Among the high excitements of a recent winter in New York was one of such convulsive intensity2 that in the nature of things it could not last very long. It affected3 the feminine temperament4 of our public with hysterical5 violence, but left the community the calmer for its throes, and gently, if somewhat pensively6, smiling in a permanent ignorance of the event. No outside observer would now be able to say, offhand7, whether a certain eminent8 innkeeper had or had not had his way with his customers in the matter not only of what they should eat or drink, but what they should wear when dining in a place which has been described as "supplying exclusiveness to the lower classes." It is not even certain just how a crucial case was brought to the notice of this authority; what is certain is that his instant judgment9 was that no white male citizen frequenting his proud tavern10 should sit at dinner there unless clothed in a dress-coat, or at least in the smoking-jacket known to us as a Tuxedo11; at breakfast or at luncheon12, probably, the guest, the paying guest, could sufficiently13 shine in the reflected glory of the lustrous14 evening wear of the waiters. No sooner was the innkeeper's judgment rendered than a keen thrill of resentment15, or at least amusement, ran through the general breast. From every quarter the reporters hastened to verify the fact at first-hand, and then to submit it to the keeper of every other eminent inn or eating-house in the city and learn his usage and opinion. These to a man disavowed any such hard-and-fast rule. Though their paying guests were ordinarily gentlemen of such polite habits as to be incapable16 of dining in anything but a dress-coat or a Tuxedo, yet their inns and eating-houses were not barred against those who chose to dine in a frock or cutaway or even a sacque. It is possible that the managers imagined themselves acquiring merit with that large body of our vulgar who demand exclusiveness by their avowal17 of a fine indifference18 or an enlightened tolerance19 in the matter. But at this distance of time no one can confidently say how the incident was closed with respect to the pre-eminent innkeeper and his proud tavern. Whether the wayfarer20, forced by the conditions of travel upon the company of the exclusive vulgar, may now dine there in the public banqueting-hall in his daytime raiment, or must take his evening meal in his room, with a penalty in the form of an extra charge for service, nowise appears.
What is apparent from the whole affair is that the old ideal of one's inn, as a place where one shall take one's ease, has perished in the evolution of the magnificent American hotel which we have been maliciously21 seeking to minify in the image of its Old World germ. One may take one's ease in one's hotel only if one is dressed to the mind of the hotel-keeper, or perhaps finally the head waiter. But what is more important still is that probably the vast multitude of the moneyed vulgar whose exclusiveness is supplied to them in such a place dictate22, tacitly at least, the Draconian23 policy of the management. No innkeeper or head waiter, no matter of how patrician24 an experience or prejudice, would imagine a measure of such hardship to wayfarers25 willing to pay for the simple comfort of their ancestors at the same rate as their commensals stiffly shining in the clothes of convention. The management might have its conception of what a hotel dining-room should look like, with an unbroken array of gentlemen in black dress-coats and ladies in white shoulders all feeding as superbly as if they were not paying for their dinners, or as if they had been severally asked for the pleasure of their company two weeks before; and the picture would doubtless be marred26 by figures of people in cutaways and high necks, to a degree intolerable to the artistic27 sense. But it is altogether impossible that the management would exact a conformity28 to the general effect which was not desired by the vast majority of its paying guests. What might well have seemed a break on the part of the pre-eminent innkeeper when he cited as a precedent29 for his decision the practice of the highest hotels in London was really no break, but a stroke of the finest juridical acumen30. Nothing could have gone further with the vast majority of his paying guests than some such authority, for they could wish nothing so much, in the exclusiveness supplied them, as the example of the real characters in the social drama which they were impersonating. They had the stage and the scenery; they had spared no expense in their costuming; they had anxiously studied their parts, and for the space of their dinner-hour they had the right to the effect of aristocratic society, which they were seeking, unmarred by one discordant31 note. After that hour, let it be a cramped32 stall in the orchestra of another theatre, or let it be an early bed in a cell of their colossal33 columbary, yet they would have had their dinner-hour when they shone primarily just like the paying guests in the finest English hotel, and secondarily just like the non-paying guests at the innumerable dinners of the nobility and gentry34 in a thousand private houses in London.
