Now, when I read the list of his misdeeds, as they are set forth11 categorically by irate12 novelists and poets, when I hear of his “ferocity, incompetence13 and dishonesty,” I am filled with heroic indignation and with craven fear. But when I turn from these scathing14 comments to a few columns of book notices, and see for myself the amiable15 effort that is made in them to say something reasonably pleasant about every volume, I begin to think that Mr. Lang is right when he complains that the ordinary anonymous reviewer is, as the Scotch16 lassie said of a modest lover, “senselessly ceevil,” good-natured and forbearing to a fault. If he sins, it is through indifference17, and not through brutality18. He is more anxious to spare himself than to attack his author. He has that provoking charity which is based upon unconcern, and he looks upon a book with a gentle{139} and weary tolerance19, fatal alike to animosity and enthusiasm. To understand the annoyance20 provoked by this mental attitude, we must remember that the work which is thus carelessly handled is, in its writer’s eyes, a thing sacred and apart; with faults perhaps,—no great book being wholly free from them,—but illustrating21 some particular attitude towards life, which places it beyond the pale of common, critical jurisprudence. Even the novelist of to-day sincerely believes that his point of view, his conception of his own art, and the lesson he desires to enforce are matters of vital interest to the public; and that it is crass22 ignorance on the reviewer’s part to ignore these considerations, and to class his masterpiece with the companion stories of less self-conscious men. What is the use of superbly discarding all models, and of thanking Heaven daily one does not resemble Fielding and Scott, and Thackeray, if one cannot escape after all from the standards which these great men erected23?
It is urged also against newspaper critics that they read only a small portion of the books which they pretend to criticise24. This,{140} I believe, is true, and it accounts for the goodhumor and charity they display. If they read the whole, we should have a band of misanthropes25 who would spare neither age nor sex, and who would gain no clearer knowledge of their subjects through this fearful sacrifice of time and temper. “To know the vintage and quality of a wine,” says Mr. Oscar Wilde, “one need not drink the whole cask. One tastes it, and that is quite enough.” More than enough for the reviewer very often, but too little to satisfy the author, who regards his work as Dick Swiveller regarded beer, as something not to be adequately recognized in a sip26. There is a secret and wholesome27 conviction in the heart of every man or woman who has written a book that it should be no easy matter for an intelligent reader to lay down that book unfinished. There is a pardonable impression among reviewers that half an hour in its company is sufficient. This is as much perhaps as they can afford to give it, and to write a brief, intelligent, appreciative28 notice of a partly read volume is not altogether the easy task it seems. That it is constantly done, proves the reviewer to be a man{141} skilled in his petty craft; but we are merely paving the way to disappointment if we expect subtle analysis, or fervent29 eulogy30, or even very discriminating31 criticism from his pen. He is not a Sainte-Beuve in the first place, and he has not a week of leisure in the second. We might console ourselves with the reflection that if he were a great and scholarly critic instead of an insignificant32 fellow-workman, our little books would never meet his eye.
Another complaint lodged33 periodically by discontents is that the author gains no real light from the comments passed upon his work, which are irritating and annoying without being in the smallest degree helpful. This is the substance of those sad grumblings which we heard some years ago from Mr. Lewis Morris; and this is the argument offered by Mr. Howells, who appears to think that Canon Farrar dealt a death-blow to reviewers in the simple statement that he never profited by their reviews. But at whose door lay the blame? It does not follow that, because a lesson is unlearned, it has never been taught. The Bourbons, it is said, gained nothing from some of the sharpest admonitions ever given{142} by history. It is worth while to consider, in this regard, an extract from the Journal of Sir Walter Scott in which he mentions an anonymous letter sent him from Italy, and full of acute, acrid34 criticisms on the “Life of Bonaparte.” “The tone is decidedly hostile,” says Sir Walter calmly, “but that shall not prevent my making use of all his corrections, where just.” It is a hard matter perhaps for smaller men to preserve this admirable tranquillity35 under assault; to say with Epictetus, “He little knew of my other shortcomings or he would not have mentioned these alone.” Yet after all, it is an advantage to be told plainly what we need to know and cannot see for ourselves, I am sure that the most valuable lesson in literary perspective I ever received came from an anonymous reviewer, who reminded me curtly36 that “Mr. Saltus and Leopardi are not twins of the intellect.” When I first saw that sentence I felt a throb37 of indignation that any one should believe, or affect to believe, that I ever for a moment supposed Mr. Saltus and Leopardi were twins of the intellect. Afterwards, when in calmer mood I re-read the essay criticised, I was{143} forced to acknowledge that, if such were not my conviction, I had, to say the least, been unfortunate in my manner of putting things. I had used the two names indiscriminately and as if I thought one man every whit38 as worthy39 of illustrating my text as the other. Such moments ought to be salutary, they are so eminently40 cheerless. A disagreeable lesson, disagreeably imparted, is apt to be taken to heart with very beneficial results. If it is wasted, the fault does not lie with the surly truth-teller, whose thankless task has been performed with most ungracious efficacy. “Truth,” says Saville, “has become such a ruining virtue41, that mankind seems to be agreed to commend and avoid it.”
