I wonder if any of those who perchance read this know of any formula, Christian1, pagan, even Christian Scientist, which insures, or has any chance of insuring, decent habit of body or mind during an attack of lumbago. I have been trying my best in all three; that is to say, as a Christian I have tried to be cheerful, to wear a helpful sort of smile, and have said to myself, ‘Think of the early Christian martyrs2, the boiling oil, and the lions, and those horrors.’ But myself has said to me, ‘That was for a good cause; besides, they soon died.’ Now, lumbago does not kill anybody, and, as far as I am aware, it is an invention of the devil. Thus Christianity failed to help me.
Then I tried paganism. In other words, I swore. It did not do the slightest good.
Then I tried Christian Science. I said: ‘There {52}is no such thing as pain—ow!—-- Moral mind refuses to recognise the existence of mortal mind. There is nothing material; all material is mortal mind, and there isn’t any. Therefore I have no back, and consequently no small of it. It is all a false claim. Thus, as there isn’t any, it is perfectly4 ridiculous to think I have a shooting pain there, for there is no such thing as either (i.) the small of my back, (ii.) pain, either there or anywhere else. I will therefore smile, and get up with a firm, brisk movement.’ I did.
Oh, Mrs. Eddy5! The false claim was more than usually clamant.
In fact, for two days I have felt myself such a martyr3 that I am now, happily, beginning to feel that I cannot possibly be a martyr at all. Nobody can conceivably have suffered such agonies as I have been thinking I suffered and survived. All the same——
I was riding down Davies Street on my bicycle two mornings ago, in the very best of health and spirits. Where Grosvenor Street crosses it, a fool of a cabman (though I had rung my bell) drove slowly across my path, and I had to dismount. I exchanged a pleasantry or two with him of a{53} bitingly high-spirited nature, and essayed to get on again. At that moment, so it seemed, I was stabbed in the back, and I heard the cabman say, ‘Comin’ over me like that, and drunk at this hour of the morning’—continuing, you will have seen, our previous conversation. Bad, untrue, unkind as it was, it was the last word, and so is entitled to a certain respect. But next time I see No. 24,304 I will see if I cannot give him lumbago. (This, evidently, is the pagan mood returning.)
Since that moment the joy of life has vanished. It—I cannot write the word again, and I will only remark that it sounds like a second-rate Spanish watering-place—has known my down-sitting and mine uprising, and has smirched my days. I have eaten no meat, I have drunk no wine, I have been incapable6 of taking part in all social and pleasant affairs. I was told that exercise was good, and went to skate at Niagara, and retired7 after one stroke with a cold-dewed brow. I was told a Turkish bath was good, and caught a cold in the head on the top of it. I was told not to think about it—this was the Christian Science{54} treatment, more or less—and the effect was that the Spanish watering-place thought the more of me. Only two hours ago, dressing8 for dinner—I dined alone in my horrid9 room—I dropped a sovereign on the floor, seriously considered whether it was worth picking up, and decided10 it was not. At that moment any tramp could have had it. Then by pure chance my servant came in, and I regained11 it. I was told to take Lithia Varalettes: the only effect, as far as I am aware, is that I am lowered for life. I even went so far as to see a doctor, who asked me whether I had done anything which might have produced a chill. Thank goodness, I had the face to say ‘No.’ In consequence he talked of the functions of certain internal organs; into these regions I did not attempt to follow him.
Now, all that I have written with regard to the second-rate Spanish watering-place is literally12 true. All the things which I am conscious of enjoying every day, such as reading, food, silly conversation, proper wine, violent physical exertion13, cold baths, grew pale or impossible. But looking back even from the middle of it all—for to-night{55} it is, if anything, a little more acute—I begin to see that nothing on the whole matters less than physical pain. Once before in my life, when I was eight years old, I had bad earache14, so my family assure me. Of that I can remember nothing whatever, except that in consequence I went to stay near Dartmouth for change of air. But of Dartmouth I remember much. There was an aloe in the garden, and one of its great fibrous leaves projected across the path, and was cut off. This had to be done by a strong gardener with a saw. A leaf cut by a saw! There were also rock pools in the estuary15, with strawberry anemones—so we called them—waving in the water; steamers passed, visible through a telescope, that would go straight on, self-contained, unhelped till they reached America. Ruta-muraria, a small mean fern (I cannot even remember hearing its name except then), grew in crevices16 in the garden wall; it was rare, and began and ended my collection of ferns. That is what remains17 to me of the earache. Once again I had a tooth out. That was half a crown.