Our aim is always high, and they would be right to aim at nothing lower than this in their amateur dramatics. But here we have a question which we have been holding back by main force from the beginning, and which now persists in precipitating35 itself in our peaceful page. It is a question which merits wider and closer study than we can give it, and it will, we hope, find an answer such as we cannot supply in the wisdom of the reader. It presented itself to the mind of Eugenio in a recent experience of his at a famous seaside resort which does not remit36 its charm even in the heart of winter, and which with the first tremor37 of the opening spring allures38 the dweller39 among the sky-scrapers and the subways with an irresistible40 appeal. We need not further specify41 the place, but it is necessary to add that it draws not only the jaded42 or sated New-Yorker, but the more eager and animated43 average of well-to-do people from every part of their country who have got bored out with their happy homes and want a few days' or a few weeks' change. One may not perhaps meet a single distinguished44 figure on its famous promenade45, or at least more distinguished than one's own; with the best will in the world to find such figures, Eugenio could count but three or four: a tall, alert, correct man or two; an electly fashioned, perfectly46 set-up, dominant47 woman or so, whose bearing expressed the supremacy48 of a set in some unquestionable world. But there was obvious riches aplenty, and aplenty of the kind wholesomeness49 of the good, true, intelligent, and heaven-bound virtue50 of what we must begin to call our middle class, offensive as the necessity may be. Here and there the effect of champagne51 in the hair, which deceived no one but the wearer, was to be noted52; here and there, high-rolling, a presence with the effect of something more than champagne in the face loomed53 in the perspective through the haze54 of a costly55 cigar. But by far, immensely far, the greater number of his fellow-frequenters of the charming promenade were simple, domestic, well-meaning Americans like Eugenio himself, of a varying simplicity56 indeed, but always of a simplicity. They were the stuff with which his fancy (he never presumed to call it his imagination) had hitherto delighted to play, fondly shaping out of the collective material those lineaments and expressions which he hoped contained a composite likeness57 of his American day and generation. The whole situation was most propitious58, and yet he found himself moving through it without one of the impulses which had been almost lifelong with him. As if in some strange paralysis59, some obsession60 by a demon61 of indifference unknown before, he was bereft62 of the will to realize these familiar protagonists63 of his plain dramas. He knew them, of course; he knew them all too well; but he had not the wish to fit the likest of them with phrases, to costume them for their several parts, to fit them into the places in the unambitious action where they had so often contributed to the modest but inevitable65 catastrophe66.
The experience repeated itself till he began to take himself by the collar and shake himself in the dismay of a wild conjecture67. What had befallen him? Had he gone along, young, eager, interested, delighted with his kind for half a century of ?sthetic consciousness, and now had he suddenly lapsed68 into the weariness and apathy69 of old age? It is always, short of ninety, too soon for that, and Eugenio was not yet quite ninety. Was his mind, then, prematurely70 affected? But was not this question itself proof that his mind was still importunately71 active? If that was so, why did not he still wish to make his phrases about his like, to reproduce their effect in composite portraiture72? Eugenio fell into a state so low that nothing but the confession73 of his perplexity could help him out; and the friend to whom he owned his mystifying, his all but appalling74, experience did not fail him in his extremity75. "No," he wrote back, "it is not that you have seen all these people, and that they offer no novel types for observation, but even more that they illustrate76 the great fact that, in the course of the last twenty years, society in America has reached its goal, has 'arrived,' and is creating no new types. On the contrary, it is obliterating77 some of the best which were clearly marked, and is becoming more and more one rich, dead level of mediocrity, broken here and there by solitary78 eminences79, some of which are genuine, some only false peaks without solid rock foundations."