As for the real and exasperating42 fault of much modern writing, its flippant and irrelevant43 cleverness, the critic and the reviewer stand equally guilty of the charge. Mr. Goldwin Smith observes that the province of criticism appears to be now limited to the saying of fine things; and there are moments when we feel that this unkind and forcible statement is very nearly true. The fatal and irresistible44 impulse to emit sparks—like the cat in the{144} fairy story—lures a man away from his subject, and sends him dancing over pages in a glittering fashion that is as useless as it is pretty. It is amazing how brightly he shines, but we see nothing by his light. “He uses his topic,” says Mr. Saintsbury, “as a springboard or platform on and from which to display his natural grace and agility45, his urbane46 learning, his faculty47 of pleasant wit.” We read, and laugh, and are entertained, and seldom pause to ask ourselves exactly what it was which the writer started out to accomplish.
Now the finest characteristic of all really good criticism is its power of self-repression. It is work within barriers, work which drives straight to its goal, and does not permit itself the luxury of meandering48 on either side of the way. In this respect at least, it is possible for the most modest of anonymous reviewers to follow the example of the first of critics, Sainte-Beuve, who never allowed himself to be lured49 away from the subject in hand, and never sacrificed exactness and perspicuity50 to effect. If we compare his essay on the historian Gibbon with one on the same subject{145} by Mr. Walter Bagehot, we will better understand this admirable quality of restraint. Mr. Bagehot’s paper is delightful51 from beginning to end; keen, sympathetic, humorous, and sparkling all over with little brilliant asides about Peel’s Act, and the South Sea Company, and grave powdered footmen, and Louis XIV., “carefully amusing himself with dreary52 trifles.” Underneath53 its whimsical exaggerations we recognize clearly the truthful54 outlines and general fidelity55 of the sketch56. But Sainte-Beuve indulges in none of these witty57 and wandering fancies. He is keenly alive to the proper limitations of his subject; he has but a single purpose in mind, that of helping58 you to accurately59 understand the character and the life’s work of the great historian whom he is reviewing; and, while his humor plays lambently on every page, he never makes any conscious effort to be diverting. Nothing can be more sprightly60 than Mr. Bagehot’s account of Gibbon’s early conversion61 to the Church of Rome, and of the horror and alarm he awoke thereby62 at the manor-house of Buriton, where “it would probably have occasioned less sensation if ‘dear Edward’ had announced his{146} intention of becoming a monkey.” Nothing can be more dexterous63 than Mr. Bagehot’s analysis of the cautious skepticism which replaced the brief religious fervor64 of youth. But when we turn back to Sainte-Beuve, we see this little sentence driven like an arrow-point straight to the heart of the mystery. “While he (Gibbon) prided himself on being wholly impartial65 and indifferent where creeds66 were concerned, he cherished, without avowing67 it, a secret and cold spite against religious thought, as if it were an adversary68 which had struck him one day when unarmed, and had wounded him.” A secret and cold spite. Were ever five short words more luminously69 and dispassionately significant?
