“The bottom shelf,” he was saying, “is taken up by an Encyclopaedia7 in fourteen volumes. Useful, but a little dull, as is also Caprimulge’s ‘Dictionary of the Finnish Language’. The ‘Biographical Dictionary’ looks more promising8. ‘Biography of Men who were Born Great’, ‘Biography of Men who Achieved Greatness’, ‘Biography of Men who had Greatness Thrust upon Them’, and ‘Biography of Men who were Never Great at All’. Then there are ten volumes of ‘Thom’s Works and Wanderings’, while the ‘Wild Goose Chase, a Novel’, by an anonymous9 author, fills no less than six. But what’s this, what’s this?” Mr. Scogan stood on tiptoe and peered up. “Seven volumes of the ‘Tales of Knockespotch’. The ‘Tales of Knockespotch’,” he repeated. “Ah, my dear Henry,” he said, turning round, “these are your best books. I would willingly give all the rest of your library for them.”
The happy possessor of a multitude of first editions, Mr. Wimbush could afford to smile indulgently.
“Is it possible,” Mr. Scogan went on, “that they possess nothing more than a back and a title?” He opened the cupboard door and peeped inside, as though he hoped to find the rest of the books behind it. “Phooh!” he said, and shut the door again. “It smells of dust and mildew10. How symbolical11! One comes to the great masterpieces of the past, expecting some miraculous12 illumination, and one finds, on opening them, only darkness and dust and a faint smell of decay. After all, what is reading but a vice13, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive self-indulgence? One reads to tickle14 and amuse one’s mind; one reads, above all, to prevent oneself thinking. Still—the ‘Tales of Knockespotch’...”
He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs of the non-existent, unattainable books.
“But I disagree with you about reading,” said Mary. “About serious reading, I mean.”
“Quite right, Mary, quite right,” Mr. Scogan answered. “I had forgotten there were any serious people in the room.”
“I like the idea of the Biographies,” said Denis. “There’s room for us all within the scheme; it’s comprehensive.”
“Yes, the Biographies are good, the Biographies are excellent,” Mr Scogan agreed. “I imagine them written in a very elegant Regency style—Brighton Pavilion in words—perhaps by the great Dr. Lempriere himself. You know his classical dictionary? Ah!” Mr. Scogan raised his hand and let it limply fall again in a gesture which implied that words failed him. “Read his biography of Helen; read how Jupiter, disguised as a swan, was ‘enabled to avail himself of his situation’ vis-a-vis to Leda. And to think that he may have, must have written these biographies of the Great! What a work, Henry! And, owing to the idiotic15 arrangement of your library, it can’t be read.”
“I prefer the ‘Wild Goose Chase’,” said Anne. “A novel in six volumes—it must be restful.”
“Restful,” Mr. Scogan repeated. “You’ve hit on the right word. A ‘Wild Goose Chase’ is sound, but a bit old-fashioned—pictures of clerical life in the fifties, you know; specimens16 of the landed gentry17; peasants for pathos18 and comedy; and in the background, always the picturesque19 beauties of nature soberly described. All very good and solid, but, like certain puddings, just a little dull. Personally, I like much better the notion of ‘Thom’s Works and Wanderings’. The eccentric Mr. Thom of Thom’s Hill. Old Tom Thom, as his intimates used to call him. He spent ten years in Thibet organising the clarified butter industry on modern European lines, and was able to retire at thirty-six with a handsome fortune. The rest of his life he devoted20 to travel and ratiocination21; here is the result.” Mr. Scogan tapped the dummy books. “And now we come to the ‘Tales of Knockespotch’. What a masterpiece and what a great man! Knockespotch knew how to write fiction. Ah, Denis, if you could only read Knockespotch you wouldn’t be writing a novel about the wearisome development of a young man’s character, you wouldn’t be describing in endless, fastidious detail, cultured life in Chelsea and Bloomsbury and Hampstead. You would be trying to write a readable book. But then, alas22! owing to the peculiar23 arrangement of our host’s library, you never will read Knockespotch.”
“Nobody could regret the fact more than I do,” said Denis.
“It was Knockespotch,” Mr. Scogan continued, “the great Knockespotch, who delivered us from the dreary24 tyranny of the realistic novel. My life, Knockespotch said, is not so long that I can afford to spend precious hours writing or reading descriptions of middle-class interiors. He said again, ‘I am tired of seeing the human mind bogged25 in a social plenum; I prefer to paint it in a vacuum, freely and sportively bombinating.’”
“I say,” said Gombauld, “Knockespotch was a little obscure sometimes, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Mr. Scogan replied, “and with intention. It made him seem even profounder than he actually was. But it was only in his aphorisms26 that he was so dark and oracular. In his Tales he was always luminous27. Oh, those Tales—those Tales! How shall I describe them? Fabulous28 characters shoot across his pages like gaily29 dressed performers on the trapeze. There are extraordinary adventures and still more extraordinary speculations30. Intelligences and emotions, relieved of all the imbecile preoccupations of civilised life, move in intricate and subtle dances, crossing and recrossing, advancing, retreating, impinging. An immense erudition and an immense fancy go hand in hand. All the ideas of the present and of the past, on every possible subject, bob up among the Tales, smile gravely or grimace31 a caricature of themselves, then disappear to make place for something new. The verbal surface of his writing is rich and fantastically diversified32. The wit is incessant33. The...”
“But couldn’t you give us a specimen,” Denis broke in—“a concrete example?”
“Alas!” Mr. Scogan replied, “Knockespotch’s great book is like the sword Excalibur. It remains34 struck fast in this door, awaiting the coming of a writer with genius enough to draw it forth35. I am not even a writer, I am not so much as qualified36 to attempt the task. The extraction of Knockespotch from his wooden prison I leave, my dear Denis, to you.”
“Thank you,” said Denis.
点击收听单词发音
1 adjourned | |
(使)休会, (使)休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2 dummy | |
n.假的东西;(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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3 mouldered | |
v.腐朽( moulder的过去式和过去分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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4 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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5 sips | |
n.小口喝,一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6 discoursed | |
演说(discourse的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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7 encyclopaedia | |
n.百科全书 | |
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8 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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9 anonymous | |
adj.无名的;匿名的;无特色的 | |
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10 mildew | |
n.发霉;v.(使)发霉 | |
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11 symbolical | |
a.象征性的 | |
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12 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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13 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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14 tickle | |
v.搔痒,胳肢;使高兴;发痒;n.搔痒,发痒 | |
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15 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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16 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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17 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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18 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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19 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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20 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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21 ratiocination | |
n.推理;推断 | |
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22 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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23 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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24 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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25 bogged | |
adj.陷于泥沼的v.(使)陷入泥沼, (使)陷入困境( bog的过去式和过去分词 );妨碍,阻碍 | |
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26 aphorisms | |
格言,警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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27 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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28 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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29 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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30 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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31 grimace | |
v.做鬼脸,面部歪扭 | |
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32 diversified | |
adj.多样化的,多种经营的v.使多样化,多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 );进入新的商业领域 | |
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33 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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34 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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35 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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36 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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