Such a view of his case must be immediately and immensely consoling, but it was even more precious to Eugenio for the suggestion from which his fancy—never imagination—began to play forward with the vivacity80 of that of a youth of sixty, instead of a middle-aged81 man of eighty-five. If all this were true—and its truth shone the more distinctly from a ground of potential dissent—was not there the stuff in the actual conditions from which a finer artist than he could ever hope to be, now that the first glow of his prime was past, might fashion an image of our decadence82, or our arrest, so grandly, so perfectly dull and uninteresting, that it would fix all the after-ages with the sovereign authority of a masterpiece? Here, he tremblingly glowed to realize, was opportunity, not for him, indeed, but for some more modern, more divinely inspired lover of the mediocre83, to eternize our typelessness and establish himself among the many-millioned heirs of fame. It had been easy—how easy it had been!—to catch the likeness of those formative times in which he had lived and wrought84; but the triumph and the reward of the new artist would be in proportion to the difficulty of seizing the rich, self-satisfied, ambitionless, sordid85 commonplace of a society wishing to be shut up in a steam-heated, electric-lighted palace and fed fat in its exclusiveness with the inexhaustible inventions of an overpaid chef. True, the strong, simple days of the young republic, when men forgot themselves in the struggle with the wild continent, were past; true, the years were gone when the tremendous adventure of tearing from her heart the iron and the gold which were to bind86 her in lasting87 subjection gave to fiction industrial heroes fierce and bold as those of classic fable88 or medi?val romance. But there remained the days of the years which shall apparently89 have no end, but shall abound90 forever in an inexhaustible wealth of the sort wishing not so much to rise itself as to keep down and out all suggestion of the life from which it sprang.
The sort of type which would represent this condition would be vainly sought in any exceptionally opulent citizen of that world. He would have, if nothing else, the distinction of his unmeasured millions, which would form a poetry, however sordid; the note of the world we mean is indistinction, and the protagonist64 of the fiction seeking to portray91 its fads92 and characters must not have more than two or three millions at the most. He, or better she, were better perhaps with only a million, or a million and a half, or enough to live handsomely in eminent inns, either at home or abroad, with that sort of insolent93 half-knowledge to which culture is contemptible94; which can feel the theatre, but not literature; which has passed from the horse to the automobile95; which has its moral and material yacht, cruising all social coasts and making port in none where there is not a hotel or cottage life as empty and exclusive as its own. Even in trying to understate the sort, one overstates it. Nothing could be more untrue to its reality than the accentuation of traits which in the arrivals of society elsewhere and elsewhen have marked the ultimation of the bourgeois96 spirit. Say that the Puritan, the Pilgrim, the Cavalier, and the Merchant Adventurer have come and gone; say that the Revolutionist Patriot97, the Pioneer and the Backwoodsman and the Noble Savage98 have come and gone; say that the Slaveholder and the Slave and the Abolitionist and the Civil Warrior99 have come and gone; say that the Miner, the Rancher, the Cowboy, and the sardonically100 humorous Frontiersman have come and gone; say that the simple-hearted, hard-working, modest, genial101 Homemakers have come and gone; say that the Captain of Industry has come and gone, and the world-wide Financier is going: what remains102 for actuality-loving art to mould into shapes of perdurable beauty? Obviously, only the immeasurable mass of a prosperity sunken in a self-satisfaction unstirred by conscience and unmoved by desire. But is that a reason why art should despair? Rather it is a reason why it should rejoice in an opportunity occurring not more than once in the ages to seize the likeness and express the significance of Arrival, the arrival of a whole civilization. To do this, art must refine and re-refine upon itself; it must use methods of unapproached delicacy103, of unimagined subtlety104 and celerity. It is easy enough to catch the look of the patrician in the upper air, of the plebeian105 underfoot, but to render the image of a world-bourgeoisie, compacted in characters of undeniable verisimilitude, that will be difficult, but it will be possible, and the success will be of an effulgence106 such as has never yet taken the eyes of wonder.
We should not be disposed to deny the artist, dedicated107 to this high achievement by his love of the material not less than by his peculiar108 gift, the range of a liberal idealism. We would not have him bound by any precedent or any self-imposed law of literality. If he should see his work as a mighty109 historical picture, or series of such pictures, we should not gainsay110 him his conception or bind him rather to any genre111 result. We ourselves have been evolving here the notion of some large allegory which should bear the relation to all other allegories that Bartholdi's colossus of Liberty bears to all other statues, and which should carry forward the story and the hero, or the heroine, to some such supreme112 moment as that when, amid the approving emotion of an immense hotel dining-room, all in décolletée and frac paré, the old, simple-lived American, wearing a sack-coat and a colored shirt, shall be led out between the eminent innkeeper and the head waiter and delivered over to the police to be conducted in ignominy to the nearest Italian table d'h?te. The national character, on the broad level of equality which fiction once delighted to paint, no longer exists, but if a deeper, a richer, a more enduring monotony replaces it, we have no fear but some genius will arrive and impart the effect of the society which has arrived.
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1 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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2 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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3 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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4 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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5 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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6 pensively | |
adv.沉思地,焦虑地 | |
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7 offhand | |
adj.临时,无准备的;随便,马虎的 | |
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8 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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9 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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10 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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11 tuxedo | |
n.礼服,无尾礼服 | |
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12 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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13 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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14 lustrous | |
adj.有光泽的;光辉的 | |
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15 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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16 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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17 avowal | |
n.公开宣称,坦白承认 | |
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18 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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19 tolerance | |
n.宽容;容忍,忍受;耐药力;公差 | |
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20 wayfarer | |
n.旅人 | |
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21 maliciously | |
adv.有敌意地 | |
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22 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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23 draconian | |
adj.严苛的;苛刻的;严酷的;龙一样的 | |
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24 patrician | |
adj.贵族的,显贵的;n.贵族;有教养的人;罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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25 wayfarers | |
n.旅人,(尤指)徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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26 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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27 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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28 conformity | |
n.一致,遵从,顺从 | |
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29 precedent | |
n.先例,前例;惯例;adj.在前的,在先的 | |
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30 acumen | |
n.敏锐,聪明 | |
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31 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
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32 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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33 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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34 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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35 precipitating | |
adj.急落的,猛冲的v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的现在分词 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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36 remit | |
v.汇款,汇寄;豁免(债务),免除(处罚等) | |
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37 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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38 allures | |
诱引,吸引( allure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39 dweller | |
n.居住者,住客 | |
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40 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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41 specify | |
vt.指定,详细说明 | |
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42 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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43 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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44 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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45 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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46 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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47 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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48 supremacy | |
n.至上;至高权力 | |
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49 wholesomeness | |
卫生性 | |
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50 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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51 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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52 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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53 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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54 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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55 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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56 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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57 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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58 propitious | |
adj.吉利的;顺利的 | |
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59 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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60 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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61 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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62 bereft | |
adj.被剥夺的 | |
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63 protagonists | |
n.(戏剧的)主角( protagonist的名词复数 );(故事的)主人公;现实事件(尤指冲突和争端的)主要参与者;领导者 | |
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64 protagonist | |
n.(思想观念的)倡导者;主角,主人公 | |
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65 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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66 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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67 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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68 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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69 apathy | |
n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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70 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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71 importunately | |
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72 portraiture | |
n.肖像画法 | |
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73 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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74 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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75 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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76 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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77 obliterating | |
v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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78 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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79 eminences | |
卓越( eminence的名词复数 ); 著名; 高地; 山丘 | |
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80 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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81 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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82 decadence | |
n.衰落,颓废 | |
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83 mediocre | |
adj.平常的,普通的 | |
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84 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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85 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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86 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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87 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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88 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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89 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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90 abound | |
vi.大量存在;(in,with)充满,富于 | |
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91 portray | |
v.描写,描述;画(人物、景象等) | |
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92 fads | |
n.一时的流行,一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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93 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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94 contemptible | |
adj.可鄙的,可轻视的,卑劣的 | |
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95 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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96 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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97 patriot | |
n.爱国者,爱国主义者 | |
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98 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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99 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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100 sardonically | |
adv.讽刺地,冷嘲地 | |
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101 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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102 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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103 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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104 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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105 plebeian | |
adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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106 effulgence | |
n.光辉 | |
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107 dedicated | |
adj.一心一意的;献身的;热诚的 | |
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108 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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109 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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110 gainsay | |
v.否认,反驳 | |
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111 genre | |
n.(文学、艺术等的)类型,体裁,风格 | |
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112 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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