A sense of proportion intrudes70 itself so seldom into the popular criticism of to-day, that it is hardly worth while to censure71 the reviewer for not comprehending differences of degree. How should he, when the whole tone of modern sentiment is subversive72 of order and distinction; when the generally accepted opinion appears to be that we are doing everything better than it was ever done before, and have nothing to learn from any{147}body? This is a pleasant opinion to entertain, but it is apt to be a little misleading. The old gods are not so readily dislodged, and their festal board is not a round table at which all guests hold equal rank. If you thrust Balzac or Tolstoi by the side of Shakespeare, the great poet, it has been well said, will, in his infinite courtesy, move higher and make room. But you cannot bid them change seats at your discretion. Parnassus is not the exclusive pasture ground of the Frenchman or of the Muscovite. “Homer often nods, but, in ‘Taras Bulba,’ Gogol never nods,” I read not long ago in a review. The inference is plain, and quite in harmony with much that we hear every day; but how many times already has Homer been outstripped73 by long forgotten competitors! It is not indeed the nameless critic of the newspapers who gives utterance74 to these startling statements. They are signed and countersigned75 in magazines, and occasionally republished in fat volumes for the comfort and enlightenment of posterity76. The real curiosities of criticism have ever emanated77 from men bearing the symbol of authority. It was no anonymous reviewer{148} who called Dante a “Methodist parson in Bedlam,” or who said that Wordsworth’s poetry would “never do,” or who spoke78 of the “caricaturist, Thackeray.” It is no anonymous reviewer now who bids us exult79 and be glad over the “literary emancipation80 of the West,” as though that large and flourishing portion of the United States had hitherto been held in lettered bondage81.
In fact, as one’s experience in these matters increases day by day, one is fain to acknowledge that the work of the unknown or little known professional critic, faulty though it be, has certain modest advantages over the similar work of his critics, the poets and novelists when they take to the business of reviewing. There are several very successful story-writers who are just now handling criticism after a fashion which recalls that delightful scene in “The Monks82 of Thelema,” where an effort to make the village maidens83 vote a golden apple to the prettiest of their number is frustrated84 by the unforeseen contingency85 of each girl voting for herself. In the same artless spirit, the novelist turned critic confines his good will so exclusively to his own work, or at best{149} to that school of fiction which his own work represents, that, while we cannot sufficiently86 admire his methods, we do not feel greatly stimulated87 by their results. As for the poet umpire, he is apt to bring an uncomfortable degree of excitability to bear upon his task. It is readily granted that Mr. Swinburne manifests at times an exquisite88 critical discernment, and a broad sympathy for much that is truly good; but when less gifted souls behold89 him foaming90 in Berserker wrath over insignificant trifles, they are wont91 to ask themselves what in the world is the matter. We can forgive him, or at least we can strive to forgive him, for reviling92 Byron, snubbing George Eliot, underrating George Sand, ignoring Jane Austen, calling poor Steele a “sentimental debauchee,” and asserting that the only two women worthy to stand by the side of Charlotte Bront?,” “the fiery-hearted vestal of Haworth”—though why “vestal,” only Mr. Swinburne knows—are her sister Emily and Mrs. Browning. But when he has been permitted to do all this and a great deal more, why should he fall into a passion, and use the strongest of strong language,{150} because there are details in which everybody does not chance to agree with him? In so wide a world there must of necessity be many minds, and the opinions of a poet are not always beacon93 fires to light us through the gloom. Even the musician has been for some time prepared to step into the critical arena94, and Mr. E. S. Dallos, in “The Gay Science,” quotes for us a characteristic extract from Wagner, which probably means something, though only a very subtle intellect could venture to say what.
“If we now consider the activity of the poet more closely, we perceive that the realization95 of his intention consists solely96 in rendering97 possible the representation of the strengthened actions of his poetized forms through an exposition of their motives98 to the feelings, as well as the motives themselves. Also by an expression that in so far engrosses99 his activity, as the invention and production of this expression in truth first render the introduction of such motives and actions possible.”
After this splendid example of style and lucidity100, it may be that even the ordinary,{151} every-day, unostentatious reviewer whom we so liberally despise will be admitted to possess some few redeeming101 virtues102.
