His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.
SHELLEY’S Revolt of Islam.
Reader, who have thus far accompanied me, I must request your attention to a brief explanatory note on three points:
1. For several reasons I have not been able to compose the notes for this part of my narrative1 into any regular and connected shape. I give the notes disjointed as I find them, or have now drawn2 them up from memory. Some of them point to their own date, some I have dated, and some are undated. Whenever it could answer my purpose to transplant them from the natural or chronological3 order, I have not scrupled5 to do so. Sometimes I speak in the present, sometimes in the past tense. Few of the notes, perhaps, were written exactly at the period of time to which they relate; but this can little affect their accuracy, as the impressions were such that they can never fade from my mind. Much has been omitted. I could not, without effort, constrain6 myself to the task of either recalling, or constructing into a regular narrative, the whole burthen of horrors which lies upon my brain. This feeling partly I plead in excuse, and partly that I am now in London, and am a helpless sort of person, who cannot even arrange his own papers without assistance; and I am separated from the hands which are wont7 to perform for me the offices of an amanuensis.
2. You will think perhaps that I am too confidential8 and communicative of my own private history. It may be so. But my way of writing is rather to think aloud, and follow my own humours, than much to consider who is listening to me; and if I stop to consider what is proper to be said to this or that person, I shall soon come to doubt whether any part at all is proper. The fact is, I place myself at a distance of fifteen or twenty years ahead of this time, and suppose myself writing to those who will be interested about me hereafter; and wishing to have some record of time, the entire history of which no one can know but myself, I do it as fully9 as I am able with the efforts I am now capable of making, because I know not whether I can ever find time to do it again.
3. It will occur to you often to ask, why did I not release myself from the horrors of opium10 by leaving it off or diminishing it? To this I must answer briefly11: it might be supposed that I yielded to the fascinations12 of opium too easily; it cannot be supposed that any man can be charmed by its terrors. The reader may be sure, therefore, that I made attempts innumerable to reduce the quantity. I add, that those who witnessed the agonies of those attempts, and not myself, were the first to beg me to desist. But could not have I reduced it a drop a day, or, by adding water, have bisected or trisected a drop? A thousand drops bisected would thus have taken nearly six years to reduce, and that way would certainly not have answered. But this is a common mistake of those who know nothing of opium experimentally; I appeal to those who do, whether it is not always found that down to a certain point it can be reduced with ease and even pleasure, but that after that point further reduction causes intense suffering. Yes, say many thoughtless persons, who know not what they are talking of, you will suffer a little low spirits and dejection for a few days. I answer, no; there is nothing like low spirits; on the contrary, the mere13 animal spirits are uncommonly14 raised: the pulse is improved: the health is better. It is not there that the suffering lies. It has no resemblance to the sufferings caused by renouncing15 wine. It is a state of unutterable irritation16 of stomach (which surely is not much like dejection), accompanied by intense perspirations, and feelings such as I shall not attempt to describe without more space at my command.
I shall now enter in medias res, and shall anticipate, from a time when my opium pains might be said to be at their acmé, an account of their palsying effects on the intellectual faculties17.
* * * * *
My studies have now been long interrupted. I cannot read to myself with any pleasure, hardly with a moment’s endurance. Yet I read aloud sometimes for the pleasure of others, because reading is an accomplishment18 of mine, and, in the slang use of the word “accomplishment” as a superficial and ornamental19 attainment20, almost the only one I possess; and formerly21, if I had any vanity at all connected with any endowment or attainment of mine, it was with this, for I had observed that no accomplishment was so rare. Players are the worst readers of all:—reads vilely22; and Mrs. ---, who is so celebrated23, can read nothing well but dramatic compositions: Milton she cannot read sufferably. People in general either read poetry without any passion at all, or else overstep the modesty24 of nature, and read not like scholars. Of late, if I have felt moved by anything it has been by the grand lamentations of Samson Agonistes, or the great harmonies of the Satanic speeches in Paradise Regained25, when read aloud by myself. A young lady sometimes comes and drinks tea with us: at her request and M.’s, I now and then read W-’s poems to them. (W., by-the-bye is the only poet I ever met who could read his own verses: often indeed he reads admirably.)
For nearly two years I believe that I read no book, but one; and I owe it to the author, in discharge of a great debt of gratitude26, to mention what that was. The sublimer27 and more passionate29 poets I still read, as I have said, by snatches, and occasionally. But my proper vocation30, as I well know, was the exercise of the analytic31 understanding. Now, for the most part analytic studies are continuous, and not to be pursued by fits and starts, or fragmentary efforts. Mathematics, for instance, intellectual philosophy, &c, were all become insupportable to me; I shrunk from them with a sense of powerless and infantine feebleness that gave me an anguish33 the greater from remembering the time when I grappled with them to my own hourly delight; and for this further reason, because I had devoted34 the labour of my whole life, and had dedicated35 my intellect, blossoms and fruits, to the slow and elaborate toil36 of constructing one single work, to which I had presumed to give the title of an unfinished work of Spinosa’s—viz., De Emendatione Humani Intellectus. This was now lying locked up, as by frost, like any Spanish bridge or aqueduct, begun upon too great a scale for the resources of the architect; and instead of reviving me as a monument of wishes at least, and aspirations37, and a life of labour dedicated to the exaltation of human nature in that way in which God had best fitted me to promote so great an object, it was likely to stand a memorial to my children of hopes defeated, of baffled efforts, of materials uselessly accumulated, of foundations laid that were never to support a super-structure—of the grief and the ruin of the architect. In this state of imbecility I had, for amusement, turned my attention to political economy; my understanding, which formerly had been as active and restless as a hy?na, could not, I suppose (so long as I lived at all) sink into utter lethargy; and political economy offers this advantage to a person in my state, that though it is eminently38 an organic science (no part, that is to say, but what acts on the whole as the whole again reacts on each part), yet the several parts may be detached and contemplated39 singly. Great as was the prostration40 of my powers at this time, yet I could not forget my knowledge; and my understanding had been for too many years intimate with severe thinkers, with logic4, and the great masters of knowledge, not to be aware of the utter feebleness of the main herd41 of modern economists42. I had been led in 1811 to look into loads of books and pamphlets on many branches of economy; and, at my desire, M. sometimes read to me chapters from more recent works, or parts of parliamentary debates. I saw that these were generally the very dregs and rinsings of the human intellect; and that any man of sound head, and practised in wielding43 logic with a scholastic44 adroitness45, might take up the whole academy of modern economists, and throttle46 them between heaven and earth with his finger and thumb, or bray47 their fungus-heads to powder with a lady’s fan. At length, in 1819, a friend in Edinburgh sent me down Mr. Ricardo’s book; and recurring48 to my own prophetic anticipation49 of the advent50 of some legislator for this science, I said, before I had finished the first chapter, “Thou art the man!” Wonder and curiosity were emotions that had long been dead in me. Yet I wondered once more: I wondered at myself that I could once again be stimulated51 to the effort of reading, and much more I wondered at the book. Had this profound work been really written in England during the nineteenth century? Was it possible? I supposed thinking {19} had been extinct in England. Could it be that an Englishman, and he not in academic bowers52, but oppressed by mercantile and senatorial cares, had accomplished53 what all the universities of Europe and a century of thought had failed even to advance by one hair’s breadth? All other writers had been crushed and overlaid by the enormous weight of facts and documents. Mr. Ricardo had deduced à priori from the understanding itself laws which first gave a ray of light into the unwieldy chaos54 of materials, and had constructed what had been but a collection of tentative discussions into a science of regular proportions, now first standing32 on an eternal basis.
Thus did one single work of a profound understanding avail to give me a pleasure and an activity which I had not known for years. It roused me even to write, or at least to dictate55 what M. wrote for me. It seemed to me that some important truths had escaped even “the inevitable56 eye” of Mr. Ricardo; and as these were for the most part of such a nature that I could express or illustrate57 them more briefly and elegantly by algebraic symbols than in the usual clumsy and loitering diction of economists, the whole would not have filled a pocket-book; and being so brief, with M. for my amanuensis, even at this time, incapable58 as I was of all general exertion59, I drew up my Prolegomena to all future Systems of Political Economy. I hope it will not be found redolent of opium; though, indeed, to most people the subject is a sufficient opiate.
This exertion, however, was but a temporary flash, as the sequel showed; for I designed to publish my work. Arrangements were made at a provincial60 press, about eighteen miles distant, for printing it. An additional compositor was retained for some days on this account. The work was even twice advertised, and I was in a manner pledged to the fulfilment of my intention. But I had a preface to write, and a dedication61, which I wished to make a splendid one, to Mr. Ricardo. I found myself quite unable to accomplish all this. The arrangements were countermanded62, the compositor dismissed, and my “Prolegomena” rested peacefully by the side of its elder and more dignified63 brother.
I have thus described and illustrated64 my intellectual torpor65 in terms that apply more or less to every part of the four years during which I was under the Circean spells of opium. But for misery66 and suffering, I might indeed be said to have existed in a dormant67 state. I seldom could prevail on myself to write a letter; an answer of a few words to any that I received was the utmost that I could accomplish, and often that not until the letter had lain weeks or even months on my writing-table. Without the aid of M. all records of bills paid or to be paid must have perished, and my whole domestic economy, whatever became of Political Economy, must have gone into irretrievable confusion. I shall not afterwards allude69 to this part of the case. It is one, however, which the opium-eater will find, in the end, as oppressive and tormenting70 as any other, from the sense of incapacity and feebleness, from the direct embarrassments72 incident to the neglect or procrastination73 of each day’s appropriate duties, and from the remorse74 which must often exasperate75 the stings of these evils to a reflective and conscientious76 mind. The opium-eater loses none of his moral sensibilities or aspirations. He wishes and longs as earnestly as ever to realize what he believes possible, and feels to be exacted by duty; but his intellectual apprehension77 of what is possible infinitely78 outruns his power, not of execution only, but even of power to attempt. He lies under the weight of incubus79 and nightmare; he lies in sight of all that he would fain perform, just as a man forcibly confined to his bed by the mortal languor80 of a relaxing disease, who is compelled to witness injury or outrage81 offered to some object of his tenderest love: he curses the spells which chain him down from motion; he would lay down his life if he might but get up and walk; but he is powerless as an infant, and cannot even attempt to rise.
I now pass to what is the main subject of these latter confessions82, to the history and journal of what took place in my dreams, for these were the immediate83 and proximate cause of my acutest suffering.
The first notice I had of any important change going on in this part of my physical economy was from the reawakening of a state of eye generally incident to childhood, or exalted84 states of irritability85. I know not whether my reader is aware that many children, perhaps most, have a power of painting, as it were upon the darkness, all sorts of phantoms86. In some that power is simply a mechanical affection of the eye; others have a voluntary or semi-voluntary power to dismiss or to summon them; or, as a child once said to me when I questioned him on this matter, “I can tell them to go, and they go ---, but sometimes they come when I don’t tell them to come.” Whereupon I told him that he had almost as unlimited87 a command over apparitions88 as a Roman centurion89 over his soldiers.—In the middle of 1817, I think it was, that this faculty90 became positively91 distressing92 to me: at night, when I lay awake in bed, vast processions passed along in mournful pomp; friezes93 of never-ending stories, that to my feelings were as sad and solemn as if they were stories drawn from times before ?dipus or Priam, before Tyre, before Memphis. And at the same time a corresponding change took place in my dreams; a theatre seemed suddenly opened and lighted up within my brain, which presented nightly spectacles of more than earthly splendour. And the four following facts may be mentioned as noticeable at this time:
1. That as the creative state of the eye increased, a sympathy seemed to arise between the waking and the dreaming states of the brain in one point—that whatsoever94 I happened to call up and to trace by a voluntary act upon the darkness was very apt to transfer itself to my dreams, so that I feared to exercise this faculty; for, as Midas turned all things to gold that yet baffled his hopes and defrauded95 his human desires, so whatsoever things capable of being visually represented I did but think of in the darkness, immediately shaped themselves into phantoms of the eye; and by a process apparently96 no less inevitable, when thus once traced in faint and visionary colours, like writings in sympathetic ink, they were drawn out by the fierce chemistry of my dreams into insufferable splendour that fretted97 my heart.
2. For this and all other changes in my dreams were accompanied by deep-seated anxiety and gloomy melancholy98, such as are wholly incommunicable by words. I seemed every night to descend99, not metaphorically100, but literally101 to descend, into chasms102 and sunless abysses, depths below depths, from which it seemed hopeless that I could ever reascend. Nor did I, by waking, feel that I had reascended. This I do not dwell upon; because the state of gloom which attended these gorgeous spectacles, amounting at last to utter darkness, as of some suicidal despondency, cannot be approached by words.
3. The sense of space, and in the end the sense of time, were both powerfully affected103. Buildings, landscapes, &c., were exhibited in proportions so vast as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space swelled104, and was amplified105 to an extent of unutterable infinity106. This, however, did not disturb me so much as the vast expansion of time; I sometimes seemed to have lived for 70 or 100 years in one night—nay, sometimes had feelings representative of a millennium107 passed in that time, or, however, of a duration far beyond the limits of any human experience.
4. The minutest incidents of childhood, or forgotten scenes of later years, were often revived: I could not be said to recollect108 them, for if I had been told of them when waking, I should not have been able to acknowledge them as parts of my past experience. But placed as they were before me, in dreams like intuitions, and clothed in all their evanescent circumstances and accompanying feelings, I recognised them instantaneously. I was once told by a near relative of mine, that having in her childhood fallen into a river, and being on the very verge109 of death but for the critical assistance which reached her, she saw in a moment her whole life, in its minutest incidents, arrayed before her simultaneously110 as in a mirror; and she had a faculty developed as suddenly for comprehending the whole and every part. This, from some opium experiences of mine, I can believe; I have indeed seen the same thing asserted twice in modern books, and accompanied by a remark which I am convinced is true; viz., that the dread111 book of account which the Scriptures112 speak of is in fact the mind itself of each individual. Of this at least I feel assured, that there is no such thing as forgetting possible to the mind; a thousand accidents may and will interpose a veil between our present consciousness and the secret inscriptions113 on the mind; accidents of the same sort will also rend115 away this veil; but alike, whether veiled or unveiled, the inscription114 remains116 for ever, just as the stars seem to withdraw before the common light of day, whereas in fact we all know that it is the light which is drawn over them as a veil, and that they are waiting to be revealed when the obscuring daylight shall have withdrawn117.
Having noticed these four facts as memorably118 distinguishing my dreams from those of health, I shall now cite a case illustrative of the first fact, and shall then cite any others that I remember, either in their chronological order, or any other that may give them more effect as pictures to the reader.
I had been in youth, and even since, for occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom I confess that I prefer, both for style and matter, to any other of the Roman historians; and I had often felt as most solemn and appalling119 sounds, and most emphatically representative of the majesty120 of the Roman people, the two words so often occurring in Livy—Consul121 Romanus, especially when the consul is introduced in his military character. I mean to say that the words king, sultan, regent, &c., or any other titles of those who embody122 in their own persons the collective majesty of a great people, had less power over my reverential feelings. I had also, though no great reader of history, made myself minutely and critically familiar with one period of English history, viz., the period of the Parliamentary War, having been attracted by the moral grandeur123 of some who figured in that day, and by the many interesting memoirs124 which survive those unquiet times. Both these parts of my lighter125 reading, having furnished me often with matter of reflection, now furnished me with matter for my dreams. Often I used to see, after painting upon the blank darkness a sort of rehearsal126 whilst waking, a crowd of ladies, and perhaps a festival and dances. And I heard it said, or I said to myself, “These are English ladies from the unhappy times of Charles I. These are the wives and the daughters of those who met in peace, and sate127 at the same table, and were allied128 by marriage or by blood; and yet, after a certain day in August 1642, never smiled upon each other again, nor met but in the field of battle; and at Marston Moor129, at Newbury, or at Naseby, cut asunder130 all ties of love by the cruel sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of ancient friendship.” The ladies danced, and looked as lovely as the court of George IV. Yet I knew, even in my dream, that they had been in the grave for nearly two centuries. This pageant131 would suddenly dissolve; and at a clapping of hands would be heard the heart-quaking sound of Consul Romanus; and immediately came “sweeping by,” in gorgeous paludaments, Paulus or Marius, girt round by a company of centurions132, with the crimson133 tunic134 hoisted135 on a spear, and followed by the alalagmos of the Roman legions.
Many years ago, when I was looking over Piranesi’s, Antiquities136 of Rome, Mr. Coleridge, who was standing by, described to me a set of plates by that artist, called his Dreams, and which record the scenery of his own visions during the delirium137 of a fever. Some of them (I describe only from memory of Mr. Coleridge’s account) represented vast Gothic halls, on the floor of which stood all sorts of engines and machinery138, wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, catapults, &c. &c., expressive139 of enormous power put forth140 and resistance overcome. Creeping along the sides of the walls you perceived a staircase; and upon it, groping his way upwards141, was Piranesi himself: follow the stairs a little further and you perceive it come to a sudden and abrupt142 termination without any balustrade, and allowing no step onwards to him who had reached the extremity143 except into the depths below. Whatever is to become of poor Piranesi, you suppose at least that his labours must in some way terminate here. But raise your eyes, and behold144 a second flight of stairs still higher, on which again Piranesi is perceived, but this time standing on the very brink145 of the abyss. Again elevate your eye, and a still more a?rial flight of stairs is beheld146, and again is poor Piranesi busy on his aspiring147 labours; and so on, until the unfinished stairs and Piranesi both are lost in the upper gloom of the hall. With the same power of endless growth and self-reproduction did my architecture proceed in dreams. In the early stage of my malady148 the splendours of my dreams were indeed chiefly architectural; and I beheld such pomp of cities and palaces as was never yet beheld by the waking eye unless in the clouds. From a great modern poet I cite part of a passage which describes, as an appearance actually beheld in the clouds, what in many of its circumstances I saw frequently in sleep:
The appearance, instantaneously disclosed,
A wilderness150 of building, sinking far
Far sinking into splendour—without end!
And blazing terrace upon terrace, high
In avenues disposed; there towers begirt
With battlements that on their restless fronts
Upon the dark materials of the storm
And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto
The vapours had receded,—taking there
Their station under a cerulean sky. &c. &c.
The sublime28 circumstance, “battlements that on their restless fronts bore stars,” might have been copied from my architectural dreams, for it often occurred. We hear it reported of Dryden and of Fuseli, in modern times, that they thought proper to eat raw meat for the sake of obtaining splendid dreams: how much better for such a purpose to have eaten opium, which yet I do not remember that any poet is recorded to have done, except the dramatist Shadwell; and in ancient days Homer is I think rightly reputed to have known the virtues160 of opium.
To my architecture succeeded dreams of lakes and silvery expanses of water: these haunted me so much that I feared (though possibly it will appear ludicrous to a medical man) that some dropsical state or tendency of the brain might thus be making itself (to use a metaphysical word) objective; and the sentient161 organ project itself as its own object. For two months I suffered greatly in my head, a part of my bodily structure which had hitherto been so clear from all touch or taint162 of weakness (physically I mean) that I used to say of it, as the last Lord Orford said of his stomach, that it seemed likely to survive the rest of my person. Till now I had never felt a headache even, or any the slightest pain, except rheumatic pains caused by my own folly163. However, I got over this attack, though it must have been verging164 on something very dangerous.
The waters now changed their character—from translucent165 lakes shining like mirrors they now became seas and oceans. And now came a tremendous change, which, unfolding itself slowly like a scroll166 through many months, promised an abiding167 torment71; and in fact it never left me until the winding168 up of my case. Hitherto the human face had mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically nor with any special power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny of the human face began to unfold itself. Perhaps some part of my London life might be answerable for this. Be that as it may, now it was that upon the rocking waters of the ocean the human face began to appear; the sea appeared paved with innumerable faces upturned to the heavens—faces imploring169, wrathful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads170, by generations, by centuries: my agitation171 was infinite; my mind tossed and surged with the ocean.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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attainment
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formerly
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vilely
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celebrated
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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38
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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39
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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40
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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41
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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42
economists
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| n.经济学家，经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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43
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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44
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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45
adroitness
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46
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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47
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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48
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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49
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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50
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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51
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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52
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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53
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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54
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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55
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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56
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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57
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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58
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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59
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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60
provincial
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|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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61
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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62
countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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63
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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64
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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66
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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67
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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68
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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69
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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70
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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71
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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72
embarrassments
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|
| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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73
procrastination
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|
| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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74
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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75
exasperate
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|
| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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76
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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77
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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78
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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79
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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80
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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81
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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82
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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83
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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84
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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85
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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86
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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87
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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88
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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89
centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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90
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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91
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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92
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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93
friezes
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| n.（柱顶过梁和挑檐间的）雕带，（墙顶的）饰带( frieze的名词复数 ) | |
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94
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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95
defrauded
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|
| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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97
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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98
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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99
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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100
metaphorically
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|
| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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101
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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102
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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103
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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104
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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105
amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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106
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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107
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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108
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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109
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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110
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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111
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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112
scriptures
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| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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113
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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114
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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115
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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116
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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117
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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118
memorably
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| 难忘的 | |
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119
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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120
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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121
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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122
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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123
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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124
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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125
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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126
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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127
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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128
allied
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|
| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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129
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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130
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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131
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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132
centurions
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| n.百人队长，百夫长（古罗马的军官，指挥百人）( centurion的名词复数 ) | |
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133
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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134
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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135
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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137
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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138
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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139
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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140
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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141
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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142
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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143
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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144
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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145
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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146
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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147
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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148
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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149
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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150
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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151
wondrous
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|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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152
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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153
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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154
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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155
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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156
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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157
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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158
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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159
coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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160
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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161
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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162
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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163
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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164
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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165
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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166
scroll
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| n.卷轴，纸卷；(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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167
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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168
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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169
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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170
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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171
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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