And now I have lumbago, and from analogy I{56} see that a fortnight hence, and a week hence (I hope), and a year hence, I shall remember nothing of it, except that for a few days I stopped indoors mostly, wrote notes of regret, and read a variety of delightful18 books. ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ I have read; I have quaked with Hyde, and shuddered19 with Jekyll: I have been down the Sambre canalized; I have been sucked under the fallen tree on the Oise; I have understood why Mr. Crummles deluded20 himself into thinking the Phenomenon was a phenomenon; I have admired the moral valour of Mrs. Nickleby when she convinced herself about the previous sanity21 of the gentleman in small-clothes and gray stockings; I have killed the Red Dhole from the Deccan, and have sat (a remarkable22 feat) with Princess Napraxine in a temperature of over 130° Fahrenheit23. But for the lumbago, I should probably have done none of these delightful things. Also I have learned (I shall have to learn it again and again) that the moment is always tolerable. Even this tiny pin-prick of a pain can teach one that. ‘Circumscribe the moment’ as Marcus Aurelius said. You can get along all right for the{57} moment (unless you die, and then the trouble is solved): why think of the moments to come? When they come, deal with them. And I hope that if I ever suffer from carcinomato-cerebrospinal sciatica, I may think of that.
Besides—I must justify24 my conscience with respect to the doctor—I do not think it proved that my night adventure had anything to do with the lumbago. Thus, it would have been unfair to cast it, like bread on the waters, to a suspicious physician. And even if it had, it was well worth it. I would do it again to-morrow night, if the mood only could come again.
I wonder how the writing and the subsequent publication of any book, the meanest, affects the average author? No doubt the great powers in authorship, so to speak, care as little when another volume is launched as does the Empire at large when another battleship leaves the slips to join its mighty25 brothers. But for the majority—those of us, in fact, who hope some day (however vainglorious26 the hope, we all cling to it) to produce a book which may rouse laughter or tears or interest twenty years hence—I imagine that there is scarcely{58} any excitement, depression, exaltation or misgiving27 that we have ever felt which is comparable to those attendant on the writing and launching of our little paper fleets. And as I have just launched another little paper boat to go and look after its drowned brothers, and the memory of all the emotions attendant on it is consequently keen, it may be of interest, in however small a degree, to others to read what even so uneminent an author as myself experiences in these times.
Birds, perhaps, give one the only simile28 possible for the first period. For the idea of the book, its scope, its aim, its plot, and, to a certain degree, its characters, all exist, in my case, before I put a word down on paper. When these are complete, we may say that the egg is there. The writing it, to my mind, is equivalent to the hatching only; but the definite production of the egg—of that which contains potential vitality29—is over and complete at the moment the writing begins. If there is no potential vitality in it then, there never will be. When I begin to write, I am sitting on my egg.{59}
Now, this first period—here we dismiss the simile of the egg, and take that of disease—lasts for a very ill-defined period. During it the patient is continually conscious of an abnormality of condition. His spirits are very variable: sometimes for days together the appetite will be good (mine always is), and the only symptom of the malady30 is a slightly increased vividness. Speech is coherent, but rather more fluent than usual; he tends to talk nonsense (this must not be confused with the subsequent wandering). Then, without apparent cause, stages of depression, irritability31, and general peevishness32 ensue: he will decry33 his favourite pursuits, particularly authorship, and express audibly a desire for a large and settled income in Consols. Shortly before the crisis approaches (i.e., the first dip of the pen in ink) a period of febrile excitement ensues; he will put sudden problems to his nurses as to how A would act given B, C, and D did so-and-so, and, whatever the answers given him, he will certainly take exception to them. This is the period of wandering alluded34 to above. Both the period of excitement previous to this and the period of{60} depression are marked by a certain listlessness with regard to other pursuits; the patient takes nothing, except his malady, quite seriously, and though he performs the ordinary routine of life with correctness, he performs it somehow subaqueously. Indeed, he is never quite himself from the time the seeds of the malady first attack him.