And, in truth, patience is one of them. Think of the dull books which lie piled upon his table! Think how many they are, and how long they are, and how alike they are, and how serious they are, and how little we ourselves would care to read them! If the reviewer sometimes misses what is really good, or praises what is really bad, this does not mean that he is incompetent103, dishonest, or butcherly. It means that he is human, that he is tired, perhaps a little peevish104, and disposed to think the world would be a merrier place if there were fewer authors in it. The new novelist or budding poet who comes forward at this unpropitious moment is not hailed with acclamations of delight; while the conscientious105 worker who has spent long months in compiling the weighty memoirs106 of departed mediocrity is outraged107 by the scant108 attention he receives. Meanwhile the number of books increases with fearful speed. Each is the embodiment of a sanguine109 hope, and each claims its meed of praise. A fallible{152} reviewer struggles with the situation as best he can, saying pleasant things which are scantily110 merited, and sharp things which are hardly deserved; but striving intelligently, and with tolerable success to tell a self-indulgent public something about the volumes which it is too lazy to read for itself.
“O dreams of the tongues that commend us,
Of a public to buy and befriend us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate.
But the people that hold us in scorn,
Through the portals of horn.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
unduly
|
|
| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
pariahs
|
|
| n.被社会遗弃者( pariah的名词复数 )；贱民 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
anonymous
|
|
| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
semblance
|
|
| n.外貌，外表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
goodwill
|
|
| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pelted
|
|
| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
irate
|
|
| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
incompetence
|
|
| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
scathing
|
|
| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
brutality
|
|
| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tolerance
|
|
| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
illustrating
|
|
| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
crass
|
|
| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
ERECTED
|
|
| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
criticise
|
|
| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
misanthropes
|
|
| n.厌恶人类者( misanthrope的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
26
sip
|
|
| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
appreciative
|
|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
fervent
|
|
| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
eulogy
|
|
| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
discriminating
|
|
| a.有辨别能力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
lodged
|
|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
acrid
|
|
| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
tranquillity
|
|
| n. 平静, 安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
curtly
|
|
| adv.简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
throb
|
|
| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
whit
|
|
| n.一点，丝毫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
eminently
|
|
| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
exasperating
|
|
| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
irrelevant
|
|
| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
irresistible
|
|
| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
agility
|
|
| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
urbane
|
|
| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
meandering
|
|
| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
lured
|
|
| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
perspicuity
|
|
| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
truthful
|
|
| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
fidelity
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
witty
|
|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
accurately
|
|
| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
sprightly
|
|
| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
conversion
|
|
| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
dexterous
|
|
| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
fervor
|
|
| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
impartial
|
|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
creeds
|
|
| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
avowing
|
|
| v.公开声明，承认( avow的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
adversary
|
|
| adj.敌手，对手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
luminously
|
|
| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
intrudes
|
|
| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的第三人称单数 )；把…强加于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
subversive
|
|
| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
outstripped
|
|
| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
countersigned
|
|
| v.连署，副署，会签 （文件）( countersign的过去式 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
posterity
|
|
| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
emanated
|
|
| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
exult
|
|
| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
emancipation
|
|
| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
bondage
|
|
| n.奴役，束缚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
monks
|
|
| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
maidens
|
|
| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
frustrated
|
|
| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
contingency
|
|
| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
stimulated
|
|
| a.刺激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
foaming
|
|
| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
reviling
|
|
| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
beacon
|
|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
arena
|
|
| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
realization
|
|
| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
solely
|
|
| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
rendering
|
|
| n.表现，描写 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
engrosses
|
|
| v.使全神贯注( engross的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
100
lucidity
|
|
| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
redeeming
|
|
| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
virtues
|
|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
incompetent
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
peevish
|
|
| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
memoirs
|
|
| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
outraged
|
|
| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
scant
|
|
| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
sanguine
|
|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
scantily
|
|
| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
pate
|
|
| n.头顶；光顶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
slash
|
|
| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
slate
|
|
| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
scathe
|
|
| v.损伤；n.伤害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |