |
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269 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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270 eloquently | |
adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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271 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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272 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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273 whatsoever | |
adv.(用于否定句中以加强语气)任何;pron.无论什么 | |
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274 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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275 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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276 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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277 invincible | |
adj.不可征服的,难以制服的 | |
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278 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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279 riddle | |
n.谜,谜语,粗筛;vt.解谜,给…出谜,筛,检查,鉴定,非难,充满于;vi.出谜 | |
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280 stodgy | |
adj.易饱的;笨重的;滞涩的;古板的 | |
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281 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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282 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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283 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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284 toils | |
网 | |
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285 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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286 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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287 criteria | |
n.标准 | |
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288 pitfall | |
n.隐患,易犯的错误;陷阱,圈套 | |
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289 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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290 exorbitant | |
adj.过分的;过度的 | |
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291 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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292 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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293 bridle | |
n.笼头,束缚;vt.抑制,约束;动怒 | |
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294 absurdities | |
n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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295 systematically | |
adv.有系统地 | |
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296 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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297 overthrow | |
v.推翻,打倒,颠覆;n.推翻,瓦解,颠覆 | |
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298 lair | |
n.野兽的巢穴;躲藏处 | |
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299 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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300 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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301 jauntily | |
adv.心满意足地;洋洋得意地;高兴地;活泼地 | |
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302 irreconcilable | |
adj.(指人)难和解的,势不两立的 | |
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303 primate | |
n.灵长类(目)动物,首席主教;adj.首要的 | |
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304 dexterously | |
adv.巧妙地,敏捷地 | |
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305 wriggled | |
v.扭动,蠕动,蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 );(使身体某一部位)扭动;耍滑不做,逃避(应做的事等) | |
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306 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
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307 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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308 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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309 glutted | |
v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 );(对胃口、欲望等)纵情满足;使厌腻;塞满 | |
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310 confirmation | |
n.证实,确认,批准 | |
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311 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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312 mundane | |
adj.平凡的;尘世的;宇宙的 | |
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313 superfluous | |
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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314 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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315 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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316 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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317 extol | |
v.赞美,颂扬 | |
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318 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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319 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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320 pertain | |
v.(to)附属,从属;关于;有关;适合,相称 | |
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321 belch | |
v.打嗝,喷出 | |
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322 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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323 balk | |
n.大方木料;v.妨碍;不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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324 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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325 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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326 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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327 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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328 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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329 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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330 tattoo | |
n.纹身,(皮肤上的)刺花纹;vt.刺花纹于 | |
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331 wilfully | |
adv.任性固执地;蓄意地 | |
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332 extremities | |
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
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333 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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334 emancipation | |
n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
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335 languishing | |
a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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336 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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337 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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338 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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339 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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340 permissible | |
adj.可允许的,许可的 | |
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341 opportune | |
adj.合适的,适当的 | |
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342 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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343 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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344 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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345 festive | |
adj.欢宴的,节日的 | |
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346 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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347 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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348 inaccessibility | |
n. 难接近, 难达到, 难达成 | |
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349 incurable | |
adj.不能医治的,不能矫正的,无救的;n.不治的病人,无救的人 | |
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350 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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351 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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352 revile | |
v.辱骂,谩骂 | |
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353 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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354 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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355 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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356 acquitted | |
宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(自己)作出某种表现 | |
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357 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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358 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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359 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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360 plentifully | |
adv. 许多地,丰饶地 | |
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361 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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362 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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363 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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364 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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365 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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366 asceticism | |
n.禁欲主义 | |
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367 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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368 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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369 awaken | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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370 awakens | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的第三人称单数 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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371 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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372 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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373 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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374 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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375 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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376 platonic | |
adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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377 degenerates | |
衰退,堕落,退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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378 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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379 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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380 flair | |
n.天赋,本领,才华;洞察力 | |
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381 calumniated | |
v.诽谤,中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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382 etymological | |
adj.语源的,根据语源学的 | |
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383 assertive | |
adj.果断的,自信的,有冲劲的 | |
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384 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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385 maim | |
v.使残废,使不能工作,使伤残 | |
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386 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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387 mortification | |
n.耻辱,屈辱 | |
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388 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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389 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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390 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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391 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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392 licentious | |
adj.放纵的,淫乱的 | |
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393 licentiousness | |
n.放肆,无法无天 | |
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394 ordaining | |
v.任命(某人)为牧师( ordain的现在分词 );授予(某人)圣职;(上帝、法律等)命令;判定 | |
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395 sophistries | |
n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 );(一次)诡辩 | |
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396 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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397 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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398 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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399 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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400 dominion | |
n.统治,管辖,支配权;领土,版图 | |
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401 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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402 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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403 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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404 foresight | |
n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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405 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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406 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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407 inadequacy | |
n.无法胜任,信心不足 | |
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408 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
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409 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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410 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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411 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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412 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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413 wailing | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的现在分词 );沱 | |
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414 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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415 judicious | |
adj.明智的,明断的,能作出明智决定的 | |
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416 irreproachable | |
adj.不可指责的,无过失的 | |
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417 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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418 postulates | |
v.假定,假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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419 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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420 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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421 gratis | |
adj.免费的 | |
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422 deduction | |
n.减除,扣除,减除额;推论,推理,演绎 | |
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423 wring | |
n.扭绞;v.拧,绞出,扭 | |
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424 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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425 prattle | |
n.闲谈;v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话;发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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426 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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427 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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428 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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429 reins | |
感情,激情; 缰( rein的名词复数 ); 控制手段; 掌管; (成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的)保护带 | |
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430 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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431 effrontery | |
n.厚颜无耻 | |
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432 banality | |
n.陈腐;平庸;陈词滥调 | |
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433 consolations | |
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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434 persecutes | |
(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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435 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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436 disconsolation | |
n.悲伤,阴暗 | |
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437 condescend | |
v.俯就,屈尊;堕落,丢丑 | |
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438 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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439 chastisement | |
n.惩罚 | |
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440 laden | |
adj.装满了的;充满了的;负了重担的;苦恼的 | |
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441 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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442 discrepancy | |
n.不同;不符;差异;矛盾 | |
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443 canto | |
n.长篇诗的章 | |
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444 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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445 alleviating | |
减轻,缓解,缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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446 alleviation | |
n. 减轻,缓和,解痛物 | |
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447 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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448 inoculate | |
v.给...接种,给...注射疫苗 | |
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449 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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450 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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451 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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452 negation | |
n.否定;否认 | |
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453 autonomous | |
adj.自治的;独立的 | |
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454 monarch | |
n.帝王,君主,最高统治者 | |
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455 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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456 inclinations | |
倾向( inclination的名词复数 ); 倾斜; 爱好; 斜坡 | |
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457 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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458 rotation | |
n.旋转;循环,轮流 | |
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459 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
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460 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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461 poetically | |
adv.有诗意地,用韵文 | |
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462 importunate | |
adj.强求的;纠缠不休的 | |
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463 cupidity | |
n.贪心,贪财 | |
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464 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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465 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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466 beholds | |
v.看,注视( behold的第三人称单数 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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467 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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468 knights | |
骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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469 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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470 dint | |
n.由于,靠;凹坑 | |
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471 apparatuses | |
n.器械; 装置; 设备; 仪器 | |
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472 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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473 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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474 treatises | |
n.专题著作,专题论文,专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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475 craftsmanship | |
n.手艺 | |
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476 muffles | |
v.压抑,捂住( muffle的第三人称单数 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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477 paraphernalia | |
n.装备;随身用品 | |
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478 truthfulness | |
n. 符合实际 | |
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479 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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480 discredit | |
vt.使不可置信;n.丧失信义;不信,怀疑 | |
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481 scanty | |
adj.缺乏的,仅有的,节省的,狭小的,不够的 | |
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482 extravagant | |
adj.奢侈的;过分的;(言行等)放肆的 | |
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483 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
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484 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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485 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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486 counteract | |
vt.对…起反作用,对抗,抵消 | |
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487 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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488 disconsolate | |
adj.忧郁的,不快的 | |
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489 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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490 deriving | |
v.得到( derive的现在分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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491 immolate | |
v.牺牲 | |
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492 sects | |
n.宗派,教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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493 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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494 dissected | |
adj.切开的,分割的,(叶子)多裂的v.解剖(动物等)( dissect的过去式和过去分词 );仔细分析或研究 | |
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495 diplomacy | |
n.外交;外交手腕,交际手腕 | |
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496 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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497 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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498 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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499 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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500 declamation | |
n. 雄辩,高调 | |
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501 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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502 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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503 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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504 restrictions | |
约束( restriction的名词复数 ); 管制; 制约因素; 带限制性的条件(或规则) | |
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505 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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506 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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507 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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508 postpone | |
v.延期,推迟 | |
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509 respite | |
n.休息,中止,暂缓 | |
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510 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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511 enticing | |
adj.迷人的;诱人的 | |
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512 prick | |
v.刺伤,刺痛,刺孔;n.刺伤,刺痛 | |
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513 worthiest | |
应得某事物( worthy的最高级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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