All these symptoms are temporarily ameliorated when, to go back to our first simile, the egg is laid. For a time the nurses are encouraged to hope that the worst is over. Large quantities of what is known as ‘sermon-paper’ should be given without stint35, and special care taken that there should be in every room, where the patient can possibly desire to sit, plenty of black ink and suitable pens. For a day or two he may refuse to go out altogether, or play any game, and here it is a mistake on the part of the nurses to urge him to do so. He may, in fact, be entirely36 left to himself. Probably these favourable37 symptoms will last for a week or two (during which the supply of sermon-paper should be renewed), and then a change for the worse comes over the{61} patient. The irritability returns, and with it an attack, more or less severe, of complete idleness and indescribable misgivings38. He again expresses a wish for a settled income in Consols, and often goes suddenly to stay with his friends, or, if the disease is not so acute, merely lunches and dines out every day, and seems to fear being left alone. Then the malady becomes spasmodic, the periods of inaction alternate with periods of feverish39 industry, to which succeeds an attack of apparent coma40 with regard to everything except the disease itself, which is now confluent and completely encompasses41 him. A series of absolutely happy days ensue, accompanied by great mental activity and enormous consumption of sermon-paper. As soon as this definitely sets in, the nurses may make themselves quite happy for the time being. All fears of suicide may be considered over, and there is no allusion42 to Consols. And thus the egg is hatched in a blaze of hypertrophied glory.
It is hatched. That is to say, the MS.—such as it is—is complete, and personally one is completely happy for about a week. Then ensues a very tedious period, which is at times brightened{62} by finding that something is better than one thought, but oftener darkened by finding that something is worse than one thought. In other words, after a week of idleness, I sit laboriously43 down, and copy out the whole thing from beginning to end. Other patients at this point, I believe, use a typewriter, but personally, on the one occasion when I did so, I found that the corrections were not compassable even in triple-spaced type. So now, when the first MS. is complete, I begin from the beginning, and write the whole story out again. Chapters are often excised44, and chapters (more rarely) inserted, since in my first MS. I find that I much more commonly say too much than too little. (Here is an opening for critics to point out how extraordinarily45 superfluous46 the first MS. must have been.) This period is the tiresome47 part of the hatching of the egg. The writing of the first MS., astounding48 though it may appear, was attended by a certain excitement: whereas the writing of the second is due to the desire, shall we call it? to catch one’s self tripping, to detect, by the painful process of copying, one, perhaps, of the hundred absurdities{63} that one has committed. Yet there is a certain delight even in this, for since one would not set pen to paper at all unless one thought that one had an idea of some kind, it is mildly pleasant even now, when the first excitement is over, to see in cool blood what the idea was, to emphasize what appear to be its decent points, to suppress its bad ones. After that the second MS. goes to the typewriter, and peace again reigns49.
Now, during the first writing of the MS. a curious thing has more than once happened to me; that is to say, a character, or a situation, or even the story itself, takes the bit between its teeth, and, as far as I know, bolts. One had meant to do and to say something different, but whether it is that even in the meanest-imagined character one, so to speak, raises the devil, and cannot be held responsible for his subsequent action, or whatever the cause, this phenomenon occurs. In the terms of our first simile, this is the cuckoo’s egg in the hedge-sparrow’s nest. One sits on the thing—writes it, that is—but it is not going to be a hedge-sparrow at all, but something quite {64}different. This has happened to me more than once, in —— and —— (my egotism does not go quite so far as to write the names of these obscure tales), I had definitely meant to give a different outcome. I had meant a character to be different in character, and thus to play another part. But writing I found it was not so. That character would go another way. And did. I followed faint but pursuing.
To resume. The MS. comes back from the typewriter’s, and the sickening part of the work begins. In print, somehow, the degrading stuff looks even more degraded; for print, as Hazlitt said, in more senses than one, had he known it, ‘print settles it.’ What one suspected was rather sketchy50 and amateur becomes indubitably so. What one thought was somewhat workmanlike appears merely slip-shod carpentering, unplaned, out of line, with screws and nails not driven home. One taps here, one whacks51 there; one planes down, and finds one has planed too much; one planes down, and finds one has to plane more. One thinks—and this is, perhaps, the worst of all—that A rather resembles one’s dear friend, John Smith, and ruthlessly takes all the stuff out of him, leaving an enfeebled marionette52. Then, like a{65} pin-prick to a man on fire, come the inevitable53 typewriter’s errors, necessitating54 reference to the MS. Some typewriters omit whole sentences, because they are not certain (no wonder); others rush in where angels fear to tread, with brilliant repartees of a sort undreamed of; others spell a name wrong throughout; others—and they are worse—spell it wrong occasionally. When I have time I will write an article on typewriters. They will not, after that, hold their heads so high.
Then comes the last step. When the typoscript (an awful word) has been corrected, and if necessary another made, and also corrected, the whole thing goes to the publisher, and in course of time come proofs. Proofs are of two kinds—galley55 proofs and page proofs. Galley proofs are interminable strips of paper which slide off one’s desk, get mixed, and are altogether impossible. Page proofs, though depressing, are manageable, because they come in folded sheets of sixteen pages. Then once again are all weak points glaringly emphasized, the indescribable misgivings return with redoubled vigour56, and invariably I long to live the last year, or whatever it may be, over again, in{66} order to have profited by my previous experience and do better. Usually at this stage—perhaps because I am used to it—the ‘idea’ does not seem to me so bad. It is only everything else that is wrong. Yet even then come sanguine57 moments. Quite suddenly I find myself thinking it is extremely good. How delicate, for instance, is the way in which Y behaves, how subtle and correct is Z’s induction58. Back swings the pendulum59: over go these unstable60 ninepins.
There is probably a revise—there may be two—and the bread is cast upon the waters. As the date for publication approaches I feel ill. If I could, I would recall it all. One has felt a certain situation, or a certain character, keenly; was it not enough to have felt it, without throwing it, like early Christians61, to the public? They will tear it into shreds62, and probably refuse to swallow it.
But just then—when, in my experience, the darkest hour is on one, when one distrusts utterly63 all one has done, when one is afraid that that which is to one’s self a chiefest joy of life is to everyone else just a mud-pie made by a child in a populous64 roadway, to be carefully stepped over{67} by three-quarters of the passers-by, to be stepped into by the remaining quarter, who, with a careless cuff65 to the maker66 of it, will pass on, remembering it only as they would remember some tiny untowardness67 in the menu at dinner—then comes quite suddenly the remembrance of an exceeding unexpected joy. A man or a woman, otherwise quite unknown to one, has on the last occasion of this kind thought it worth while to send a line, it may be a postcard only, to say ‘thank you.’ Once this ‘thank you’ arrived to me from New Zealand, and was accompanied by two frozen sheep bred on the reader’s farm. The letter said, ‘Please do not answer this, or you will think I am wanting an autograph.’ Or, again, it may be just a press-cutting from a provincial68 paper, that shows me that someone whom I have never seen, and probably will never see, has understood something of what made me so happy when I thought of it. And that—unreasonably, perhaps—more than counterbalances the vituperation or the scorn of those who either do not or will not see. For a friend concerns me very much: an enemy, or, if that is too big a word,{68} an acquaintance to whom I am antipathetic, concerns me not at all. He is a negative quantity, and in this life of ours the negative quantities do not matter, for the man who has one friend is infinitely69 better off than the man who has no enemies and a million acquaintances.
Acquaintances! They are the bane and the absurdity70 of life, and especially of ordinary London life. How often has one heard it said, and, indeed, said one’s self, ‘Such a bore! I’ve got to go and call on So-and-so.’ For if one finds it a burden to go and talk to anybody, for social reasons, it shows a very unbecoming conceit71 if one imagines that one’s hostess will fail to find it a bore too. The custom, for instance, of calling after one has dined at a house is a very sensible and pleasant one, but it presumes that you have been dining with a friend. In this case the call will not bore you. But if the call bores you, it is probable that the dinner bored you too, in which case, unless you dined there for the sake of being fed gratis72, why did you dine there at all? Again, a step further, how often have you exclaimed, ‘What a bore! {69}I’ve got to dine with —— to-night.’ And if you say that, you have no business to eat ——’s cutlet.
Of course, there is another side to the question—for questions with only one side to them have ceased to be questions at all—and that is, that at any such house you may meet a friend, or you may meet someone who will eventually become a friend. Then, I grant, it were worth while trudging73 there a hundred miles on foot, for from pole to pole, if you search the earth, you will find nothing better than a friend. How many have you? I have nine, and consider myself most fortunate. Or, again, you may find the very fact of meeting a certain number of people, though they are the barest acquaintances, stimulating74, just as there are certain plants which thrive better with others of their species than alone. That, again, is a good reason: only when social etiquette75 demands a call of you, do not say, ‘What a bore!’ You have received a benefit: pay the current coin for it and don’t grumble76.
Now, this herding77 together of human beings with wealth and leisure into London for several months every year—there to meet their friends,{70} of course, but also a whole host of people who will never, and can never, be more than acquaintances—is a very curious modern phenomenon. London—in this sense of the word—was born not so many decades ago, and since then has grown, and is growing, in a manner perfectly amazing. There was a time, say eighty years ago, when London in this sense practically did not exist; the ‘season’ was enjoyed by those who now go to London in a dozen country towns, to which the rank and fashion of the country flocked, and there made gay on their native pavements. And, by all accounts, they did make gay. Then, by degrees, this remarkable monster of London began growing. People of leisure—or so I take it—began to weary of that priceless benefit, and in a couple of generations have turned themselves into perfect galley-slaves in the barque which they term, some of them mistakenly, ‘Pleasure.’ Means of travel got easier, quicker, and cheaper; more families every year, who had no business, either political or of money-making, took to going to London, where they found twenty theatres instead of one, a million people to move among instead of a{71} thousand. Intimacies78, it is true, were less common there than in the friendly and less populous streets of their county town, but, instead, they might in the streets or at the houses of their acquaintances behold79, in propria persona, the man or woman with whose name at the moment the world was ringing; or a new play claimed their attention and provided an easy subject of conversation—for conversation, unless they were people of brains, and many excellent folk are not, began, perhaps, to wear a little thin in the sixth week of their season at York or Winchester. But it would be impossible to be in London in the autumn or winter, during the months of shooting and hunting, and so, by common consent, the London season—a unique fact—was fixed80 for the months May, June, and July—a time when air in town is scarce, and suns are sultry, but a time in the country when Nature holds high festival, and all who have eyes to see and ears to hear are equally honoured at her banquet. But—and this could only happen in the Anglo-Saxon race, and it is symptomatic of the strength, and possibly, in years to come, of its weakness—Sport{72} said the final word. Half-fledged pheasants are not shootable, and foxes, that strange breed, which would have been exterminated81 long ago were it not for the ordinance82 that they shall be killed in one way only, were busy with the propagation of their species. And thus, though Nature spreads her feast, but sits alone at her empty board, she still has the last compelling word on the subject.
In fact, during the last half-dozen decades a new feverish and nervous disease has spread over England in a terrifying manner. We may call it Turbamania, or the passion for crowds, and, like the influenza83, it attacks the upper classes more, it would appear, than the lower. No cure for it has yet been found, and it has not received, as a specific disease, the attention it deserves. This is curious: for in this inquisitive84 age, though it was a disease that only manifested itself in, let us say, slight redness of the little finger, and was perfectly harmless, we should probably by this time be possessed85 of a hospital for treatment of the cases, and dozens of savants squinting86 themselves purblind87 in the hope of discovering its bacillus. Many daily, and especially weekly,{73} papers have columns devoted88 to its symptoms, though they apparently89 do not know that they are speaking of it. But whenever I see that the Marquis of —— entertained the following distinguished90 company to dinner, I recognise Turbamania. For whom (except the sufferers from this distressing91 malady) can such an announcement concern? Not the diners, surely, for they were aware of it before. Nor, as far as I can see, those who were not asked, for the simple reason that they were not asked. Or who (except Turbamaniacs) care to hear how Lady —— was dressed? She herself, those who saw her, or those who did not see her? For the life of me I cannot tell. Yet how great must be the demand for such information, if we consider in what enormous quantities it is supplied! It must be read and looked for by thousands who do not know Lady —— by sight. Her mother, her sister, her daughter perhaps, if in India, might have gentle emotions raised by the knowledge of how she was dressed. But who else?
The theme is not worth consideration, except from my own standpoint, my own private view of{74} it, which at this moment occupies me enormously. Six months ago I decided to leave London, that most jealous of all mistresses, who exacts from us not merely our conscious thoughts, but pervades92 us in a way that no Cleopatra ever did yet. To anyone who has not known London the idea is unintelligible93; to anyone who has, all explanations fall short of what he knows.
Think of it! Five million people, awake or asleep, round one—five million, each of whom is as important to himself as I to me, stealing about like thoughts in the brain of this busy city, intent, alert, as are no other five million people in the world. My God! how I love the sense of it! how each street is to me a room, a passage, in a great house to which I have but lately succeeded, and is crammed94 with treasures, some few of which I know by sight, but of which as yet I do not know the thousandth part. What are they? Men and women, that is all; and is that not enough?
What is it? What is it, I vainly ask myself, that stirs me so? Me, who know unconsciously the drone of the four-wheeler as it passes up this{75} huge beating artery95 of life, and, without distraction96 of thought, can distinguish it from the quick cloop-cloop of the hansom, and can recognise the boom of the omnibus, and divine the meaning of a hundred noises in the street without raising my eyes or losing the thread of what I am doing. Life, jostling, vulgar, crowded, commonplace (God forgive me!) life. Oh, how excellent! I do not look at the placards of the latest news; I look at the seedy man who carries them about like a plaster on his usually weak chest. How can I convey it all? The wet asphalt of the roadway, the streaked97 mud of the roadway, the smell of the Twopenny Tube, the reek98 from the restaurant next door, the reprints of Cosway in the shop-window adjoining, my own door with a circling lock, which is always upside down to my key. What does it all mean to the person who does not know what it means? and what can that which I say mean to the person who does know?
Yet, drunk as I am with crowds (here indeed is Turbamania), I propose to-morrow to go forth99 to a house in a sleepy county town, where no{76} one is ever in a hurry, though many have the impression that they are, and there are oiled wheels of existence continually gently turning, which, as far as I know at present, find no particular grist, instead of these grating, roaring, spinning fly-wheels of the world. There is a hotel bus there, and no hansoms; no vomiting100 of crowds from embowelled stations, no—no anything, as it seems to me this moment, except—and this is in the main the reason for which I go—there is as much time there as in London (all the time there is, in fact), and less to do in it. I want, in fact, to arrive at a greater simplicity101 of life than seems to me possible in London, to get into what I believe to be more normal and healthy conditions, instead of living an existence which, however delightful and absorbing, is yet slightly feverish. I want to get out of the habit of thinking of the next delightful thing I am going to do in the course of the one which I am doing, and so largely missing its point—not to be in a hurry, not to clutch so much at pleasures.
Also, in spite of my passion for crowds, I have desired all this last year, with a haunting intensity{77} which I cannot hope to convey, to watch the bursting of the spring, to see it mix into the great triumph of the summer, to follow step by step the fruition of the sun, and, to round the perfect circle, see the accomplished102 and completed year fall to sleep again in the arms of winter—the year which, since the beginning of time, has been waiting among the crowds of the uncounted centuries for its turn to give to the sons of men sweet and bitter, ecstasy103, and life and death, as God has ordained104.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
martyrs
|
|
| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
martyr
|
|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
eddy
|
|
| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
regained
|
|
| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
exertion
|
|
| n.尽力，努力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
earache
|
|
| n.耳朵痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
estuary
|
|
| n.河口，江口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
crevices
|
|
| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
deluded
|
|
| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
sanity
|
|
| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
Fahrenheit
|
|
| n./adj.华氏温度；华氏温度计(的) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
vainglorious
|
|
| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
misgiving
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
simile
|
|
| n.直喻，明喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
malady
|
|
| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
irritability
|
|
| n.易怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
peevishness
|
|
| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
decry
|
|
| v.危难，谴责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
stint
|
|
| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
favourable
|
|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
misgivings
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
feverish
|
|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
coma
|
|
| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
encompasses
|
|
| v.围绕( encompass的第三人称单数 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
laboriously
|
|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
excised
|
|
| v.切除，删去( excise的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
superfluous
|
|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
reigns
|
|
| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
sketchy
|
|
| adj.写生的，写生风格的，概略的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
whacks
|
|
| n.重击声( whack的名词复数 )；不正常；有毛病v.重击，使劲打( whack的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
marionette
|
|
| n.木偶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
necessitating
|
|
| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
galley
|
|
| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
vigour
|
|
| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
sanguine
|
|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
induction
|
|
| n.感应，感应现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pendulum
|
|
| n.摆，钟摆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
unstable
|
|
| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
Christians
|
|
| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
shreds
|
|
| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
populous
|
|
| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
cuff
|
|
| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
maker
|
|
| n.制造者，制造商 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
untowardness
|
|
| Untowardness | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
absurdity
|
|
| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
conceit
|
|
| n.自负，自高自大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
gratis
|
|
| adj.免费的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
trudging
|
|
| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
stimulating
|
|
| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
etiquette
|
|
| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
herding
|
|
| 中畜群 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
intimacies
|
|
| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
exterminated
|
|
| v.消灭，根绝( exterminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
ordinance
|
|
| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
influenza
|
|
| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
inquisitive
|
|
| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
squinting
|
|
| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
purblind
|
|
| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
pervades
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
unintelligible
|
|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
crammed
|
|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
artery
|
|
| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
distraction
|
|
| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
streaked
|
|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
reek
|
|
| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
vomiting
|
|
| 吐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
ordained
|
|
| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |